Michael (left) and me at the closing ceremonies in Century City, June 1997.
| December 2001 note: what follows is the long thank you letter that I sent out (in May 1998) to those who supported me when I rode the 1997 California AIDS Ride 4. I mailed it out (postal style) on paper. As I converted it to HTML I to saved myself headaches and excessive niggling by deleting a few uninteresting photos and simplifying formatting. You may also find that I haven't made any great effort to make sure the photos line up with relevant paragraphs. - Ron Gilbert |
In which you will read about:
580 miles - $6598 - 2476 riders - $9.4 million - Hundreds of volunteer crew - No rain (to speak of) - June 1-7, 1997 - Mt. Diablo - Golden Dragon - San Francisco - Santa Cruz - Monterey - King City - Paso Robles - Route 1 - Morro Bay - San Luis Obispo - Pismo Beach - Santa Maria - Solvang - Lake Cachuma - Route 101 - Santa Barbara - Carpinteria - Ventura - Malibu - Santa Monica - Beverly Hills - Los Angeles - West Hollywood - Century City - Union Station - San Bernardino - Hadley Orchards - Palm Springs - Julian - San Diego - Michael Cady - Vance Walker - Richard Hoverstock - Erica Hoverstock - Diana Furness - Tony Furness - Steve Rovno - Joanna Rovno - Glen Hammit - Keith Millay - Gary Pfitzer - Larry Ferri - The Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Services Center - Tanqueray - UPS - Banana Republic - at least one winner of four Olympic gold medals - and more . . .
Michael (left) and me at the closing ceremonies in Century City, June 1997. |
But first this October 1997 press release from the CDC:
AIDS is no longer the leading cause of death for individuals age 25 to 44, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Recent developments in treatment have pushed AIDS into the No. 2 spot under accidents, now the top killer of persons in that age group. The CDC also reported the rate of AIDS-related deaths fell last year for the first time since the epidemic began in 1981. John Ward, the CDC's chief of AIDS surveillance, said the figures alone are not cause for celebration. "You like to have multiple studies saying the same thing before you begin to consider that what you're seeing is indeed the truth," he said. We now return you to our previously scheduled frivolity. |
Here are the reasons:
Chris Civiello - Leslie Rollins & Dave Bradley - Gary Pfitzer - Diana & Tony Furness - John Noone - Jim Curran and family - Sue Bowen - Herb Lovett - Tom Boll - Keith Millay & Glen Hammit - Mark Feeney - Jay Hill & Chris Fowler - Erica Hoverstock - Steve Gass & Jeff Bright - Robert Poulin - Brian Dobday - Arleen Gilbert - Faith Hodgkins - Christian Draz - Laura Gilbert - Ken Watts - Jonathan Cheney - Bill Kelloway - Allen Baki - Jeff Pollock - Giulia Norton - Larry Gilbert - Terry & Sharon King - Vivian & Alex Zeligson - Bob Chrisman - Ben Robbins - Karla Jones - All those kids - Charles & Alison Hoffman - Barry Pettinato & Larry Ferri - Roger Bourgeois - Wellington Azevedo - Mark Sullivan - John Moss - Richard Hoverstock & Barbara Lowe - Steve & Joanne Rovno - Tom Lewis - Dan Heist - Rich Aronowitz - Vance Walker - Dr. Jonathan Stein - Alden Clark - Marcia & Morty Vinocoor - Danny Clenott & Randy Cobb - Johnny Gilbert - Donna Burns - Arnie Sheinfeld - Geoff Moore - Pam Garramone - E. Lawrence and Linda Gogolin - David Zeligson - Jeff Wheeler - Don Robinson - Mike Neuwirth - Bill Shepardson - Joan Drimmel - Bill Parrow - Bill Corcoran - Andy Keller - Bob Derry - Bill Dellea - Bill Murphy - Lisa Howe & Liz Regan - John Murphy - John Kachichian - Chris Tebbetts - Michael Cady - Bill Zerkle - Joan Fitzpatrick - Cathy Ellis & John Tobin - David Kohn - Coreen Barese & kids - Peter Smith - Pat Biggers - George Varga - Millions More
Why So Late?
You think this is late? Naturally, I spent almost all my free time in the summer leading training rides for the Boston-NY AIDS Ride. And then in September I had to crew on the Boston-NY AIDS Ride. And then I had to recover from the Boston-NY AIDS Ride. And then my nephew Doug got married. And I had to go visit friends in D.C. And there was some shopping. And I thought a lot about a Halloween costume. I hit the gym almost every day. And you're just lucky I'm not a big Christmas shopper.
What Sequence?
After I mailed out my thank-you letter for last year's Boston-NY AIDS Ride one of my supporters sort of blew it off, suggesting it was just a chronological summary of this-then-that. Well! Therefore, this letter is not necessarily in chronological order at all, but just because some of you like to keep oriented here's the general sequence of how things went in reality:
I sign upI metamorphose from couch crud to AIDS Rider
How do these things get started? I don't even remember sitting down and thinking about it. I first became conscious in February when we had a spell of late spring weather in Boston. Got out on the bike and rode thinking that with the fabulously mild and dry winter we'd been having that I'd be in fabulous, fabulous shape in plenty of time for the AIDS ride in June. So I guess I'd already sent in my $45 registration fee by then. Then we got New England weather. There's an old saying in New England: "If you want to hear a cliche, just listen to a New Englander!"
March was a struggle. Every weekend cold and wet. The weeks passed without any weather good enough for serious training. Michael Cady and I shared our nerves as we worried about June 1, which was approaching so rapidly. I recalled that in 1995 we had a wet spring too, and the ride then had been two weeks earlier and we'd been just fine. And I mentioned that I had had only about four weeks of training before I had set out on my ride to K.C. in 1991.
We had to force ourselves to get out in the cold and rain to at least prepare and lead training rides for riders who were going to participate in the Boston-New York AIDS Ride which wasn't until September 1997. These were just short slow rides. We kept believing that the next weekend would be the break in the weather.
From March's cold and wet weather we went into April, which started with the biggest blizzard we had had in years. Feet of snow appeared and didn't completely disappear for weeks. April continued wet and cold. At the beginning of May we were still having to negotiate snowy patches and watch for fallen tree limbs in the roadways. But by then we were in full panic mode. Damn the snow, the cold, the rain. The AIDS ride was just four weeks away. We had to ride in whatever weather New England gave us. We took a ride 130 miles to Provincetown, partly loaded. We were slow.
A week later we rode in the Charles River Wheelmen spring century. It was the first time I had ridden with bare arms this season.
A week after that we went along on the Tour of New England. This challenging ride touches all six New England states in 3 days. It always has a great range of weather. The first day was warm enough for me to ride bare-legged for the first time this year. The next two days were different. One day after the Tour of New England we were flying off to California for the AIDS ride in all of its hot, dry wondrousness.
You guys pour forth so much money, HIV thinks about taking a holiday
It was the last week of February when I started sending out my letters asking for donations. Just as I started I got a mailing announcing that I could submit my name for a drawing to win a bicycle. The catch was that in order to qualify you had to raise the minimum pledge amount ($2500) by the end of March. "Well I'll never qualify for that," I thought, tossing the mailing into the trash. And then something happened. In less than ten days I had gotten more than $2500 from you all - and it kept right on coming in through all the weeks until the AIDS ride - and even after that. It sure wasn't anything I could take credit for. You wrote the big checks. I just opened the envelopes. It grew to $6598.
Why not a Web Site?
Some people have asked why I don't do this thank you letter as a web site, rather than the paper version you're reading. Two reasons:
If every family would just buy the paper version of the Encyclopedia Britannica (yes, they still publish it on paper) global warming would quickly reverse and we'd have snow like we remember from our childhoods.
Me, I go even further. I keep my LPs.
Another Anecdote That Will Have You Thinking Radical Right Hate-mongerers Are Just A Small Bunch Of Withered, Impotent Sandcrabs
So there was this kid, just 17, and he had just come out to his family. I mean he told them he is gay. And they said "No way, no son of ours." And then he added "And I'm doing the California AIDS Ride." And they said "No way in hell, no son of ours." Of course, you realize they had probably just been reading that reliable old pamphlet, found near the hearth in the homes of all good American families: "Sports and Charity -- Blessings From God, or Tools of Perverts"
Needless to say, the young man knows the value of charity and commitment, so he does the AIDS ride. But there's been a lot going on for him. Domestic upheaval and all, you know. He comes into Day Zero registration with only $1500 in pledges. One-thousand dollars short and 17 years old and no family to count on. I know if you'd been standing next to him, you'd have been hard put to resist the urge to cover that $1000 for him. But kids today (and California kids at that). So independent. Whips out his plastic and covers it himself.
But he's not rich. He's just got plastic. The story gets around the ride. Over the days and miles of the ride some riders begin to make an effort to find money to cover the $1000 for the guy so he can get on with life and school and fixing that skateboard. Some bucks begin to flow. And then one rider (and it wasn't me) hit the streets in Solvang and as quick a biker as he is, he raised over $600 from the citizens of the town in no time. Solvang. Not Hollywood, not San Francisco. Just good, plain Solvang. Where people seem to respect the values of self-respect, charity, sports and independence. Eventually, the young man received over $1100, giving him enough to cover his debt, and a bit more to donate to the ride, too.
Who Are My Supporters?
Ya know, being one of my supporters is easy. It comes naturally like breathing oxygen. All you gotta do is say "Good luck/work/ride Ron/Bruce!" (the slashes are silent). That's it! With that you get the postcards from San Francisco and Los Angeles. You get this swell thank-you letter. It just absolutely floors me that so many people want to do more. I ain't never hit nobody with a baseball bat yet (yet), but even so, people come forward with money. Sometimes great big chunks of money. Sometimes little chunks. $6598 worth, that I know of. And then, like a check wasn't enough, there are those people who help me by giving me places to stay, who go on training rides with me, who point me the right way. And what do they get out of it, you might ask? I don't bring along pretty boys, cash to burn, or fabulous parties. I guess it's got nothing to do with me. It's that place in Los Angeles. It's there that the war is being won; there that AIDS will be stopped; there that AIDS will be cured. Think of it! Someday you tell your grandkids/great grandkids/great great grandkids you were part of the cure. Beats all hell out of saying you spent the 90s watching TV, huh?
"Oh, Ron/Bruce, you silly. You had to have $2500, what if we all just sent you postcards saying 'Good luck! Use plenty of sunblock!'"
I'd've covered it. Even if it pushed my credit cards to the absolute max. Don't know how I'd have paid the air fare, though. Maybe Vance would've swiped a plane for me.
King City
Okay, we could go on about the charms of small cities; about the delight of finding the gorgeous, Spanish-speaking store manager who refunded me money on my baby-wipes, about the fun kids hanging over the flood wall to yell at us. But King City will always mean this to me: a completely moonless night with a Milky Way sweeping across it that was so bright it humbled all the individual stars. Never have I seen the galaxy like this! Not even in Baxter State Park in Maine. The air pure and flat, thanks to the low humidity and daytime winds. It made Mount Diablo look like an urban jungle.
Were any of the drivers of cars on nearby 101 enjoying this view of the Milky Way? Nope. Definitely nope.
My Flowing Locks
Somewhere in San Francisco is the man of your dreams. Trust me. So you arrive in San Francisco with a haircut that is just two days old and is shorter than almost any haircut in Boston. You stand at the corner of Market and 17th and realize that you are shaggier than just about anybody in Walt Whitman Town. What do you do? Get philosophical? That might work in the Boston-Cambridge megalopolis. Shave your scalp? What, and go toe-to-toe with men who've been doing that since the Stonewall rebellion?
Nossir, ya dye your head red! And I don't mean the "red" that God gave the Irish. I mean the red that Cannondale gave the bike. I mean stop sign red. I mean fire engine. I mean what the hair dye people call "Sentry Box Red" on account o' the dye comes from the UK. Thursday morning with an ascent of Mount Diablo ahead, I found myself not packing carbohydrates, but sitting in "The Beauty Store" on Market Street with my head in the hands of Lloyd, the hairdresser. Lloyd allowed as how this was a bit of fun because most of the people who did ridiculous things with their hair were under 30 (well, under 20, actually) and since they couldn't afford a hairdresser they would do it for themselves. Here I, just a middle-aged queen with a government salary had sashayed in asking him to make it "red!"
First we made it white. For forty minutes a concoction of L'Oreal Super Blue sat burning on my scalp. During that time Lloyd and I made the chat. He's originally from Idaho, where they are fabulously racist, he says. He has a black lover, but he's never made him suffer a trip back to the state of "Famous Potatoes." Mom has come to visit in San Francisco and has had a good time, as all moms do in San Francisco. Dad, of course, was a bit more restrained in his love for the city. Then we washed out the L'Oreal. Oh, was I absolutely gorgeous in totally white hair! I was like a white puppy begging for petting. After 90 seconds of admiration, on went the red. Some minutes of waiting later and I was revealed for all of San Francisco to admire as the man of the reddest head.
Total cost: $40. Too cheap, I assure you. Lloyd asked for only $35, and I had expected a minimum of $60. Please, your next coloring job take it to the hairdresser at The Beauty Store on Market Street.
This dye was a vegetable dye, and under normal circumstances would have washed out of my hair within four weeks, said Lloyd. But cycling is not a normal circumstance. That very afternoon blonde stripes began to appear where the temple pieces of my sunglasses pressed against my sideburns. After one day of cycling, the areas where my helmet pads touched began to wear down to the white. By the time I got to L.A. the red had become pink, and most of my head had worn to a blonde pattern of helmet pads. Under it all were those dark brown and gray roots. Several people thought it was a complex and intentional pattern.
Reactions: I should pretend to you that I dyed my hair red just for beauty? just to express my deep oneness with communism? just to make it easier to find my red Cannondale? Ptoooey! I had to get a reaction, and more of a reaction than those guys with shaved scalps.
Simply walking out of The Beauty Store I drew sighs and exclamations of admiration from other customers. But these were people into strange hair, ya know. Out on Market Street I caused heads to turn. I remind you this is Market Street in San Francisco, one block from Castro, not the Ward Parkway mall. Oh, ho! No easy thing. While I waited to cross the street, the young Asian man driving an ambulance gave me a big thumbs up! Then strolling up the Seventeenth Street Hill two bleached-blonde surfer boys in a jeep (top down) both turned their heads to watch me as I walked along. Okay, all right! $40 well paid! You skeptics say, maybe you looked like some tasteless freak with your red scalp and everything! To that I say: "Jealous!" You turn heads in the Castro and then we'll talk about it. Attention is everything!
I Receive Thanks, Which I Pass On To You
Los Angeles. What do you think of? O.J. Simpson? The riots in South Central? The Clampetts? Hollywood? Jack Webb? Racism? Police violence? Think of this: a small town where the neighbors know each other as well as (better than!) they do in Clarinda, Iowa. A town of only a few square blocks. Here is the town on the edge of which sits the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center. This town, West Hollywood, is no slick fake. This town, as comfy as any you could find, sits at the very front of America's battle with AIDS. It was in this town where I was thanked. After the ride was over, after all the volunteers had gone home, after all the staff had finally gotten some rest, after Dan Pallotta and Kevin Honeycutt had slunk off to their quiet retreats; here in West Hollywood on a Sunday just plain Joe Citizen came up to me in my AIDS Ride t-shirt and thanked me for doing the AIDS ride. And it wasn't just a quick "Hey, thanks!" as they slipped into their Mercedes. No, it was the old lady who interrupted her lawn work to walk with us to tell us how much the AIDS ride and the LA Gay and Lesbian Center meant to her and her town. It was the man at the desk in the gym who told us he had meant to the ride in 1996 but his lover had become ill, and then he had meant to ride in 1997, but he was too overwhelmed with grief when his lover had died in April. He thanked and thanked us, and told us he knew he would do the ride in 1998. I advised slick tires and toe clips. The waiter in the Italian restaurant who said his friends rode, and thanked us. The waiter in the faux French bakery who begged me for my t-shirt and thanked me for doing the ride. The fat, silly old queens who took a break from cruising Santa Monica Boulevard to tell me that my riding the ride meant everything to them! This beat all hell out of New York. We felt like Peace Corps volunteers who had built the dam to stop the flood and bring cable TV to the poor third-worlders. But it wasn't me. Every time these thanks came to me I thought of you, tried to think of way of saying it wasn't me, it was really Ms and/or Mr X away in Some Other City who did all this for you and yours. No way I could. Just hoped that next year, you would get on your bike, ride to West Hollywood and feel it all for yourself. It was the most solidly real part of the ride I experienced. Everything had come together.
The people of West Hollywood and Los Angeles thank you and are in your debt, even if they don't know it.
Those inspired postcards, simultaneously intimate and hilarious
If you didn't get two postcards from me, one from San Francisco the other from Los Angeles there are two possible explanations: juan - our friends at the Noonited States Postal Service are still reading it/them; thieu - I did not know of your support before I left for California. Once I get on that plane to San Francisco, any late checks just sit in a dusty box at the post office waiting to surprise me delightfully upon my return. Of course, if you left me a phone message telling me of your support, I would get that message in California and respond quite ably.
You may have been wondering about those cards from San Francisco, the part where I claimed I would think of you on day X at mile Y. If you wondered whether everyone got the same numbers, you give me no credit! Those who live in multiple-supporter households already know that each supporter got a unique slice of the ride. It was a simple matter consuming hundreds of hours on the Social Security mainframes to bring you that pleasure. At first I meant it all as just a joke, but once I had those numbers in the database I could use them to print out daily lists. I couldn't think of a good reason not to let sincerity overrule sarcasm in this one isolated instance. I printed out seven sticky labels for each day of the ride, intending to stick them near my odometer. On day one I found out that Avery doesn't design their labels to stick to Italian steel handlebars. On day two I tried sticking the label to my shorts on top of my thigh. Well! I suppose the constant thundering of sinew and atomic body heat were just too much for that little label. Day three the label went on my rider number which is made of Tyvek (a registered trademark of DuPont). Unfortunately, that number hangs from my top tube, right between my mighty thighs. Same problem as on the previous day with the addition of tremendous wind turbulence. Day four I considered pasting it on the inside of my sunglasses, but knew you would never approve. I tried to stick it directly to my top tube. No luck. Day five I tried sticking it to the outside of my beloved Blackburn HydraPak, even though this would require some fellow rider to lean real close to see the seven point type. I don't think it even made it out of camp that day. I finally found the only secure spot was stuck to my billfold inside the pocket of my Blackburn HydraPak, but since I never bought anything during the ride I never saw it.
Nonetheless, I looked at those lists every morning and would sometimes announce to Michael that I had to remember to be sure to think about you at exciting mile eksty-eks. It was a really odd coincidence that my random number program planted everyone's cherished mile right along the crest of a tremendous climb with an unparalleled view.
Getting There
 Bike assembly |
Ten days before the ride I took our two bikes to the Watertown office of Our Glorious Brown-Clad Sisters And Brothers In The Fight Against AIDS: UPS to send them to Keith and Glenn in San Francisco. Can anyone tell me why Our Glorious Brown-Clad Sisters And Brothers In The Fight Against AIDS: UPS accept cash and checks, but no credit cards? I'm not complaining, of course. They still deliver better and cheaper than any of their competitors.
On the Wednesday before the ride Michael and I flew from Logan to San Francisco, after changing planes (and grabbing a Starbucks) in Salt Lake City. On the taxi ride from SFO into the city we had our second exciting encounter with Our Glorious Brown-Clad Sisters And Brothers In The Fight Against AIDS: UPS. See the photo.
We arrived at Keith and Glenn's home in a nonce (in a cab, really). There we were greeted and welcomed most graciously by the eternally charming Gary Pfitzer (pronounced "Fit, Sir!") and by the scent of living green things. Back in Boston life was still in the midst of a cold, wet spring. Here in San Francisco they were experiencing their usual wonderfully warm drought.
We spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on gossip, teasing the cats and putting our bikes back together.
Sidewalks of San Francisco
You who've been in San Francisco recently know what this is! These fantastic public toilets have begun to crop up on the sidewalks of that great city by the bay. For the rest of you let me tell you that one side of these dark green rounded buildings carries advertising while the opposite side bears public information like maps of the area. On the end is a small electronic display which gives you a current update of the status of the unit: available, occupied or cleaning! You slip a kwotta (25¢, that is) in the slot. The curved door snicks open just like on the Enterprise. A recorded female voice invites you to enter the capacious unit. Once inside, the lady tells you how to close the door. There are written instructions (more than for the Zero-G toilet in 2001: A Space Odyssey) in English, Spanish, Chinese and many other Pacific Rim languages, but the voice is only in English in this particular Castro unit. The interior floor is metal, slotted sort of like escalator steps. The floor slopes slightly toward one end. One cannot help but notice the reassuring soap suds around the edges of the floor that indicate the cleaning has been recent and thorough. There is no dirt, vandalism, graffiti or advertising inside. There is the expected stripped down prison-style toilet along with a thing inset into the wall that I correctly interpreted to be the hand-washing facility. A roll of traditional toilet paper is at hand mounted on the wall at an appropriate spot. The signs tell you that there is a time limit of something in the 15 to 30 minute range, but I don't remember this exactly since it wasn't going to be an issue for me. Goal accomplished, I approach the hand-washing facility which has one output port only. I insert my hands and the facility supplies soapy water which eventually changes to clear water. The water stops and hot air blows out of the same port! I marvel that it is almost enough to actually dry my hands! I then step to the door and indicate my desire to return to the street scene by pressing the appropriate button. Snick again! The sunshine pours in and I step out. I don't think the female voice wished me a nice day, but it could have; and it could just as easily have included a safety message like "Watch your belongings, there are ruffians in the area!" As soon as I am out on the sidewalk snick the door shuts behind me and watery slooshy sounds emanate from within. The electronic display tells every passerby that washing up is happening. In less than a minute, all cooties having been dispatched, the display changes to let you know the unit is available again. I knew you'd want to know about this incredible improvement in public health and comfort and to hear my opinion that, as with the right turn on red, Boston will be the very last city to adopt it, but I'll be long gone before that happens.
Chinatown
If you know some kids who like the zoo, I suggest you take them for a tour down the streets of San Francisco's Chinatown, as I did with Erica and her friend Michael. There they will see hundreds of animals, both exotic and mundane, which can be examined very closely. And if you like one you can buy it and take it home! Kids will learn about the whole birth-life-death-dinner cycle!
After lunch, Erica and I took a good long walk through the Civic Center. We visited the new library building and inspected the huge juvenile section as well as the cozy and unprecedented Hormel gay reading room, where I discovered that RFD comes with a slick cover these days. I'll bet they have a web page, too!
Then we sat and prepared thank-you postcards for my supporters. They chased us out of the library because it was closing early for the filming of some movie. We sat out on the street behind City Hall (Polk?) then and didn't see one single strange person walk by. I was called "Dennis Rodman" twice. Wackies. Everybody knows Dennis Rodman is taller.
With the sun sliding down into the west, we headed back up to Chinatown. There have been some rumors that people saw us on a cable car, but my real friends know that just as I have never ridden a Swan Boat in Boston, I would never ride a cable car in SF. It was just some other red-headed guy with a local chick next to him. If you have any doubts, you are welcome to inspect my kitchen for any traces of Rice-A-Roni, The Other San Francisco Treat!
The Story of Mount Diablo
Mount Diablo, over in Walnut Creek on the east side of the bay, is a cyclist's paradise. Early Spanish explorers recognized this fact immediately, hence the name. If your Spanish is as perfect as mine you know "dia-" (two) "blo" (balloon) is the ancient Spanish word for bicycle: "two-balloons" or "two-tires." Ironically, people are confused more often by "Mount," a common English word. The usual mistake is to think it attributes some mountain-like quality to Diablo. Hardly. It's that other meaning of "mount," that is, to get up on top of in order to ride, as in "mount your bicycle." Hence, "Mount Diablo" simply means "Ride Bicycle."
Mount Diablo, then, despite the fact that is a wonderfully flat area, ideal for easy cycling by anyone, regardless of their level of fitness seems also to ascend to a greater altitude than anything else in the Bay Area. Ironies abound when you visit San Francisco, eh? From the peak of Mount Diablo the range of the vista is second only to that from the top of Kilimanjaro. We'll visit Kilimanjaro next year when we do the Tanzania-Kenya AIDS Ride ("Sponsored by Tanqueray").
It is my great fortune that Mount Diablo belongs to a couple of friends of mine. This may come as something of a surprise to you who think of it as a California state park. But it's like some of the great works of art you see in museums. Look in the fine print and you may see "On permanent loan from . . ." Mount Diablo is on permanent loan to the great people of California from Larry Ferri and his partner Barry Pettinato (yeah, that Barry). The two of them live halfway up the "mountain" (as I said, it's a flat place, but to enhance the romantic picture of the place they like to call it a "mountain"). They have shown much greater restraint than W. R. Hearst and have refrained from building anything like San Simeon there.
My long-time supporters will remember how Michael and I had planned a glorious assault on Mount Diablo at the end our California ride in 1995 and how it had turned to naught all because Barry and Larry had to go wash their hair in Chicago, or something like that. This year we were dedicated and committed to climbing (we call it "climbing" in this flat area to make it sound dramatic) Mount Diablo, and even if Larry and Barry tried to sneak away to dance with seal hunters in Canada, we were going to do it anyway, and we were going to visit their castle (we call it a "castle" to make it sound grand) and drink their wine.
We Ride Mount Diablo
Thursday morning dawned clear and bright. While I shilly-shallied at the hairdresser's on Market Street, our brave lad Gary Pfitzer headed off to the Start To Finish bike store to rent a steed. His fine road bikes were still in storage somewhere. He hadn't been riding for a bit, so he rented a mountain bike to get the granny gear. Of course, when you rent a mountain bike it comes with knobby tires and suspension, neither of which are needed for an assault (we call it an "assault," but it's just a cruise since it's so flat) on Mount Diablo. We weren't planning to go off road anywhere.
It was late morning when the three of us all re-assembled at Casa Keith'n'Glen. Tire pressure checked, brakes checked and re-checked, saddle height adjusted, handlebars re-tightened, we ran out of excuses to stand around. We rode up and down what I call the Seventeenth Street hill to Castro, over to Eighteenth, and then to Mission where we got on the BART.
I digress
 Me riding on BART |
This was my first bicycle excursion on BART. Not long ago they had put in a "temporary" policy allowing bicycles on all BART trains without requiring any special ID card, or any additional fare. There were a few special rules: no bikes on stairs or escalators, no bikes during rush hours and no bikes in the first car of the train. Some of you who are familiar with the much more restrictive rules in other cities may consider this a wonderfully enlightened liberal policy. Perhaps you are happy to see that your glass is half full. Maybe you think that AIDS is behind us because people with adequate insurance and stable lifestyles living in North America or Europe or Japan can now get a really effective medical treatment. Maybe you think we should all be happy because lots of gay families benefit from domestic partners benefits, even though they cannot marry. Maybe you think we should all be grateful to ESPN for 30 minutes of Tour de France coverage at 12:30 AM, except when it gets pre-empted by baseball. Pish-posh, I say! Here is yet another example of cyclists being singled out for irrational second-class treatment. If I am riding with a wheelchair, a shopping cart, building supplies, or a large musical instrument I am allowed to use BART at any time, ride in any car, use stairs, escalators or elevators, all as I see fit. The same rules regarding all large, potentially inconvenient objects on BART should apply to everyone. Is there any reason a person taking his bicycle to work during rush hour should be treated differently from a person riding his wheelchair to work during rush hour? I think not.
Later that day on our return to San Francisco a man boarded BART in Oakland with a great load of construction materials loaded on a totally inadequate little cart. He had been shopping at a Home Depot somewhere in the area. His load included two large, heavy, round wooden table tops. These he had not secured in any fashion whatsoever. Of course, disaster loomed when the train started up before the man was able to arrange his load. Wham! One of his table tops launched itself into a roll right down the aisle of the train heading for my delicate looking aluminum Cannondale. I pulled my baby out of the way and another passenger who had more California attitude than I had Boston attitude jumped up to grab the potentially lethal wheel. The rest of the ride I watched this heavy load as it shifted and rolled with every change in the train's speed. Now, at least this man showed the good judgement to wait until after 10:00 PM to transport this load, but was there any rule to prevent him from doing it during rush hour and killing a half dozen good working citizens?
Since returning to Boston I've learned that BART's "temporary" bike policy has been made permanent, and they are actively considering whether to allow bikes during rush hour.
End digression
We three arrived at our BART station on Mission. We summoned the one elevator, which did arrive with just barely enough room for the three of us with our bikes. It moved so smoothly and slowly we were sure we were thoroughly trapped until the doors popped open and we saw why they had made explicit the rule that I thought was pure common sense: no riding bikes inside the stations. We were at one end of a block-long station and the turnstiles were at the other. Between us was nothing but a great stretch of marble floor and no pedestrians. We jump on the bikes and be there in a flash, or be good citizens and click-clack our way down there. We were good citizens.
After we had bought our tickets we had the good fortune to encounter a local cyclist who told us how it really worked. One walks the bike through the gate which is intended for wheelchairs, mostly. One is now on the train side of the turnstiles, but without having pushed the BART pass into a turnstile. So one leans one's bike on anything handy, and walks back through the gate then walks through the turnstile feeding the BART pass through the machine as one normally does. Then one grabs one's bike and heads for the train.
You can see this system depends entirely on the fact that all cyclists, whether elderly middle class tourists on $2000 Cannondales or scruffy helmetless toughs on BMX bikes are law abiding honest and cooperative citizens who respect their community and fellow passengers. You can also see why bikes are not allowed during rush hour. Even if only 3 or 4 cyclists were engaged in this shuffling process (which has to be repeated in reverse when exiting) simultaneously the BART employees would have a tough time keeping track of turnstile jumpers at rush hour. Someone would inevitably try to get a free ride.
Anyway, through the turnstiles we got. And now the elevator down to the train's level was, of course, a block away, back across that great expanse of smooth marble. We walked it, naive tourists that we were. Took the elevator down. And in a minute or two our train arrived. The passenger load was light, so we had no trouble getting on and arranging ourselves and our bikes so we would minimize any disruption. We had no trouble at all on this little trip. None of the passengers seemed to mind our presence. Other cyclists got on and off. Some BART police stared through us, as police are wont to do. We changed trains in Oakland with no problem. We debarked in sunny, warm Walnut Creek where we grabbed the elevator only big enough for two people with bikes and reversed our BART pass procedure, then took a little side trip.
Another digression
Bridgestone. That Japanese company that, depending on your point of view, makes those tires or made those bikes. If you know they made bikes, then you know they still do, but just don't sell them in the U.S. anymore. When Bridgestone USA closed down, a lot of its unique and independent spirit was boxed up and carried away by Grant, who then created Rivendell Bicycle Works right in the heart of Walnut Creek. You may also know that I have a Bridgestone RB-1, which was resting itself at home while I was making the Cannondale sweat in California. In its short life Rivendell has already gotten a cult following. Rivendell, along with American Cyclery in San Francisco and Bicycle Classics in Needham, Massachusetts, are the places to shop if you think the biker is more important than the bike, if you realize that full suspension and indexing are about a hundred years old, if you think that steel is a great material for a bike frame, if you understand the real reason cyclists shave their legs is just to be sexy.
Rivendell publishes The Rivendell Reader, which all level headed cyclists ought to be reading, and even you non-cyclists can enjoy. You will learn all about things you didn't even know you didn't know. You can get a copy by writing to them at 1561-B Third Avenue; Walnut Creek CA 94596. Maybe you can get one for free, but I bet they take money, too.
All we had to go on was that address and a good map that Barry had prepared for us. In a nonce, with just a bit of circling in a light industrial area we found ourselves before a sign saying only "1561-B." Hmm. Could this be it? Where was the glow of inspiration? The clouds of impending bankruptcy? The trucks delivering real bee's wax and Grandpa's Pine Tar Soap? I hid my aluminum Cannondale to one side and pulled open the door.
It was like Dorothy stepping out of her Kansas house into Oz. Here there were at least a dozen bright shiny new Rivendell cycles totally unprotected, unlocked and unguarded. Stairs led upwards. The three of us could have easily grabbed a few and run with them to San Francisco. And since BART didn't charge any extra fare for a bike, imagine our profit margin! But for the moment, I stayed my hand. I picked my way around and over this multi-thousand dollar pile of steel to ascend the stairs.
At the top was a cluttered office behind an unmarked door, two men working. I shyly entered to ask if this was Rivendell. Indeed it was, he said and he introduced himself as Peter. Ah, this would be Peter who was hired to straighten out the mail order fiascos (I won't even begin to tell you) that used to plague the place. He pointed back over his shoulder saying "And that's Grant." Imagine that! Grant right here in this room! Grant walked over to shake my hand and I was surprised to see that he seemed pretty cheerful and relaxed (subscribers to The Rivendell Reader would be inclined to expect otherwise). He's also pretty good looking, which he has neglected to mention in any of his articles. I made homage and picked up a copy of the Reader to deliver to Barry and Larry. I told Peter and Grant my general plans, and I believe they thought it was a bit nutty to climb ("climb" is the local dialect for just riding around) Mount Diablo in the afternoon heat. I said I had no fear because I knew the ranger there (of course I was referring to Larry, who owns the place, but by assuming the role of "ranger" his tax rate is considerably reduced). This seemed to impress both of them. In fact, I think that if Larry were ever to drop in to Rivendell and let them know just who he really is, they would probably be eager to show their appreciation of his largesse. They only offered me water, but who knows what a man like Larry could get.
Back on the road
We headed out on the local bike path, as recommended by both Grant and Barry (who is a biker, too, ya know). It meanders quite nicely alongside a little canal. We easterners tried to guess the purpose of this water. There was way too much water for it to be runoff in this arid climate. Surely it couldn't be drinking water, lying open as it was. Our best guess (it was mine) was that it was for agricultural irrigation (or used to be). We forgot to ask the locals, so don't trust me.
Then we got onto regular streets (which are even easier than bike paths in California) and began making our way southeast. Occasionally we would glimpse parts of Mount Diablo rising ahead of us (this was just a sort of weird atmospheric effect I'm sure, since Mount Diablo is as flat as a Kansas City parking lot). We passed a stretch of about a dozen dog and cat kennels. We stopped to do a bit of haggling when we saw a sign in front of one house claiming they were selling boy kids. Turns out they were talking about goats! Doh!
Then we entered Larry and Barry's front yard, where the state of California park system had put up a list of regulations warning us not to skateboard off any cliffs, not to chase the cows with our bikes, not to burn any motor vehicles on public property, to look at but not touch the horses and please stop in six miles to pay a visit to Larry. We complied, generally speaking.
It began to feel as though we were climbing a rise, but it may have been a bit of headwind and the heat. It was in the 80s, and Michael and I were still fresh from cold, wet New England. We hadn't experienced 80 degrees since . . . well, for quite a bit. Still, as I sit here writing this and glance down at my rrrippling cardiovascular capacity I must chuckle at my shortwindedness at the end of May. As we went along Michael described and named all of the various plants in Larry's yard. Since there seemed to be only three kinds of plants, that took all of a minute. There were living oaks, bay trees and grass. Bay trees are where you get bay leaves, and when they get old you use them for Old Bay.
We all agreed to ride at our own individual paces since it can be really frustrating to feel like you're climbing (I mean riding) too fast or too slow, and I know that if you're the slowest rider you can feel like a terrible drudge if you make your friends stay back. So we all spread out a bit. I won't tell you who dropped to the back, but it was kinda fun on some of the switchbacks to spit down on Gary's helmet.
During the (illusionary) climb we were passed by a very few real, honest-to-god serious road bikers. These guys with no low gears, carrying nothing but a spare tube, one water bottle, the car keys and their skinny little bodies scooted right by us. The ones descending (everybody seemed to be under the misapprehension that this was a hill) were the most impressive. They simply tucked and let the bike go. We could hear their hard little tires just roaring on the pavement as they blurred past us giving us a little thumbs up.
Michael and I stopped at the entrance to a ranch to take advantage of a big shady live oak tree. There are a few ranches still within the confines of Larry's estate. Moments after we leaned our bikes on a handy boulder the rancherette drove up in her totally real, dusty, dented, old pickup truck. She hopped out, shaking her long blonde hair, wiggling inside her tight t-shirt and asked if that was our car over there. Fifty feet inside her property line (very clearly marked with fence and "No Trespassing" signs) was a little shitbox of a car. We expressed our shock and chagrin and pointed at the boy-girl couple that we had seen on top of some nearby rocks drinking alcoholic beverages. She ordered them off the property, but allowed us to sit in the shade as long as we liked. She warned us of snakes, telling us that just that day she had had to kill six rattlers. We shivered in the heat. Such a confession could have gotten her 20 years in Walpole back home in Massachusetts. What was that thing she was wearing on her hip? We found new and redoubled respect for private property in California.
When cyclist number three came along we allowed him a 30-second rest and then continued on. "Don't want to let those muscles get cold!" we advised.
Due to the heat and unusual atmospheric conditions we could crane our necks see the road apparently climbing a series of switchbacks up what would have been interpreted as a hill by other less experienced cyclists. One of us would point at a little line way, way up there and say "We're not going on that are we?" And then we'd see that little shitbox car appear from around a curve and traverse that little line. And so we went, on and on, around pretend switchbacks and up imaginary slopes. If we looked in the right direction the light rays bent enough to allow us to look "down" on parts of Walnut Creek.
And then we came to a little house. It was Larry's! Michael and I poked our bikes around in the backyard (from said backyard we could see San Francisco) and I ran water from the hose over my head before we gave Larry a fair chance to welcome us.
Barry was not there. If you keep yourself moderately informed then you know that a lot of aliens had rushed into citizenship over the previous year or so. The Department of Justice had discovered that not all of them were as pure as all of who are born here are. The DOJ had to begin the process of rescinding their citizenship. For those of you who are not entirely familiar with how the government of our great republic works, let me explain that when you write to your representative in Congress saying such-and-such ought or ought not to be so, and when enough members of Congress agree, and when the word goes forth officially that this-and-that shall (or shall not) be so, then armies of government employees from grade 5 up to grade 17 start filling out their travel papers and ordering supplies and reserving hotel rooms and flights and making long distance calls and asking their cohorts where the great places are to eat and who ought to be schmoozed up to. This explanation offered just in case you thought that what was going on was the rescinding of citizenship. So Barry, to get back to the point, had made reservations and checked on restaurants and packed his pens and gone off to that great bastion of all right-thinking citizens: Lincoln, Nebraska.
Meanwhile, Larry took us out on their little vine-sheltered patio and we thought it would be great sport to sit quietly and see if Gary didn't just happen to overlook us and go riding right on by. Tee hee! Well, other cyclists came past, but when Gary came along, his nose for a pit stop told him "This is the place" and before we'd gotten halfway through our lemonade he had joined us. We sat letting the sweat dry, thinking how wonderful it would be just to stay forever until Larry told us what a nuisance it was to always have to put on your glasses when you strolled out in the morning so that you didn't step directly onto the rattlesnakes. Sheez! Couldn't you just sort of let loose a pre-emptive shotgun blast to clear the area? And then there are the feral pigs. And the coyotes. Such a nuisance, howling away as they do. And the snow! Imagine living in the hot part of the Bay Area and getting snow! I think the occasional drives down to the Costco in Walnut Creek are all that would keep me sane -- that, and being able to drop into Rivendell every time they get some new thing in.
But we had gotten only as far as Larry's house. If this were a mountain, we'd be only halfway to the peak. It was time for the manly men to get back on their bikes and finish the faux ascent. Michael and I got up, prepared to offer our patronizing condolences to Gary when he surprised us (bowled us over!) by announcing that of course he would continue riding with us. After all, it was just a bike ride, right?! As we re-mounted our little Diablos we suggested to Larry that nothing less than five pounds of pasta and about a gallon of red wine each would make us happy on our way back "down."
As soon as we three got going we realized that the road now had better drainage to it. I mean, if we had brought along a carpenter's level (we had left it behind on the BART) we might see that this road here actually had a bit of a slope to it. The road began to make its way around to back side of the property. Here we were quite surprised to see that someone had blasted and dug out a vast area. We seemed to actually be looking out and really down towards a great agricultural valley. The fields patchworked away and away into the mists at the horizon. What an illusion! I've seen it many times in Kansas. We weren't making very good time since we were enjoying the view so much. We stopped once because my back had begun to ache. It seems the illusion was so real I had been using my climbing muscles! We found a porta-potty and a genuine trash can, so we had a bit of water and some Gu. The taxes in California must be high to be able to put accommodations like this in such a remote area.
Off in one direction we could see a big wind farm. Not nearly as big as the ones near Palm Springs, but still big by New England standards. We could see the end of the road ahead of us. It looked like it might take a fair effort to get there. Then we came to a switchback with a clear view to the west. If we squinted hard and really pretended that we were up high we could imagine that way off and below us we could see the Transamerica building and even the transmission towers on the twin peaks in San Francisco. How strange to seem to be able to see so far from this flat lowland. We turned our attention back to the road ahead and spotted a structure much farther ahead and much, umm, "higher" (or so it appeared) than we had thought we had to go. Surely, we reassured each other, we weren't going there. Surely, we continued, that is something off in the next county or hanging off the bottom of heaven or something, eh? We kept going and finally encountered that most sure and absolute sign of a peak (if "peak" it were) just ahead: a forest of transmission towers.
 I pause near the top |
 Gary arrives at the summit |
Then, bang-o, just like that, a hill! A real hill. Someone had studied a New England hill and reproduced it here in the heart of California. Well, we sure knew what to do! After a little sobbing and whining we shifted into our granniest of gears and climbed. It was just a short hop and we were at the top (I mean the end). Some wit (Larry, maybe) had posted a sign here claiming an altitude of 3849 feet. We had a great laugh at that, although it seemed a bit difficult to get sufficient air to laugh as uproariously as we felt.
We thought this was such a big, high hill, despite its bland flatness. Had we but known the climbs we had ahead of us over the next several days! When I got back to Boston and flipped through the photos I laughed at the ones of us at this peak. Oh, we thought we had made such a tough climb.
The structure we had spied earlier was a copper-roofed shelter that sported a searchlight on its peak. Inside was a memorial to a Marine veteran. From this spot we could see everything: San Francisco, Marin, the Golden Gate was shrouded in fog, of course, or we would have been able to see the bridge. Belmont! All of the east bay. And the view continued totally unobstructed to the north and east. It was indeed vast!
We leaned over a rail to see the road switchbacking around "beneath" us. A cyclist climbed slowly. Was it Gary? What color was his t-shirt? We had decided it was probably not Gary yet, when Cardiovascular Man himself suddenly popped up right behind us, staying just ahead of some cycle-stud on a real road machine. Imagine, if you can, what sort of a cardio machine Gary must be to have "climbed" (you know, sort of "cruised around" really) Mount Diablo without having been on a bike in weeks, and having had a rather interrupted running schedule as well. Is there anything that can stop him? We all three congratulated each other, took photos, gaped at the view, felt the cold wind whistling around us.
In the little parking lot local road cyclists began to gather and mill about. Apparently we had arrived just ahead of the post-work rush. They (wiser than we) whipped out lightweight windbreakers in preparation for their 12-mile descent in which they might reach speeds of 50 mph, or even more! Pretty damn good for flat ground, huh?
We began our descent. I'm a total scaredy-cat on long descents, visualizing screaming death at every curve, so Michael and Gary pulled way ahead of me fast. I expected the local road studs to pass me in droves, but none did. Apparently they were nearly as cautious as I at this altitude. Once during the descent I brought the Cannondale to a complete stop at one of the greatest vista points. Felt the rear rim and found it too hot to touch it for more than a second!
 Me and Gary atop Mt. Diablo |
There were dozens of cyclists ascending during my descent and I noticed a couple of amazing things: none had a granny gear and none were female. This made me think this wasn't really great training, it was more a testosterone-laden butch showing off trophy. I thought of how much pain I'd have to experience to be accepted by the Walnut Creek cyclists if I lived there. Eventually I did see a few cyclists climbing on mountain bikes with granny gears, and there was a woman in the first bunch of them.
In a jiffy we were back at Larry's and, ya know, even though he had plenty of warning, he was still there waiting for us! He had prepared a Mount Diablo repast of mountains of pasta, tubs of sauce, whole vineyards of red wine, enough bread to feed Ukraine, and for dessert a fat-free sorbet! It was great! I wish I'd brought that extra pannier to pour the leftovers in to carry home. Larry's daughter Anna came home during dinner, and even though recent oral surgery prevented her from eating anything at all, her Italian heritage compelled her to swallow sufficient plates-full to satisfy her ancestors. She was the first person under age 30 to compliment my gorgeously red hair, so then I knew I really was stunning. We fell in love. I'm very sorry to tell you that Anna passed away just seven months later, in January.
It was about 9:30 PM when we rolled our newly chubby bodies out into the Diablo darkness. Overhead were great swaths of stars and galaxies, but who could look at them when the entire Bay Area was arrayed across the full western horizon in brilliant whites, yellows and reds with inky blacks representing bodies of water. It was, for me, literally breathtaking. I hadn't expected anything this grand. Just imagine what the view might look like from the very top of this great flat plain. Anybody who feels up for a nighttime ride to the peak is gonna have to kiss some major butt, because the park closes at sunset. I should think that any friendly cyclist who rides in Mount Diablo could start by leaving a bottle of nice wine (French or Italian, preferably) in the shade by the kitchen door of the ranger's house as you ride by. Fresh and unusual vegetables are another possibility. After a few months of that, you might want to invite the residents of the house to dinner. Take it from there.
Admiring the view, a voice compelled me to ask Larry about visits from UFOs. He admitted that, yes, they had three or four a night. But now I think he must have been referring to the slow spring season, since, as everyone knows, in late summer when Earth's orbit passes near the UFO superhighway, there can be hundreds of sightings a night in populated regions.
Michael and I had brought along our powerful VistaLites for this part of our ride. When we got these lights they immediately went on the very short list of Bike Things I Resisted Due To The Expense But Once I Got Them I Regretted I Had Ever Done Without. This list previously included only two items: Gore-Tex and SPD pedals. These lights, although seemingly expensive, are so brilliant (they melt the corneas of automobile drivers in less than 3 seconds!) and so flexible (in less than 30 seconds they can be transformed from bike lights into sexy mood lighting sources) and open up the night time to so much great riding, that any cyclist who does without is simply not a cyclist. We also had our standard Vista butt-blinkers, and had some spare, nearly worthless lights to loan to Gary so that he would meet the minimum requirements of the law.
I rode in the front and Michael in the rear, with Gary sandwiched between us. We hadn't gone 100 yards from Larry's when we were stopped by a park employee inquiring as to what the hell we thought we were up to. I leaned in the window of his truck and breathed the name "Larry Ferri." He paled (I'm sure, even in the darkness) and told us to enjoy the rest of our descent. And we did.
I discovered a new flexibility to the VistaLites. I could keep the 10 watt lamp aimed directly ahead, while I manually (that means "by hand") rotated the 15 watt lamp to shine on the road farther ahead in the curves. Everything was beautiful and fine because California roads are so beautiful and fine, but there were those sections of road that had suffered some damage (you know what they say about California geography, don't you? "If you don't like it, just wait 10 minutes and it'll change!") and they hadn't yet put new reflective markers in the center of the roadway. In those stretches we seemed to be flying into a blank nothingness that even the VistaLites failed to pierce. However, knowing that confidence meant everything to the guys following me, I never slowed down or hesitated.
During the descent we suddenly passed the atmospheric equivalent of a thermocline (you should feel free to correct my terminology in all cases). In the space of less than 50 feet the temperature rose by about 20 degrees. Just past that point I saw a coyote in the road ahead. This turned out to be one of those deer-coyotes, though. Tall, gazelle-like and vegetarian, these coyotes are generally accepted by ranchers.
Later we stopped at a wide spot in the road to re-gather ourselves, check our brakes, and turn off our lights in order to admire the heavens. Here much of the glow from the best city in the world was blocked by big, billowing piles of hills and trees around us. It was like looking up from the bottom of a giant scalloped party dish to a sky of brilliant stars in a clear, perfectly black sea. Once again Cyclist Ron found himself in a position to admire great natural beauty from a viewpoint denied to the drivers of automobiles. Sometimes the world works just the way it should!
We continued our descent in darkness. I was happy to finally reach a spot where the road climbed so I could flex my legs a bit and not listen to the rasping of the brake shoes. We reached the closed gate at the entrance to the park. This is one serious gate. In Ohio a "Bridge Closed" sign really means something serious; and in California "Gate Closed" means you've got some work ahead of you. But before we assaulted this great barrier we took off some of the clothes that had protected us from the chill earlier in the ride. Then we did the thing that all boy bikers do whenever they stop -- all over the road, spelled out our names -- sorry Larry.
Fortunately, we had thought to bring along our lightweight Vista ArcWelders, and reduced that gate to nothing in just minutes. The great thing about these ArcWelders is they use the very same batteries as the VistaLites. Gawd, I love biking!
We scooted right into Walnut Creek and its great, wide, California boulevards. Earlier I had pointed out to Michael how they matched exactly the roads in the San Jose-Fremont area, and we might just as well have been finishing the 1995 ride as well as starting the 1997 ride. Right into the BART station, up the wrong elevator, down again, and up the correct one. The longish, dull ride back to San Francisco, enlivened only by the idiot with the tabletops.
When we exited BART it was San Francisco at about 11:00 PM, not Walnut Creek. It was cool and drizzly. We inhaled the hot Mexican flavors of Mission. We zipped along 18th, past all the good ol' queens in Castro, and then to the Seventeenth Street hill. Here Gary and I became pedestrians. We bonded. We shared time. We listened to the noises of the neighborhood. We smelled the exotic flowers. We lay down on the hot pavement of Uranus. We rolled in the ground cover. We were one with the city by the bay. And when we got to the top we were new and rejuvenated men. Michael, who insisted on pedaling his bike probably got a knee injury that won't show up until next year or something. To each his own. From there it was a screaming two-block descent to the home of our very own Auntie Ems, Keith'n'Glenn. Thus endeth the story of Mount Diablo.
Except to add that the e-mail address of those who would do you the favor of allowing your presence on the grounds of "Ride Bicycle" is lfer@value.net You might want to drop them a note saying that as you are a California taxpayer, and since you are planning to do the California AIDS Ride 5 (in 1998) you hope to be able to ride "up" Mount Diablo every single sunny day (which is every day) and you'd be delighted if Barry (who is a cyclist) would join you cause he's gonna ride the California AIDS Ride 5, right, cause what kind of excuse could be come up with? Surely the citizen/alien thing will be all squared away by then.
The Golden Dragon
I had a lot more supporters in the Bay Area this year than I did two years ago. Naturally, each of them wanted to sit down with me and discuss chain lubricants and the advantage of Kevlar belts. They all deserved close one-on-one attention, too. But I am merely human (hard to believe, I know). So I said to Michael "Those guys with the mountain, we'll go see them, of course, because we are not Mohammed after all. But everybody else has got to come see me." My first idea was to have everybody get together in Keith and Glenn's garage to help put my bike together. But then Michael said he didn't want them all that close to his bike, so that idea was nixed.
We decided a big ol' Chinese restaurant banquet would work. Many fine and delightful restaurants were suggested by my fine and delightful friends. Some of these restaurants could seat as many as 6 people (8 if they were sensitive and willowy).
 Dinner at the Golden Dragon |
I resorted to that great old reference work: The Yellow Pages. Spotted the biggest ad for a Chinese restaurant. The Golden Dragon in Chinatown could handle a banquet for 400! This would be great. We could handle everybody in no more than three shifts with kids and the elderly or infirm coming for the first shift at 5:30.
Just about everybody showed up, with some flying across entire oceans and continents just to be there. I recall that 'most everything served at our table was pretty dead. There was some chaos trying to settle on issues like that, until we just gave up and retained a federal attorney to arbitrate.
I didn't get quite enough beer to have as much fun as at my 40th birthday party, but my supporters did pick up my share of the dinner expenses. What an unexpected bonus! And a sure guarantee that this feature of AIDS ride support will be repeated.
The only off-note was that it took Peter Smith at least half an hour to notice that anything was different about my hair. Of course, his mind moves mostly on planes well above mere hair.
 |
Day the Zeroth May 31
This is the day when we actually officially registered for the ride. And, wow, Michael and I really blew past those people who had spent months training on their bikes and neglected their registration training! We were standing in lines and watching safety videos and parking bikes like nobody's business. You'd'a been proud! We got in a bit of porta-potty training this day, too. We had been letting our skills decline there.
We rode our bikes from Keith and Glenn's over to the starting point of the ride: Fort Mason on San Francisco Bay. This is a great spot with views of the Golden Gate and Alcatraz.
We left our bikes in temporary parking, which we found even though there were no signs telling us where to go. Inside the Festival Pavilion the way had been prepared for us. There were no lines for L.A. riders yet, so I zipped right up to the table. The young lady there knew all about me and was totally delighted to fasten on my wrist my L.A. rider band and my vegetarian band. She said that the only way her day could be improved would be if every one of my contributors would come up and introduce themselves. Okay! Something to keep in mind next year, guys!
Next in the required steps was the safety video. The production qualities of this little gem have improved from last year, but Dan Pallotta has been lost from it. Now we get the safety word from Kevin Honeycutt, a totally charming young man who enunciates well, but I know Dan Pallotta and this is no Dan Pallotta. Dan had a much lower profile this year attempting to be less of a lightning rod for envious, pot-shot-taking, lowest common denominator scum bags who do nothing to improve the world. This year's video includes opening and closing sequences with lots of Enya music that might prove almost stirring to those whose registration skills weren't quite as hardened as mine. Some of those in the room who were just learning how to write with their bike gloves on were blown into a teary-eyed silence. After viewing the video we got another bracelet to wear.
 In the Presidio on the way to check in |
Then we headed on to the tent registration lines. Along the way we encountered Chicken Lady for the first time this year! It was reasurring to know that we would have Miss C. Lady to help us deal with the Kevin Honeycutts of the world. We found Vance Walker, too! Vance used to live in Boston. Vance used to live in New York. Vance lives in San Diego. Vance used to have a shit bike. Vance hasn't had a shit bike in a long time. Vance's registration skills needed a bit of honing. This was going to be his first AIDS ride and he needed a tentmate. Michael and I tried to market him around a bit, but Vance seemed to do pretty well on his own -- or so we thought.
Michael and I were assigned tent location E101. Little did we know what a ridiculously arbitrary and useless assignment this would be. Traveling 36 hours ahead of the ride itself was the camp setup crew. They are the ones who mark out the exact spots where tents are to go -- in theory. In my highly valid opinion they were out there in the hinterlands of California smokin' dat ol' debbil weed. This is the only reasonable explanation I have for the chaotic camp layouts we encountered over the next seven days. Tent rows wandered all over the countryside, sometimes narrowing to less than the width of a tent. The silliest came at Lake Cachuma where we found our tentsite twice. Neither site was in numerical order, but that was not unusual. One of the tentsites was in the dip around homebase on a softball field. We took the other site.
 Check in crowd |
The other crews, let me be quite clear, were wonderful. You won't even catch me saying a sarcastic thing about the route marking crew. But camp setup! Yes, if I ever encounter anyone who will admit to having been on that crew we will have words.
Now that we had our safety bracelets and tent registration, we had nothing more to do but put our bikes into bike security, the real parking where they would sit overnight for us. After that we were free for fun. Michael headed home, but I had friends, supporters and relations to see! At one of the safety videos Erica (my niece) was working. She had the charming job of smiling and saying "Yes, this is the safety video. Just head right in!" Tony, her step-father, worked a little farther in. His thankless task was to bark "The damn video is about to start! Now get your butt in there!" A job that he carried out so efficiently, I think he'll be back next year. And just down the road a piece was Diana, Erica's mother. She had a position of great importance, a job that brought every AIDS rider to a dead halt. It's not easy to get an AIDS rider to stop. If they aren't riding their bike, they're running to get a pledge or to grab some calories. But for Diana they stopped cold. It was her job to circumcise those safety video bracelets down to reasonable lengths. As she swung her giant shears into action, the babes would freeze like deer in headlights. Let me reassure you that every rider that came to her with two hands attached, left with two hands attached.
 Erica and me |
They directed me over to the other video location where I found my faithful supporter Steve Rovno. His job was the same as Tony's, but I don't think he was such a good barker. Steve rode California AIDS Ride 3 in 1996, so he could fill me on the terrific heat they experienced. He was such a nice guy he let me sneak into this video through the back door because inside was my brother Richard whose job it was to place those safety bracelets onto the riders. This made him just about the most popular guy there because no one could get anywhere or do anything on the AIDS ride without the safety bracelet. Richard introduced me to this strangely familiar face, another volunteer working there. It turned out to be Allan Robinson, who had recently moved from Boston to San Francisco! What a teensy, weensy world.
All formalities and visits settled, I headed for home, too. Picked up calories on the way. That evening, after they got off work Richard, Erica, Tony and Diana came around and we all went out for dinner. Italian, naturally.
A real surprise!
Ya know how it is. It's been a long day and you're really thirsty because they haven't supplied sufficient water for all the people registering and you're just waiting for your niece to get off work and about the millionth rider comes by to head into the safety video and wham! you recognize him! It's a famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg). But before you misunderstand me, I want to point that he has only four more Olympic gold medals than I, and I ain't dead yet!
I grabbed Erica and insisted that she come in to see the safety video with me. I thought we could plunk her down right next to him, but it seems that even to a safety video the famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg) brings a small entourage. We had to settle ourselves two rows ahead of him.
After the video he got in line to get his orange safety band just like a regular guy (after all, I'm sure he puts on his bike shorts [Speedos, naturally] two legs at a time, same as me). And then he headed for the scissor wielding band circumcisers. It was slo-mo. Greg in line. Diana standing with scissors. Greg in line. Diana standing with scissors. And. And. And Diana stood with scissors and failed to grab him by the collar to haul him over to her side of the exit. He was trimmed by the other scissor wielding lady. But I'm sure it was no big deal to Diana. She lives in California, a state that's just thick with people like a famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg). She's probably tired of it. Even so, she allowed him to autograph her California AIDS Ride 4 t-shirt. Viewings of said autograph are available for $50 a pop, payable to California AIDS Ride 4, call Diana for an appointment. Pray that she never uses chlorine bleach.
Unparalleled Special Offer For Donors, Supporters, And The Prodigal Son
The ride's over, I know. But maybe you think you have a little more to give. Maybe you never contributed. Maybe you did contribute, but you'd have preferred to support someone else. Maybe you'd like to be a sycophantic name-dropper. Well, look. The famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg) is just another California AIDS rider, like your hero #5189. The only difference is he's #7521. There's your chance. Get out that checkbook. (Okay, okay. If you want to do the credit card or installment payment thing let me know and I'll send you a copy of a pledge form with my number blanked out -- jeez I'm a nice guy). Make it out to "California AIDS Ride 4" and down on the memo line write "Rider #7521." Mail it to this address:
California AIDS Ride 4
c/o The Center
P.O. Box 2955
Los Angeles CA 90051-0955
I can't guarantee you that you'll get a thank you note from the famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg). But I can guarantee you two things: (1) you will not get from him a thank you letter nearly as good as this one; and (2) the AIDS ride will eventually mail him an accounting form with a list of his contributors and whoever opens that (hey, maybe it's just his agent) will see there on the list "Your Name, Any Street, Billerica MA 00000 - $1000.00" and he'll wonder "Bill-er-ick-ah? Wherezat?"
A tidbit of honest to gosh true information: the list of donors is in order by the amount of contribution in descending order! In other words, the $1000 contributor comes a lot closer to the top of the list than the $5 guy. And I'd sure think a famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg) or his agent would be pretty busy.
This is all on the level. That is really Greg's rider number. That is really the address where contributions go. Your money really will go to benefit the Center. I would not fool you on this. Course, it is a bit late now.
Erste Tag -- June 1
 Vance, me and Michael |
This was a day when we really had nothing to do. Just had to get our bikes out of San Francisco, threading them amongst the thousands of cheering fans. Then just ride along the coast until we got to Santa Cruz. There were no hills, but there were some spots where gravity did weird things. We mostly filled the time visiting with folks along the way.
Our day started in the dark. We had to be at Fort Mason by 6:00 AM, but in case you are considering doing an AIDS ride yourself, let me tell you this: it's a lie. They will always tell you to be there at 6:00 AM. They will always tell you that roll out is about 7:00 AM. It ain't. You get there at 6 like a good doobie, but there are a few people coming in who missed yesterday's registration. They have to sit through the whole safety video, of course. Departure is never at 7. It's timed according to what the local TV stations want. Do yourself a favor. Sleep in a bit. 6:30 AM is plenty early. Be relaxed.
Nonetheless, we were good doobies, aiming for a pre-6:00 arrival. Our rocket chariot was provided by Mr. Gary P. himself. He delivered us right into the heart of things, making it easy for us. Then we stood around, or maybe we ate breakfast, or maybe we simply were happy that we didn't need to use the porta-potties.
In our wanderings around Fort Mason we found Steve Rovno and Alan Baki. They were there to make sure all of us actually got on our bikes and started riding.
 Me with my bike in the parking area |
Eventually we got the word to get our bikes out of security and to begin to line up. They probably meant for this to be a little bit organized, but they had no PA system near the building where our bikes were stored. Michael and I just grabbed our bikes, put on confident faces and lined up outside and waited.
People were nervous. The line-up gives you time to worry about your tires, about your gear adjustment, about whether your cleat bolts are tight enough, about whether you wore the right sunglasses. Someone was passing a floor pump around the crowd and nervous riders were using it to rip their valves right off their tubes.
Finally we rolled out of Fort Mason and along the waterfront to the Presidio on the same route as two years before. And just like two years ago, as soon as we hit the small hills in the Presidio we heard the gnash of poorly adjusted gears and the moans of under-trained cyclists all around us. From the Presidio we headed south to Golden Gate Park, meandered through that, then continued south on Sunset Boulevard.
As we rode through some southern suburb I spotted someone ahead wearing too short Speedo bike shorts, riding a fully suspended Cannondale mountain bike. Who this? Well, it turned out to be the famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg), of course. I rode along with him for awhile, hoping that we could come to a big hill so I could claim to have passed the famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg) on a hill. Unfortunately, we were on a long level stretch and I just could not make myself ride slow enough to stay back with the famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg). I rode on ahead, reasoning that he might catch up to me at Pit 2, after which we would have some serious dealings with gravity. It was not to be so, however. I never ran into him again the rest of the day.
 Greg [left] on his bike |
At Pit 1 Michael and I caught up to Vance who was taking advantage of the fine weather to overhaul his bottom bracket. Between Pits 1 and 2 we began to catch some hills as we rose to the beautiful Crystal Springs Reservoir. But these hills were nothing to us because Erica and Richard were going to meet us here. Erica lived in nearby Burlingame, so we knew it would be nothing for her to hop over to visit with us. Next year, in fact, Erica is going to bring some of her schoolkids (she's a teacher) over to help out at Pit 2.
Imagine, then, our surprise and disappointment when we failed to find Erica at Pit 2. And after all that hard riding, too. Our lips pout. Perhaps, we pondered, we had been riding just too fast and too hard and got here before she did. After all, we had pretty much blown a famous, heroic American winner of four Olympic gold medals (but we just called him Mr. Greg) off the road. Or maybe Erica had slept in a bit. We waited, eating extra oranges and granola bars and newtons, the tears welling in our fine blue eyes. But when we started seeing people coming into the Pit on hybrid bikes, we knew we had to get on down the road or L.A. would fill up before we got there.
 Michael, me and Vance |
The road remained familiar as we twisted up by a big freeway, then down and then right onto the famous Route 92 which was to carry us up and over the biggest climb of the entire AIDS ride and down to the much-sought Pacific. When the road began its serious climb I recognized the very spot where last year I got stuck behind some young hotshot on a fantastic racing bike with a tight cluster who just could not climb this any faster than about 2 miles an hour. On my left was heavy creeping motor traffic, on my right a curb and steeply rising (or dropping) mud. This year I made sure no one was blocking my way as started the climb. With a good clear road ahead of me, I knew I was going to just sail up this thing.
And then some driver next to me started some sort of harassment schtick -- or at least it hit my experienced filters as harassment. The car slowed and moved towards me. The windows on the passenger side were open, but fortunately there were no passengers. The driver turned to face us, but I was already slowing down to drop behind the car and pull out into traffic if I needed to. No way was I going to be trapped up against that curb. Then the driver yelled at us, and he seemed to know my name! I ducked down a bit to see inside the car and there was my brother
Dick driving! Well, whacha know? Next time maybe he'll borrow his neighbor's car with the Thule rack on the roof so I perceive it as a friendly vehicle.
He pointed ahead and yelled something. I guessed he wanted to race us to the top, which I thought was crazy since I was on an aluminum bike and he had at least a ton of steel there, but if he wanted to be embarrassed in public who am I to deny him? Just a minute later at the crest of Route 92 where the road widens greatly Michael and Vance and I waited for Dick to catch up -- or I think that's how it was; in this quantitative universe the flow of time sometimes plays tricks on me. He took our picture. We took his picture.
And then along came some wild-assed punks on a motorcycle. Just as I was gearing up for a fight, Erica and Michael peeled their helmets off! We took their picture. They took our picture. They acknowledged as how they were running a bit late. I insisted that no, I was riding way way too fast.
After visiting and chatting and watching hybrid bikes pass us, we three got back on our bikes and rode the few feet up to the crest itself. It was a cool morning and the breeze coming from the ocean side was strong and brisk. I zipped up my lightweight jersey, but it was going to be no protection.
 Entering Santa Cruz |
Then it was down, just plain down forever. I felt a bit more confident on this part than I was two years ago, but Michael got pretty far ahead of me anyway. We caught up to each other when we reached Route 1 and turned south to parallel the coast to Santa Cruz.
Lunch was at San Gregorio State Beach -- well, the parking lot for the beach, that is, not the beach. It was sunny and we got to work on our tans a bit, but didn't waste a whole lot of time as we saw hybrid bikes ahead of us climbing on the hills of Route 1.
From here to the camp in Santa Cruz the route was exactly the same as two years ago, so there was no good explanation for why the route marking crew marked a couple of turns wrong.
All Those Expenses!
There's been a lot in the press over the last several months about the high level of expenses incurred in the American AIDS Rides, Presented by Tanqueray, and I'd have to be an ostrich not to say something about it.
$9.4 million. You know how much of that goes to the charities? The final numbers aren't in, but it's only 50% to 60% that goes for the charities. There are only two charities involved with the California AIDS Ride, the LA Gay and Lesbian Center and the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. Your contributions in sponsorship of my ride went only to the LA Gay and Lesbian Center. Each rider's contributions support only one or the other charity.
Those expenses that eat up 40% to 50% of the contributions, what are they? Dan Pallotta's corporation, Pallotta Teamworks, gets $180,000 per city (or $360,000). That's the extent of their take. A big chunk goes to pay the staff in the ride offices, one in LA, one in San Francisco. But the biggest chunk goes to the riders. Three meals a day, water stops along the route, showers, all the vehicles to move all of that along; that's the single biggest expense.
The charities themselves are in charge of overseeing the expenses. I really, honestly trust the LA Gay and Lesbian Center (as well as the Fenway Community Health Center in the Boston-NY AIDS Ride) to manage the expenses wisely. Every expense comes out of the proceeds that the charity will receive, so they have no motivation to waste it. I know the staff of the ride. I've seen the ride up real close. They carefully tread a narrow line. They spend enough to be safe, and that's all.
How can this be improved? Would you contribute money if there were no ride? If I wrote to you and told you of the great work done at the LA Gay and Lesbian Center and the Fenway Community Health Center to fight AIDS would you write a check? Would it be as big? I think most of my supporters would. But would most other people? Probably not. One member of the staff suggested to me that one year we ought to have an AIDS Non-Ride. We do everything the same. We send out pledge forms. We get t-shirts. We train for the big ride. But when the big ride comes we don't do anything. Then 90% or more of your contribution would go to do real work. Would it work?
A real world alternative is to get more sponsors and volunteers. Our Glorious Brown-Clad Sisters And Brothers In The Fight Against AIDS: UPS provided trucks and drivers to carry gear and to transport bikes between Los Angeles and San Francisco. In previous years that had been an expense. Last year Starbucks came in and supplied the coffee (I wish I'd ridden then!). What can your company do for the AIDS ride? Even volunteering at the ride office can keep expenses down if it means the staff can be kept smaller. There's no reason, for example, the monthly newsletters for the riders couldn't be handled entirely by volunteers.
What I don't want to hear are complaints from people who do nothing constructive. On my list of supporters are people who have told me that they are very concerned about the ratio of expenses on these AIDS rides, so they sent a check directly to the LA Gay and Lesbian Center, or some other charity the deals with AIDS. This is great! It's all one war, regardless of where the battle is being fought. While people worry about these expenses, are they doing something to end AIDS?
Despite the rate of expenses, the California AIDS Ride and the Boston-New York AIDS Ride both raise more money for their charities than any other single event. Imagine how much better it would be if the expenses could be lowered.
Real Numbers
The expenses for the 1997 California AIDS Ride
The Staff: $843,601
The Ride (details elsewhere): 770,291
Printing: 78,569
Advertising: 70,799
Postage: 54,047
Rent: 38,202
Utilities: 34,494
Design: 31,217
Office Supplies: 13,604
Travel: 10,847
Various other smaller items so that when you add it all up and adjust for some underwriting deals, the adjusted expenses came to: $1,721,527
This is an expense ratio of only 38.18%, which is the lowest rate yet for any AIDS ride!
To put some perspective on this, the LA Gay and Lesbian Center gives away $1.5 million worth of AIDS drugs every month!
My money or your money?
You may, if you don't know me well, be wondering if that check you wrote was used to pay for that gut-popping dinner at the Golden Dragon, or to have my hair improved, or to allow me to go off and take the sun in Palm Springs, or to buy enough sun block for Black's Beach, or to help me fly out and back, or to help fix up my bike, or to send it out to California and get it back again, or to outfit myself with that swell new Blackburn Hydrapak (it was on sale at Belmont Wheelworks, okay?). Wonder no more. The answer is "No!" That's where my money went. Your money all went to the L.A. Gay and Lesbian Services Center. They used some of it to pay for the ride [see above] and the rest went to pay for AIDS-related services. I did my hard working bit to keep the ride expenses down, too. I never used a sag wagon, I never bothered the staff for anything, I never ate more than 4 meals a day, I never drank more Gatorade than I could stomach, I never tore up my tent (although I wanted to, sometimes), and at breakfast I never wasted the grilled gruel by feeding the gulls. And after the closing ceremonies every single expense was on my tab. But of course, some friends helped with that too. Free housing, free food, free transportation. Some kinda people they are, those Californians.
The Tailwinds
Day 1
On the California AIDS ride in 1995 we had very few tailwinds, so I wasn't expecting much this time. Naturally, I was wrong. On Day 1, when we reached Route 1 south of San Francisco and turned south we caught a light tail breeze. We didn't notice it because we were more concerned with getting to the porta-potties at the next water stop. After that, on the way to lunch we certainly noticed that it was all easier than it ought to be. After lunch, as the day warmed even more, the tailwind really pumped up. There were points when I measured a windspeed in the low 20s (MPH). Even better was the way the road cuts channeled the wind on climbs. Several times I was able to shift into a higher gear and accelerate during a climb just because California highway engineering was bringing us stronger tail winds there! It was delightfully unfair! It was probably the best and steadiest tailwind I'd had in years. I reveled in it while I could, exhausting my good karma by just flying down Route 1 to Santa Cruz.
Day 2
On Day 2 the tailwind started earlier and was steadier and stronger. What great thing had I done to deserve this? It was at Pit Stop 2, not far away from Monterey where as I enjoyed the bounteous supply of fresh strawberries, peaches and pears that I found myself a little irritated by the dust kicked up by the morning breeze. Then later as we moved inland from Monterey I was surprised at how easy it was to climb over the ridge, a sure sign of a tailwind. But then when we got to the inland valley we found the friendly wind a veritable motor for us. All we had to do was point our bikes south and away we went. It was powerful. It was steady. It was speed! Flat land and a tailwind to dwarf yesterday's!
Some of the less experienced cyclists were unaware they even had this great wind! Later I would hear complaints about the powerful cross winds we would experience during the short bits when we would turn east or north. Isn't that just the way it is? Crew members who staffed the pit stops that day complained of the constant dust blown up by the hot, dry wind.
For me, the best part of Day 2 came in the last 15 miles. We were on a long rolling stretch going directly south to King City. Here I could take advantage of the acceleration on the downhills and the wind on the climbs to maintain an incredible (for me) speed. For at least 10 miles I was pedaling constantly in the 30 to 35 mph range. It was dreamily fantastic!
Day 3
On Day 3, the tailwind was milder, but picked up (as it always does) during the hottest part of the day when we were tired. The hot dry approach to Paso Robles was eased by the steady breeze going with us.
Day 4
On Day 4, we didn't have a tailwind until we got back to Route 1 and began to head south to Morro Bay. Along here we began to feel its assist again on the climbs. After lunch in Morro Bay the wind began to increase as we traveled along wide open Route 1 to San Luis Obispo. We made record time. We were deprived of a tailwind for a short distance as we traveled back toward the coast. But as soon as we got to Pismo Beach and headed directly south again, the wind slammed into our backs making it easy to get to the Santa Maria River valley.
The Santa Maria River valley is shaped to pump cool ocean air deep into the dry inland. In 1995 Michael and I fought this as a steady headwind for over 60 miles as we traveled from Ojai west into Santa Maria. This year as we headed directly south to Guadalupe we fought our old powerful friend/enemy as it blew powerfully at right angles to our route, right to left, west to east. But at Guadalupe the AIDS ride route turns due east to get to Santa Maria. We were prepared for this blessing, and opened up the leg muscles full blast as soon as we turned onto Route 166. Only a few miles to go and the strongest wind yet pumping along with us. We cruised at 35 to 40 mph matching the speed of some of the slower farm vehicles. Flattened remains of iceberg lettuce, broccoli and celery flashed beneath our wheels as we zoomed through this salad bowl valley. We recognized them more by smell than sight. Our tires hummed. Our chains sang. We sat in top gear. Mama in her lawn chair was sighted, then in a flash behind us. We could hear, but not understand her greetings, the noise of the wind was so great. Ahead of us the buildings of Santa Maria expanded visibly as we approached.
Day 5
By Day 5, the tailwind had become such a reliable and regular friend on the AIDS ride, even I almost took it for granted -- but not entirely! Michael and I, far far ahead of schedule, decided to take the optional side trip into Solvang for some high calorie baked goods. I knew that as soon as we made that turn we'd be swimming upstream again! It was a harsh awakening, nonetheless, to be forced down into our low gears as we struggled to keep moving even downhill. But after enjoying huge tumblers of cold milk and stacks of deep fried thingies, we trusted in our amazing karma reserves to keep that wind blowing to lift us back up out of the valley to return to the AIDS ride route.
Of course, these great winds didn't stop when I got off my bike. Setting up the tent was usually made more interesting by the sudden gusts. Even so, at most camps the wind settled down as the sun set. Not so at Lake Cachuma at the end of Day 5. Here we experienced the strongest winds in camp of any day. And the winds continued into the night. At least our clothes dried fast!
Day 6
The wind had stopped by the morning of Day 6, so we could return to Solvang in relative comfort. We got onto Route 101. After a long climb and long, long descent down to the ocean, we turned south and the wind pumped itself up again to come along with us. This day, with great stretches of Route 101 completely open and exposed we benefitted greatly from the wind. This made it easy to zoom along with the freeway speed traffic. There were several stretches when we saw pelicans just a hundred feet to our right and above the ocean surface gliding along matching our speed perfectly.
Day 7
On Day 7, we had big rolling hills where the wind didn't help us much. In Malibu where the road flattened out, the wind was coming at an angle from behind us. This was not as efficient as we would have liked, but still it was strong enough to keep our speed really high. There is a stretch on this day where the hills come right to the ocean. The Pacific Coast Highway here is a huge expanse of asphalt taking advantage of every bit of space between those hills and the water. Along water's edge are jersey barriers. It's along those jersey barriers that we fly. The tide and wind were powerful enough to cover us in salt spray several times.
Day Two Highlights: Santa Cruz to King City
 Barbie on board |
Y'all probably know that one of my favorite breakfasts is Wheaties with plain nonfat soy milk and sliced prickly pears, right? So maybe you'll be surprised at my ignorance (or maybe not, but I don't want to hear about it). What do I know of a prickly pear? I picture three or four old, sunburned grandmas wandering the desert carrying canvas bags. If they are so fortunate to spot some prickly pears they pick them to adorn our eastern breakfasts, okay? Well, duh! Here we were flying along through the desert, enjoying our tailwind and feeling pretty smug when up on my right looms a prickly pear ranch! There were row after symmetrical row of prickly pears marching off into the deserty distance, all basking in the hot, dry sun and straining to produce pears for those millions of bowls of Wheaties back east (meanwhile, the Iowa soybeans aren't even breathing hard in their milk production). And they are BIG mama cactuses too! I try to imagine how much fun it is to don lightweight Kevlar body armor in order to go harvesting. Gives a whole new meaning to de-tasseling.
We had a pit stop in the same place where they had an overnight campsite in 1996 in Patriot Park, Greenfield. What a forsaken place! Dead flat and exposed, no trees, no grass in a dead town. The ten short minutes we were there to fill up on water were pretty unpleasant
Chicken Lady
If you know anything about the AIDS Rides, you know that Chicken Lady is more ubiquitous, more omnipresent than even Dan Pallotta (and we don't even know who he is anymore). Chicken Lady is to the AIDS Rides as the Hat Sisters are to Provincetown, except that Chicken Lady doesn't exist on our physical plane. She exists only during an AIDS Ride, and can only be seen by those who share in the spirit of the AIDS Rides. Erica, Richard, Diana and Tony all can attest that since they volunteered for the AIDS Ride they have been able to see Chicken Lady.
Using a special AIDS Ride lens, I was able to snatch these two photographs of Chicken Lady. Since you are a supporter of mine, you can see her too. But show this to some nay-saying negativists and they'll just see gray squares.
On our last night together in Ventura I happened to catch Chicken Lady back behind the rows of trucks belonging to Our Glorious Brown-Clad Sisters And Brothers In The Fight Against AIDS: UPS. Chicken Lady was forming a special bond with one of Our Glorious Brown-Clad Sisters And Brothers In The Fight Against AIDS: UPS. I didn't have my special lens along, and maybe we're all glad of that.
If you want to see Chicken Lady yourself, just volunteer, or sign up to be a rider or crew member, or just go to the route of the AIDS ride nearest you. Stand there and show your support of the riders going by. Just when you think you can't stand it any longer Chicken Lady will appear to you and you'll believe me then.
Paso Robles
 Antique car in Paso Robles |
All the staff of the ride could tell us (and they liked to repeat it) was that Paso Robles translated into English as "Pass Of The Oaks." Why they never bothered to translate the names of any other cities, I've no idea. "San Francisco, a very hilly city, is 'Saint Francis' in English." "Santa Maria, renowned for its popsicles and flat streets, would be called 'Mother of God' in English." This "Pass Of The Oaks" stuff. Obviously they read that out of some Chamber of Commerce pamphlet. Did it ever occur to them that "Pass Of The Oaks" is hardly English? We who grew up speaking the tongue of the Angles would translate it as "Oak Pass." But then it just sounds like that unromantic, ungrand high school across town, doesn't it?
We love that Paso Robles. It's dry. It's high. It's not gonna admit to any connection with San Francisco or Los Angeles. But it's got all the franchises of any big city. These franchises are hard by the campsite there, which is the county fairgrounds. Michael and I avoided the franchises and walked up towards the main street (probably called Main Street).
On the way we displayed our initiative and rebellious spirit by stopping in a camping store to buy tent pegs. Maybe the California AIDS ride thought it was a cool thing to have tents flying all about, but we were going to set up a real home. [Recently the staff wrote to all of us to tell us that none of the campsites allowed tent pegs because we would inevitably leave a few in the ground and those would become deadly weapons the next time the area was mowed -- this sounds actually believable -- and they went on to say that while the policy would be the same on the 1998 ride, that we were welcome to bring along our own tent pegs so long as they are plastic and bright colored -- take heed, future riders]. This camping store had apparently never seen a customer from outside the county. When we entered, all business and conversation ceased. The dozen customers and employees froze, their eyes fixed on us. Realizing we had been handed the opportunity to get waited on immediately and not wait in any line at all, we seized it. Tent pegs were immediately produced and sold. Some of the younger customers began to nudge each other and whisper, but no one was near the guns, and the knives were all locked up. One employee asked how the ride was going, how many people, how many miles, how many millions.
Strolling along the busy main street, we searched for Mexican food. Suddenly we were hailed from a car stopped in traffic. The passenger gesturing toward us was some local citizen, young, with long, greasy blonde hair. It was hard to hear over the wind and traffic so we could only make out something like " . kill . . . fucking . . . faggots . . ." We smiled back and guessing that he wanted someone to go with him for ice cream or a beer, yelled that we were too tired to be good company right now, but that if he was looking for a date he should just turn right and drive a couple blocks to the fairgrounds where there were lots of friendly men, or lesbians if he was looking to get that noisy muffler fixed. His driver then accelerated away rapidly while they sort of waved their thanks to us. We waved back, wishing them "Toodaloo!" Oh those Oak Passers, always full of rambunctious fun and fuzzy affection!
We got to the town square, frustrated at our inability to spot a Mexican restaurant. We stopped in at a large, nice looking motel right there on the square. When we asked the friendly desk clerk to direct us to a "good Mexican restaurant" she stared at me and asked if we wanted a "good restaurant or one that would seat someone with red hair." She erupted into gales of laughter and we joined in, we love Paso Robles so much. She then told us where to find two or three popular Mexican restaurants within a couple blocks. She asked us how the ride was going, how many people, how many miles, how many millions. As we headed out the door the lady said to Michael (who was wearing a baseball cap) "Let your friend wear your cap. This is Paso Robles!"
Nonetheless, I bravely remained bareheaded as we crossed the main street, taking advantage of the California drivers. At an uncontrolled, but marked crosswalk we simply strode into the four lanes of heavy traffic without hesitating. It worked like it's supposed to, but I'm not gonna lie and say I didn't clench just a bit.
The restaurant we eventually found was just across the square from the motel. The place was fairly plain, but the food was absolutely wonderful to a New England palate that had enjoyed little more than OK's Cascade food for three days.
We stopped in at a supermarket during our walk back to camp to buy some ice cream. One very young kid sitting in a cart nearly went catatonic when he saw my hair. He pointed, mouth agape. His mother asked him if he wanted red hair. "No!" he screamed and broke down into laughter. Probably related to that motel desk clerk.
We walked back to camp, fat, lazy and happy. We did nothing all evening but watch our laundry dry on the fence. All our friends on Route 101 gave us waves, shouts and horns as they buzzed past on the other side of the fence. There was no apparent AIDS-phobia or homophobia from the roadway this time, not like two years before.
We Get Rain
Oh, it's gonna be hard to get across to you the sarcasm of that heading. You've got to hear a really whiny "We get raaaaiiiin!" It was in these instances of "weather" that I was so thankful for my New England training.
The rain began the night we were in Paso Robles. I was already asleep (Michael says it was about 10 PM) when a very light sprinkle started. Maybe five drops a minute hitting the tent. After days of dryness, this was nothing to worry about. Some time during the night I got up and went out just to make sure all the (Our Glorious Brown-Clad Sisters And Brothers In The Fight Against AIDS: UPS) trucks were still lined up correctly or something. I was surprised to find the ground absolutely dry. The air and soil were both so dry every bit of the little shower had just disappeared.
 Only 231 miles to go…by car |
In the morning it was overcast. We headed south out of Paso Robles to California 46, same as in 1995. But in 1995 before we reached the top of Route 46 we turned left into a fabulously twisty descent. Now in 1997 that twisty descent was closed due to washout and/or earthquake damage (you know what they say about California geography, don't you? "If you don't like it, just wait 10 minutes and it'll change!").
After many miles of climbing (none of it too steep) we reached the top of Route 46. And at the same time a light shower began. It was such a light shower that it was (I don't want to sound like I hold my nose high in the air, but . . .) it was beneath me to even notice it. If it hadn't been for the Californians stopping to put on rain jackets I wouldn't have even thought about it. I even heard one Californian complain "Great! Just what I wanted, to ride with a wet butt!" Well girl [he appeared to possess masculine gender, so that is not a sexist exclamation], in New England in the spring if our butts aren't wet, we don't even get on the bike. Michael and I just kept going. You may take a few seconds right now to visualize our wet butts.
 Greg with some riders at a pit stop |
After descending only a little way Michael and I pulled over in a wide spot to admire the view. There were a lot of people taking photos, so we thought there must be something to see. In 1995 our route had taken us past Elephant Rock Reservoir. I stared south and made out the reservoir. I pointed it out to Michael, saying that I could even see the elephant rock, and strained to see through the mist to make out the far side of reservoir and couldn't quite make it out. I looked back at the "elephant rock" and experienced one of those moments you have when you see an optical illusion, or try to make out one of those 3-D pictures. My eyes spun a bit, wiggled, went in and out, and then the brain clicked.
This was not the reservoir! I was looking at Morro Bay itself! "Elephant Rock" was actually the rock in Morro Bay! Not a hundred feet across, but hundreds! The "reservoir" was the Pacific Ocean! This meant we were at a hugely tremendous altitude! All the climbing we had done on days two and three, plus this morning's climb were about to come back to us in one clean eternal drop all the way to the ocean! Never have I been at such a height and clearly seen the bottom of my gravity well miles away. Nothing to be done but get on that bike and sit for hours and hours as we screamed to the bottom. It was never a very steep descent either, so I felt pretty comfortable except that the edge of the road showed a lot of variability due to earthquake damage (you know what they say about California geography, don't you? "If you don't like it, just wait 10 minutes and it'll change!"). More the advantage of my New England training where road shoulders are as reliable as the character of Edward M. Kennedy.
 Route 46 ends where it intersects Route 1 |
Once during the descent some sap (excuse me, "fellow rider") stopped on the road in order to ask a rider who was off the road if he needed any assistance. The rider off the road was showing no signs of needing any assistance whatsoever. I almost went right through this "fellow rider", but was able to clear him at the last instant giving him a short speech regarding his alimentary functions, sexual tastes, and parentage. Communication is important in a big ride like this.
After many, many days of restful descending we came to checkpoint two just before the world famous California Route 1. This is Route 1 south of San Simeon. This is where Michael and I stopped in 1995 on our return trip northwards to relish a stack of Fig Newtons (not only a trademark of National Biscuit Company (gawd knows who owns them), but named after that City of Newton which is scant blocks from the bedroom where I write this). I remember we stood there observing the sign saying Route 46 goes to Paso Robles. "How far?" We wondered. "How high?" Now we knew, and we had had the luxury of doing it the easy way. Good ol' Paso Robles. good ol' Route 46. Good ol' Route 1. The rain had ended and would not re-visit California AIDS Ride 4, Presented by Tanqueray.
Agony Grade
Okay, you know how I've made fun of California hills, and you've heard me laugh at non-New Englanders as they've complained about how big a hill is, and maybe you don't trust me enough to know what those hills are really like. Like maybe you would think they're big, or maybe not. Well, just relax and breath evenly. Here I will be completely honest and not make fun of a soul.
 Michael riding amidst irrigated salads |
In Oceano we pass right along the coast, and then turn inland for some easy riding through salad lands. After a few pleasant miles of this, however, we are forced to make a climb so that we can get into some rolling hills and get to our destination. The lay of the land here is a lot like midwestern river bottom land: dead flat, then a sudden climb to some heights. In previous years the AIDS ride route followed Route 1 which would take us up a long, slow hot climb. The climb is about a mile long, none of it is shady, and the road surface is old. There's no shoulder and traffic is heavy. We would ride on a narrow bit of rough pavement between the cars and an old steel cable barrier that would have done nothing to keep us from toppling hundreds of feet down a cliffside to land in the gaping maws of broccoli and cabbage.
Not this year, though. Nossir, they really improved it this year. We actually take a short cut, some local road that all the farmers like to use. We get to stay on the nice flat for a little longer. It was reassuring to look way over to our left and see the Route 1 making its dreaded climb. But directly ahead our road looked like it climbed a sheer vertical wall. Now all you cyclists know this is a common illusion on the road. The farther you are from a hill, the steeper it looks. Why even the very worst hills eventually transform themselves into placid slopes by the time you ride up to them.
 Man climbing |
This hill ahead of us, however, seemed to be misbehaving. We got closer and closer and the illusion failed to fade. Maybe it was the noonday sun. We wiped the sweat from our eyes and looked again. It was still a wall. We could see little dark marks on its surface that could have been cyclists. But instead of creeping up to its top they would slow, then freeze and then appear to tumble over and roll right back down to the bottom. Couldn't have been cyclists -- or at least not AIDS riders.
We couldn't turn around and run away from this thing, and there were no roads right or left, so we had to just keep riding until we got right to the thing -- and it was a wall! In about fifty horizontal yards it was going to climb the same height that the Route 1 took a mile to climb. The beginning of the climb was so sudden and so steep I could see the bike frame flex upwards as I started up. This was the aptly named Agony Grade.
If it had just been me on that hill I would have had no problem, but it was jammed with the litter and remains of the hundreds of spent AIDS riders and their bikes who had preceded us. Remember that scene of the dead and dying in Atlanta in Gone With The Wind? You have the idea! I was down in my granny gear, of course, but that didn't help me deal with the steady shower of shattered bicycle parts that rained down from the cyclists ahead and above me. As I crept up the hill I would hear the occasional cry of total failure that warned of a cyclist and his machine tumbling broken down the hill to the bottom. Some cyclists with good coordination, but not great strength could leap off their bikes in time to keep from falling over backwards. Most of these got to the top by walking. Some of the real sports would remount and coast to the bottom so they could make another attempt. You can just bet their supporters were going to get their money's worth!
I have to give some credit to my good solid cranks, my good reliable bottom bracket, my stronger than steel chain, and my fabulously strong rear wheel; all of which were stressed way beyond anything they'd experienced before. Those SPD cleats must have been screaming, too. Oh, and why not say a good thing about Avocet tires, too, while we're naming names.
 UPS man working at a pit stop |
Michael and I managed to reach the top without walking, without dismounting and without uttering that final anguished cry of total failure. And there at the top were some local citizens. These weren't supporters in the usual sense. They didn't hold signs of welcome. They didn't cheer and clap. They just stood in gape-mouthed silence, probably thinking they were seeing the greatest bunch of loonies in that great state of loonies, California. I think there was an ambulance parked there too. Wrong end of the hill, in my opinion. If we could get to the top we didn't need an ambulance, but maybe a psychiatrist, or at least a bartender.
I resolved to organize a search party as soon as I got back to New England. A search party to go forth and scour the New England countryside to find out where California stole this hill from [yeah, that's a preposition, you gonna make sump'n of it?!]. It must have happened late at night when all good New Englanders were resting in preparation for their next day of hard work. The California highway department probably flew in with black helicopters and lifted one of our hills wholesale!
Santa Maria
Two years ago at Santa Maria we camped in the county fairgrounds which were conveniently located near downtown, and just along the big state highway with the big tailwind. There was a skating rink nearby, too, and some AIDS rider went over there and broke his and/or her ankle. So this year, guess what, they moved us to a city park way up on the north edge of town.
We came hammering at nearly 40 mph from the west when suddenly left turn! We whisked through Santa Maria rush hour traffic (the beat up pickup trucks of farm owners and slick Japanese sedans of farm workers) and went north along what is quite obviously the very west edge of town. On our right hand was dense suburban tract housing. On our left flat, flat farmland stretching down through the valley towards the ocean. Here we encountered the second abuse of the environment by California farmers (the first one is the way they use aerial irrigation of crops at all hours of the day regardless of the wind and temperature, wasting huge amounts of water; but it has been gently explained to me that this happens because the water authorities allow the farmers to draw at a rate of only so many gallons at a time, so they can't water all their crops at night). This second abuse is that regardless of wind and soil moisture levels, farmers plow and plow and plow. The fields on our left had recently been harvested of broccoli and the smell was intense. It was like having whole heads of the green stuff shoved right up your nostrils. Made me hungry. But that fabulous tailwind we had earlier, was now blowing from our left across these fields. And out there on those fields were tractors plowing the old broccoli roots under. The dust they were raising was something terrible and it blew right across our faces and into the housing on our right. You'd have thought they were trying to raise the ghost of FDR himself.
There can't be any sensible reason they would want to ruin their topsoil like this. I never saw plowing like that in Iowa. So Michael and I made up theories about how the market has gotten so twisted that a farmer would want to destroy his best asset. Theory 1: it's the unions (I like this one). The workers are unionized and you would have to pay them some outrageous sum to work after dark or just at dawn when there is no wind. Theory 2: California has some kind of topsoil insurance program. If you are a farmer and discover that lo! your topsoil is all gone, then the state has some sort of subsidy and assistance program where you can just plant grass but make money like a vintner.
Please bear in mind that we just made these up as we chewed California topsoil (mmm!) and if you have better ideas, let me know.
 Michael and road vixen |
With a couple of zigs and zags and waves from kids coming home from school we found ourselves in the park that was to be our home for the night. We were so far north that there was no possibility that we would get to head into town to visit our very favorite farmer's market, or get to drop by our most hated bike shop. Oh yeah, you say, why not just ride your bike? 'Cause after a day of riding, the great luxury is just to stand and to