Day 2: Storrs to Black Rock State Park; about 75 miles

It was a normal morning, just like getting ready for work. After breakfast, brushed my teeth, packed all my things, rolled up my sleeping bag, handed it all over to the sleepless baggage crew "D," filled my water bottles and plunged into the security area. I didn't have to take down the tent, since that was going to be David Kohn's job. Grabbed the bike and hefted it over the fence to avoid the thick congestion of departing riders inside the security area. I was relaxed enough to check my tire pressure without ripping off a valve.

All set, I let security know I was leaving and began to roll down the road. No big sendoff today. We could go as we please any time between 6:30 and 9:00. Crew members stood along the first few hundred yards to wave and encourage us to be safe. The temperature was a bit cool and there was a mist lying over the fields. A year ago the cyclists had awakened to below freezing temperatures in Storrs.

Rolling Ornithology
I started out slowly, as did everyone to warm up. Had a short chat with one cyclist about whether the birds nearby were properly called "Canada Geese" or "Canadian Geese." She came down strongly in favor of the latter. There was a powerful Audobon sense about her, so I believed her.

Hills!
As the road began to roll a bit I saw that some of my fellow cyclists were warming up very slowly. I supposed that some of those who came in late the day before had wisely started very early this second day. We were following Connecticut Route 32 and then took a left (with Moving Violations assistance) onto Merrow Road where the hills began suddenly — we were only about 3 miles into the ride. The climbs were long and moderately steep. Dozens of cyclists were already walking. How incredibly demoralizing that must have been. I don't think I have the guts of those people who were already walking. I would have wanted to give up so bad.

But in New England there are no ugly hills. These were stone-walled, twisting, tree-lined with occasional vistas of rolling fields and woods. Once in awhile we'd pass through a residential area where the kids waiting for their schoolbuses would encourage us along. No, really! They were nice! Along here I complimented one young cyclist on his extraordinarily tasteful choice of shredded clothing. I think he took me as flirtatious, or maybe he took offense that I was passing him uphill.

Then we began to encounter what Connecticut must consider a "traffic calming" feature. We were on a major road, but there were frequent stop signs where only one small side street intersected. These were so unusually placed that a lot of riders just shot through them, probably without seeing them at all. Fortunately, in most places visibility was super, so there was no danger. I would at least try to slow down for them, but felt like more of a hazard myself, blocking the road.

No hills!
Arriving at Pit Stop 1 at South Windsor high school we got to do a bit of dirt riding as they routed us directly across a football/rugby/soccer/whatever field. And there was Michael Cady waiting for me. Since I had skipped Pit Stop 1 the day before, this was my first encounter with the lying, yet charming James, who was the pit stop manager. Obsessively seeing to the needs of everyone, he warned us of the terrible, terrible hills just ahead. Of course, it turned out to be almost dead flat.

Michael and I rode together along Sand Hill Road (which was neither sand nor hill) with Paco Ojeda for a bit here. We were all looking for pay phones for some heavy business. We flew along a lovely, smooth flat road called "Main Street" but there was hardly any town there. Ahead of us we spotted a sudden clump of cyclists milling about. I feared it was an accident, but no it was just more bad arrowing. We were to take a right onto a bike path. Our view of the bike path was blocked by overgrown weeds, brush and trees. This sort of turn would have required several warning arrows well ahead of the turn to be sure all the cyclists got it, but there were no warning arrows. There was only the one arrow immediately at the turn. A member of Moving Violations was there to make sure we caught the turn. She complained that she was going to have to chase down about a dozen riders who had missed the turn.

This bike path was a sidewalk along interstate 291 as it crossed the Connecticut River. This was quite nice and seemed much safer than last year's scenic, but nerve-wracking crossing further downstream at Goodspeed's. Pit Stop 2 came on the west bank of the river. We filled ourselves up while considering that we had now crossed one of the two major water barriers between Boston and Manhattan. The next one would be the Harlem River — Just 2½ days away.

Michael and I continued along on a route so flat for so long I thought we'd been transported to Indiana, but there was nary a Hoosier in sight. Such a route was not possible in central Connecticut I thought. From Pit Stop 1 to beyond Pit Stop 3 was "essentially flat."

"Means Tasty"
We went through what seemed to be endless suburbia. We could orient ourselves generally by watching air traffic heading in and out of Bradley International Airport. And then we had a sign! As we approached a small intersection a truck carrying a load of Ba Tampte pickles crossed our route! A thrill passed among us, even unto the WASPs. Brooklyn was almost within smelling distance, and if Brooklyn, could Manhattan be far behind?

[Note to next year's AIDS Ride: why not Ba Tampte pickles at pit stops? They're not any saltier than those pretzels, and they're a vegetable - sort of]

Along about here we passed the first "Kodak Moment" that I was aware of (although I guess I missed a couple). A photographer (who was ubiquitous on the California ride) set himself up along the route. A quarter to half a mile before you got to him there would be a warning sign of a "Kodak Moment" ahead. As you buzzed past you would either smile and wave, or try to look as much like Miguel Indurain as possible (I always chose the Miguel option). Then that night at camp you try to find this guy (inevitably he will be in some totally obscure corner) and try to find the photo of yourself. If you do find it, it will be terrible. If you like it, you can buy it for a few bucks. He did not look wealthy. When we passed him he was shooting into the sun. The background was lovely (little pond, green slopes), but in all the photos the riders came out as silhouettes. This guy is a pro?! Some of my friends did find one photo of me that had been taken as we were leaving Commonwealth was clear enough, but I had my eyes closed, was picking my nose and there were too many people around who looked better than me. So you won't find it here.

Oh, Him Again
Another couple of turns down the road and I met up again with the cyclist in the deliciously ragged clothing. I rode up alongside and said I was afraid that he may have been offended by what he may have misperceived as flirting. Then I complimented him on his choice of baggy, ripped shorts which were allowing his even baggier boxers to flap in the wind all around. He seemed to like that (and I passed him again).

I Recruit Future Cyclists
Before we got down to the Farmington River I was treated to one of the biggest rushes I've ever had. We were passing a grade school on a very slight upgrade. All the kids were lined up on the righthand curb. Maybe they had signs, maybe they had balloons, it was a general party atmosphere. We were still fairly near the front, so the kids hadn't seen a lot of riders yet, and we weren't in big packs yet. So, when we came into sight they just screamed and wiggled and jumped up and down. But not one single kid stepped down off that curb. I was amazed at the control. A few stuck out their hands, so I tried something I'd never done before. I rode right up to them and stuck out my right hand to slap theirs. Suddenly the mere screams became absolutely piercing shrieks as every hand came out. I rode along just inches away and slapped 500 hands (well, okay, maybe only 50, but it was 100%, nonetheless). My great fear was that these 6-year old sopranos voices would shatter my rims. And then an unforeseen difficulty: going uphill, slowing for the kids and right hand out, I needed to downshift, but couldn't, and nothing was going to let me look wobbly on the bike in front of these kids. I just humped along in way too big a gear, and then tried to look cool as soon as I got past them, my legs screaming right along with the kids.

We eventually began to parallel the Farmington River, and I'm pretty sure this was the first time I'd ridden in this area since the great Tour N' Tube. We seemed to be following a route that was popular with the local bike clubs. At each of our turns there are arrows from other rides along with ours — except (I gripe again) that theirs gave sufficient warning of turns, unlike ours. So I began to follow the arrows from the local clubs. When I saw a warning arrow from them, I would anticipate a turn and at the last possible moment before the turn there would be an arrow for the AIDS Ride.

What? Lunch again?!
Then we hit the lunch stop on the grounds of Avon Old Farm School. Nearby was a football/rugby/soccer/whatever field. What we didn't have was trees. Suddenly we were in California conditions. Hot sun and no shade. Most of us crawled underneath the trucks to eat our lunches, and since it wasn't crowded yet this worked okay. Our lunch that day was peanut butter with something like honey on really heavy, whole grain bread. The carnivore choice was something absolutely inedible like Slim Jims on a hot dog bun, or something. Maybe it was salami, maybe pastromi. There were also more peanut candy bars. There was a very vinegary cole slaw. The big surprise was barbecue (not Gates!) flavor potato chips. Those had to be an absolute first on any bike ride.

Dave Dalena (grand diva of Hartford and father of Tour N' Tube) was going to try to meet us at this lunch stop, but since I couldn't predict when we would get there it would have been a challenge, unless he were willing to spend hours waiting. Nonetheless I had alerted everybody on the ride who I thought might know him to keep their eyes peeled. It was an assignation (not even squalid) unkept. Work kept him away. Still, the anticipation of lunch on the road with Dave Dalena is better than an actual lunch with many people I know. Next year he's going to do the ride itself.

A nice thing at lunch was the sponsoring New York City FM radio station (KTU 103.5) came out with their sound truck and really cranked it up (or whatever the current popular verb would be for "cranked"). Michael and I had a short discussion about how a New York FM station apparently delivered what seemed to be a live signal to a van in Avon, Connecticut. No antennas, dish or otherwise, were visible. No cables. It didn't seem to be a tape. We were also sponsored by KISS 108 FM of Boston, but damned if I ever saw or heard from them. Maybe they supplied some of the sounds back at Commonwealth Pier. I tell you, if I lived within range I'd be listening to KTU 103.5.

Huh? Wha' happen?
We set forth from lunch and soon discovered that the arrowing crew had had some sort of brain explosion. Our first turn was to be a left. We saw arrows directing us right into a driveway. We all had sense enough to ignore those. Then a bit further along there were arrows directing us to turn right. These had been crossed out, but no substitute arrows were painted. With only a bit of tummy-tingling worry, we turned left as our cue sheet said. It turned out to be the correct way.

But "correct" can be a relative term, eh? We were, still cold-muscled and full-bellied from lunch, about to head up a really long, really steep hill on Route 167. Way more than the usual number of people were walking. I was creeping and pouring sweat in my lowest gear. Some people did the stupidest thing: they rode over to the lefthand side of the road. I could have understood this if they were attempting to zig-zag the hill, but no they were just plain riding there. Damn suicide! But all the people who did it moved back to the right before I could get up to them (I wasn't exactly sprinting). This hill put me in mind of a long, straight, bare hill that somehow got into the great old Tour N' Tube. On that one, people rode to the left because that was where the only shade was. That nasty monster of a hill was somewhere in this neighborhood, too.

At the top of this hill the local volunteer fire department was out with their truck hosing us down. When I caught the eye of the fireman wielding that hose I knew exactly where the real fire was.

Justice too perfect
On bike rides you generally get back every hill you climb — or to look at it the other way: you have to pay for every downhill. Well, we had just bought a big hill and we got it right back. For my taste, however, it didn't need to be an elevator shaft. We dropped! It was a screaming, brake burning descent. Youngsters among us who knew they could never die, flew by on this curving blind descent. It reminded me of some of the eternal California downhills.

There were more ups and downs before we got to Pit Stop 4 at the Chipannee Golf Club. I think many of the duffers were a bit surprised to see us. This was about the only place on the whole ride where we got plain old blatant stares. I was tired at this point, and overheated. It didn't help that today's pattern was similar to the day before. We were only 10 miles from the end of the day's ride, but the most terrible and challenging hills were ahead of us still. The hills were so bad they had another pit stop ahead for us before we finished! People spoke with terror of the horrific hills just ahead.

Up. Up. Up.
With fear and trepidation we start out. First we get an absolutely swell down hill. Then a bit of other stuff, and then an ambiguous arrow that seemed to point us into a little road that went up. At this point the arrows had started to be accompanied by whole English sentences that didn't enhance clarity and simply made apparent their inadequacy. Whine as I might, the nasty little uphill road was the way to go. Wham! These were walls! But short ones. This had to be a consciously sadistic route choice. Up, down, up, down, up, down and that was it. But every up was a record-breaker. Broken chains and broken bikers lined the road. My whole system strained, my body, my chain, my frame, to get me up those nasty little slopes.

Then we were flying down U.S. Route 6 (our backs to Provincetown) into Plymouth (Connecticut — stay with me here). Here was Pit Stop 5, but we didn't stop. their main function was to point out that due to road construction we had to loop around the town green before continuing. Shortly after that was a left turn that was (as though to make up for past failings) over-arrowed. Only the blind, deaf and lame could have missed this turn. We meandered along another fine New England road and then turned right onto a thing called Jackson Street. On this street they had posted many warnings of a sharp turn and dangerous downhill. Warnings were painted on the pavement and on signs hung on the side of the road. One of the signs even said "Last Chance. Use Your Brakes. We Mean It." I believed it. It was very steep, very twisty and very, very rough. At one sharp bend in the road was a medical crew member warning us to be careful. Normally such a task would be handled by Moving Violations or a member of the security crew. Later I found out she was out there because some rider had not believed all of those signs and had hit the turn too fast and crashed over the guardrail. The medical crew had been called to the accident and one stayed on to warn of the hazard.

They Turn Out For Us
Soon we were down paralleling the Naugatuck River where the road was smooth and the cliffs towering over our heads were as impressive as anything out west. We crossed the river where we encountered a totally worthless officer in blue. We found no arrows. We used our best road sense and guessed the right route. Along this bit of road we passed a family sitting out in their broken lawn furniture in front of their small house, kids sitting in the dirt, Mom drinking a Bud, Dad smoking his cigs, their yard virtually one with the highway we were on. They watched quietly, they waved if we waved.

Black Rock
Then we were back on Route 6 again for a short bit — just long enough to arrive in Black Rock State Park. We were even earlier than the day before. It wasn't even 2:00 yet. While the luggage trucks were in, the showers weren't operating yet. The camp was on a big grassy field (it could be used for football/rugby/soccer/whatever) with most of the support facilities around us, but the dinner tents were a some distance away up a hill through the woods with a view across a New England lake of bigger rolling hills in the distance.

Let's have a list of all those supporting facilities that aren't dinner tents:

• the showers/sinks/laundry area
• the medical tent
• the massage tents (quite popular)
• the press tent, where we could be cheered by our photos in every obscure small town gazette east of the Hudson
• security
• the command center (oh, you don't want to know)
• the baggage trucks
• the guys selling tickets to ship our bikes from NYC back to Boston
• the retail tent (t-shirts, sweatshirts, caps, jerseys, water bottles with AIDS Ride and/or Tanqueray logos)
• Lost & Found
• the bicycle retail tent, run by International Bicycle Centers of Needham and Brighton, one of our sponsors; they were well-stocked with every expensive thing, but were short on anything you really needed, like tubes
• bicycle repair, also handled by International Bicycle Centers
• the message center

• a couple of tents with several food lines
• enough tables and chairs for three Russian armies, or one AIDS Ride
• the beverage tent with
• coffee (with or without)
• water (hot or cold)
• tea (herbal and not)
• hot chocolate (instant)
• lemonade (just as bad as it was in California)
• orange juice
• milk (2% only, while in California we had a choice of 2% or whole milk)
• sodas with and without sugar/caffeine
• the entertainment stage with the standard lights and sound system

• some local officers in blue
• visitors, lots
• press
• local volunteers
• some local workers, like park rangers
• 600 to 700 crew (the volunteers we brought with us)
• 3000 or so riders
• 3000 or so bikes
• about 1900 tents
• vans bringing in riders who didn't make it
• trucks bringing in their bikes
• various other trucks, vans and cars for all of the other crews
• at least one ambulance, doing nothing we hope
• and the Kodak Moment guy, if you can find him
• and all the people who are actually getting paid to be here, such as:
• the ride staff
• all the OK's Cascade people

• swimming in the lake
• people napping
• romances
• gossip
• religious gatherings
• AA meetings
• food and talk of food
• getting dirty
• cleaning up
• traffic jams
• broken hearts
• old friends reacquainted
• but no alcohol abuse: alcohol was explicitly against the rules in Black Rock State Park, and regardless of the rules at our other two camps, it was simply not available there.

Directly across from my tent I was delighted and surprised to find the home of Barry who was a really active and popular training ride leader this year. Mike Neuwirth and I went on one of his training rides. In attempting to get people used to riding in heavy traffic, Barry took us directly from Waltham to Marlboro on Route 20. Back then he was a volunteer, so I showed him all due respect and thanked him for his leadership and support. But now that we were peers, facing each other's tents I told him that I thought it was just about the ugliest bike ride I'd ever been on. He laughed, I laughed. He introduced me to his girlfriend who was also riding. Ah, I see. No aesthetic sense. [Wink, wink, nod, nod, know what I mean? know what I mean?]

! Clue Route 20 has been a commercial road here in New England since before the revolution (Washington slept there), so now it's dense, quirky, has a thousand traffic lights, and is a necessary pain for all.

Barry's latest claim to fame, however, was that a photographer from the Hartford Courant had caught him that morning stepping out of his tent in Storrs in his jammies. The photo had been spread all over central Connecticut.

I had enough time before dinner that I could lie in my tent and read, which I did with half an ear to all the chatter around me about the day's travails. After a bit I spotted Mike Neuwirth arriving. He was Bill Murphy's tentmate. Mike and I had been training together all season, but this was the first I'd seen of him on the ride itself. Such a big place it is! Other than some major tire destruction on day 1, he had been riding successfully.

Capitalism Fails To Take Root In Connecticut
Black Rock Park had a little general store/snack stand adjacent to the area we were using for dinner. I went there to grab something before dinner. I got the last ice cream bar they had. They sold their last two Tylenols to the man in line behind me. I think all they had left was a small package of Kleenex, and maybe old post cards. It made me feel all warm and cozy to know that the spirit of entrepreneurship hasn't penetrated everywhere. The owner of this dusty little stand knew that about 4000 spending customers would be camping on his doorstep and he did nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, he closed early since his inventory was depleted. When I was on the California ride, general stores near the campgrounds would sell out, too, but they had extra inventory on hand and managed to hold out against the onslaught for respectable lengths of time.

I ate the ice cream bar on my way over to the dinner lines. Dinner that night was stir-fried veggies with either tofu or chicken. I had both, but only one [more] dessert. I sat with Michael and his newly forming entourage. During dinner I spotted Pam on her way to eat. This must have been some new cushy frill for the staff this year. I'm pretty sure that last year the staff was not allowed to eat — I know that I never got to eat while I was on crew. I asked her how to go about making a formal complaint about the pitiful state of the route marking.

Into the Lion's Den
After dinner, I followed Pam's instructions and headed over to the Command Center. Last year, as a Crew Manager, I was required to occasionally visit the Command Center, and I never wanted to do it again. Nonetheless, I stepped up to the door of the trailer whence all the powerful decisions flowed. Last year there had been a couple layers of security around the CC, so I was surprised that I was able to actually put my head into the door without having to utter a password or grovel.

Once I was in, it was a hot flashback to last year. The AIDS Ride Command Center makes your government look sane and reasoned. Inside the CC four or five people were having several conversations with other people in the room, as well as talking to people via walkie-talkie and cell phone. The noise level was tremendous. I froze, awaiting recognition. As soon as someone there had sniffed me out as an unauthorized alien they started a long string of not-my-jobs as they tried to pass me off to someone else. They had failed to recognize that this was Ron-The-Fed darkening their door. Yes, after almost 20 years at the rude fringes of the most sacred cow I could easily deal with any sort of bureaucratic games these youngsters dealt me [and I think this is the right moment to point out to Social Security management that my 20th anniversary will be February 27, 1997, and I'd like that 20-year pin roughly on time — not on my 21st or 22nd anniversary, thank you very much]. I rooted myself, standing there like one of those toy punching clowns that won't be knocked down. I was wise enough to use the word "dangerous" a couple of times, so I knew they would hear me eventually. Finally, I was handed off to the "crisis manager" who took my report and said she would get it to the crew manager, even though it was not her job.

There was no way to judge whether my complaint had reached the right ears the next day due to the rain, but the day after that I thought I saw more arrows and more advance warnings; so maybe it worked.

The Weather
Now you may think I'm going to whine about some rain or something. But I have good news: the AIDS Ride had NO headwinds — all four days. Of course we had no tailwinds either, but that's not bad. Four days of fair, small breezes was all we had. Now I can whine:

Before the AIDS Ride had started in Boston, Hurricane Fran was already hitting the North Carolina coast. Early indications were that Fran wanted to join our ride, and no talk of the $1500 minimum pledge would slow her down. It will be news to some of you that the AIDS Ride travels without cable TV — we don't even have those little satellite dishes. When we ride into camp each night, one thing we can be sure we won't see is one of those TV vans with the microwave link antenna sitting up high. So we didn't have The Weather Channel.

Sure, we could have radio, after all it's not like we were in a Cuban prison. Let's see now, which of my neighbors packed a radio in with his (or her) got-to-be-under-35-pounds baggage? Ah, yes, that would be no one. So we don't travel with the news — or rather, the news we travel with is about how bad the next hill is, what's for dinner, who crashed where and how come those Safety Monitors always ride four abreast?

That Friday night in Black Rock Mike Neuwirth and I went up to the evening's entertainment to see if there would be word about the next day's weather. Why? Just a perverse curiosity. After all, they could announce a blizzard with dozens of tornadoes and we'd still ride in it. Fran, rather undramatically, had declined to a simple tropical depression over West Virginia, of all places. But West Virginia was close enough, and heavy rain was predicted for Saturday. My sole comfort was the idea that rain thrown up by a North Atlantic hurricane (or, more precisely, a West Virginia tropical depression) would be warm.

I retired to my little tent with David Kohn, wondering about its rain-shedding ability. The California tents had held up fine to the rain, but last year's Boston-NY riders told quite a different story about our tents.

1995 Riders Vindicated
About 3:00 AM I was awakened by the sounds of a few drops hitting the campsite. "Well, here comes the test!" I thought. Five (maybe ten) seconds later the rain hit me right in the face. As the rain outside increased, so did an internal mist of droplets as it came right through the fabric. Hmm. I thought of those friends of mine who had suffered through Bridgeport last year and realized they'd told me the truth. (I made a mental note to believe all of my friends in the future). At least here at Black Rock we had good drainage, so the campsite wouldn't flood as well. With that warm, fuzzy thought I fell back asleep.

End Of Day 2

• Prelude
• Day 1
• Day 2
• Day 3
• Day 4