Please note:

This is my own very personal account of what I experienced in California. I shared the immediate experience with hundreds of other bikers, but there were also a few hundred crew members and paid staff, along with many thousands of contributors and hundreds of organizations and businesses that supported us and got us on the road. Everybody, including you, had their own view of the ride. No one had exactly the same view I did.

I'm not applying for an NEA grant, so I can still say whatever I want and have a good time! Please enjoy.

1996 Boston-NY AIDS Ride

1997 California AIDS Ride

1998 Texas AIDS Ride

California AIDS/LifeCycle 2002!

Ron's Log

NEW (on 3/9/2002): the Tanqueray "Congratulations" ad in the June 23, 1995 issue of Entertainment Weekly Click here for the larger (776 Kb), possibly readable version Or, click here for the huge (1,449 Kb) very readable version

After three weeks in the Republic of California (my longest stretch yet), I didn't want to leave. I had my credit cards, my check book, my most useful bike. But that mortgage in Boston seemed to call me back.

As soon as I hit the Boston air, its heat, its humidity, its thick scent of greenery (even at Logan airport), I felt at home. I had only two regrets from California: I never stole an orange out of a grove¹², and never felt an earthquake. Maybe I'll miss those California hills, too. New England hills are more intense, but short-lived, like a one-night stand. On the other hand, when you meet a California hill you know it's going to be a long, long (but gentle) relationship.

CAST O' CHARACTERS
SOME OF THOSE WHO HELPED MAKE IT POSSIBLE

Michael my riding partner, from Watertown, Mass.

Brian Michael's partner.

Joe Cannondale My bike, a Red.

We Usually Michael and me, but sometimes all of the California AIDS Ride 2 riders.

Ron (AKA Bruce) Me. My middle name is Bruce, which is what my family calls me.

SF The City By The Bay, Over The Rainbow

L.A. A great big Kansas City sort of place, only more so and with canyons, and a Valley next door.

Keith & Glenn Recently of Boston, new residents of San Francisco. They put Michael and me up, shared their cats with us, and provided us room to work on our bikes in their spacious, lovely and convenient home (with a view!) not far from the Castro, Twin Peaks, Golden Gate Park, and a really great little bike shop.

Michael B. A generous and gracious gentleman, friend of Michael's. He provided us lots of space, a roof, and every other little thing we could want while in L.A. (well, Sherman Oaks), southern Golden State.

American Cyclery A really great little bike shop near Golden Gate Park. I recommend it to all discerning cyclists.

Barry A friend and ex who now lives on Mt. Diablo over near Walnut Creek, The Golden State.

Dick/Richard my half-brother who lives in Fremont, The Golden State. He provided us bathrooms, beds and (most blessedly) a washing machine, as well as wonderful coffee.

Barbara Dick's wife, and a devilish driver. Claims she's NOT from New Jersey, The Garden State.

Erica Dick's daughter, my niece. Was attending Sonoma State University and about to graduate at the time of the ride. About to change the world.

Yet-Another-Michael Erica's boyfriend.

Diana Erica's mother. Then resident of Redwood Shores, The Golden State.

Tony Diana's husband.

Larry & Dallas Friends of Michael (the Michael who I rode with), a couple who actually live IN L.A. They are friendly with their neighbors.

Johnny My younger (youngest? is this one of those times when both "youngER" and "youngEST" would both be correct?) brother. Lives in Iowa City (which is in the Hawkeye State), but known to visit the Bay Area. Cyclist, sleuth, copyright violator.

Dan Pallotta The engine behind the California AIDS Ride, the creator and executor of it all, the Ayn Rand of charities (if that were possible), a man to watch. Lives in L.A., of course, but originally from Medford ("MEH fuh")⁴ in The Bay State.

At least 46 Cash Contributors All superior humans who helped to make this possible for me. These people include friends, relatives and absolute strangers from all over North America and even Asia!

Countless Supporters Instead of cash they gave me their time, their efforts, their words of encouragement, their homes, their cars, their thoughts and memories. They gave me the internal energy to keep going.

Bill Shepardson The center of my life who died in 1989 due to complications from AIDS. Lived in Berkeley, The Golden State.

Tom Boll A cherished friend and lover who died in 1992 due to complications from AIDS. Lived in San Francisco, The Golden State.

All my friends who are living with HIV and AIDS one way or another. You know who you are, even if I don't always.

Mom who taught me how to ride a bike (but not how to fix a flat). Lives in Kansas City (which is IN MISSOURI, okay?).

TANQUERAY Of all the gins in all the gin joints, this is the one that came through with LOTS of bucks to get the whole ride going. The lube for Dan Pallotta's engine. Discreet enough never to have set up a cocktail tent for us (not even beer!). Here's one liquor company that's putting its money into making life better for people, making it at least one notch better than all the other liquor companies.

Endorphins A chemical produced by one's own body in response to aerobic exercise. It's related to morphine, but is safe and available from only one source (NOT Tanqueray). It IS habit forming.

OK's Cascade An odd company that can make miracles happen, and they never require sleep.

O.J. Simpson Some guy in one of the towns where we stayed. He had the strangest TV show on public access cable there.

There's a cloud of confusion back where the idea for this pair of rides began. I think Michael suggested riding from SF to L.A. as part of the California AIDS Ride 2. I dismissed that as insanity because I'd SEEN California Route 1. When he said it was an organized group I hesitated and said it was insane because I'd SEEN California Route 1. When he said it was mostly a gay group I hesitated and said it was insane because I'd SEEN California Route 1. When he said it was a really big group AND it would be fully supported, I figured we might be able to get away with it because we could move fast and might be able to intimidate the drivers. So I said yes.

I conceived the other half of the ride on my own. We would arrive in L.A. on May 20, and Erica would be graduating from SONOMA STATE (two counties north of SF) on May 27. With my bike and panniers and seven days it seemed quite obvious and natural to just reverse directions and ride from L.A. back to SF. Michael begged permission to accompany, and I graciously granted it.

Some of my sainted pledgers may not have known until now of the northbound half of this trip. I didn't mention it in my please-send-me-a-pledge letter because I didn't want you to think your money would be going to support me merely cruising around in California. I paid for all of this, guys. Or I WILL pay, I mean.

Then Barry got into the planning process, enticing us with tales of Mt. Diablo where he lives⁵: the highest peak in the Bay Area, it attracts strong cyclists from throughout the area. It seemed just natural to crown our return to the Bay Area with a ride to the top of Mt. Diablo, especially since I knew someone halfway up it with furniture and plumbing. What a glorious hero's homecoming it would be, tackling that mountain at the end, and then to demand a ride IN A CAR over to Sonoma! The car ride was to be a surprise for Barry.

But as we got closer to ride time Barry revealed that just about the time we would have been tackling Diablo he would be heading off to Chicago (a city midway between the Dairy State and the Hoosier State) for a (GET THIS!) square dancing convention. But before you gasp at this cultural faux pas, I rush to tell you that he is a lawyer. Perhaps it is more important to address his moral fiber before we correct his notions of athletic activity. Weeks later, as we were cycling the roads and towns of the lovely Golden State I was shocked! FLOORED even! to discover that on the very same weekend that he was mincing off to Chicago, Barry could have been attending the California State Folk Dancing Convention right there in OJAI, A DREAM TOWN that has been part of the Golden State these past one-hundred years; famous for its waters, but I recommend the German bakery, oh yes very much.

Thus, dreams of climbing mountains within view of camera-toting people who we knew, disappeared like fog at a mountain pass (more on that later).

And THEN, in a rush to send her off to change the world, Sonoma State University moved Erica's commencement ceremonies one week earlier, so as to coincide with my much-heralded arrival into Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, and even (we tremble with anticipation) WEST HOLLYWOOD.

So, no commencement ceremony for me, no mountain to climb. Nothing left but the plans of a ride north. Did that stop us? Heck no! We got bikes, we got legs, we got vacation time, we got Bikecentennial (yeah, I know it's Adventure Cycling now) maps. Commencements, mountains, relatives, cities; all of those are just token reasons that I hand to non-cycling people when asked.

Once committed I had only two things to do: raise the money and train. I'd never tried to raise money for any kind of pledge activity before, but as soon as I started asking I felt like Moses producing water in the desert (more on this Moses fellow later). My generous donors gushed their money forth so that I had met the $2200 minimum in no time. It kept coming in right to the last moment (and after) for a TOTAL EXCEEDING $4700. I just loved getting those envelopes, a couple every day. Bundled 'em up and shipped 'em out by the truckload to L.A.

The training was harder. Sure, after all this time all I needed to do was sort of wake up the legs and say "C'mon, time to do it all again," but it was hard getting that wake up call to go through. Have we ever had a wetter, colder spring? I rode and rode in nothing but cold muck and layers of Gore-Tex^®, polypro and wool. Before going to California I'd done only 5 miles in shorts. I was as white as I ever get. On the other hand, I did manage to squeeze in two 130-mile, fully loaded rides, which let me know I was READY.

The time for the ride grew closer, mailings from L.A. came more frequently, a few mechanical items were handled, things packed, bike shipped by UPS to Keith and Glenn's, and my focus and excitement came to a fine hard point. Everything was California, California, California. It really surprised me the number of calls wishing me luck that I got on my last day at work before leaving.

Michael and I flew separately, but arrived in SF at about the same time, picked up the car and drove into the city, passing on the way the huge sign on the hillside:

SOUTH
SAN FRANCISCO
THE INDUSTRIAL CITY

little knowing how very sweet that sign would look 2½ weeks later when it represented the last hill separating me from San Francisco.

Just 18 minutes from the airport to Keith and Glenn's, and yet people out there complain about traffic! Sheez! Beside Keith and Glenn's front door there was a lemon tree with ripe lemons on it growing in a pot. My first thought was that this was so patently fake, it must have been done just to taunt us New Englanders. I turned out to be wrong, of course. I observed many greater agricultural marvels over the next couple of weeks.

Our bikes were there already, completely undamaged. Put 'em together and did a baby test ride. Poked around in Golden Gate Park and baptized the bikes in the Pacific. Joe Cannondale has now touched both oceans as well as the Mississippi and Missouri. He once saw Lake Erie, but did not feel drawn to it.

Then we had time to adjust for jet lag, hang out, shop. Invested heavily in postcards (to be sent as thank-yous to my contributors). Hiked the hills and discovered a broken down, former monument at the "geographical center" of SF. Went to Nordstrom's, of course, but did not buy a single thing! Found the best spot in SF to have good, but cheap, espresso drinks. Right downtown with a great view! If you'd like to know just where it is, send an additional $20 contribution to the California AIDS Ride 2 (or 3), okay?⁶

This was when we discovered the AMERICAN CYCLERY near Golden Gate. Very retro shop, mostly ROAD bikes, Campagnola equipment; just one person working. I listened to him talk to customers: perfectly accurate and complete information with no trace of attitude! A marvel! He sold Power Bars for only a buck! I found a wonderful bright red Italian wool sweater which I could pretend was bikewear if I could pretend I was upper class British country folk. Even though it was already on sale, the shop gave me an additional 20% discount for being a California AIDS Ride 2 rider. They were one of the participating shops and had led training rides right from the store. (415)664-4545. Glory be! That sweater became my primary fashion statement/foul weather gear because, as it turned out, the New England weather was in California, too.

We met Barry for dinner at The Patio in the Castro where we had some special entertainment when a good gully-washer (I don't know what they call them in California) came along and washed away a few dinners.

Went out to visit Dick and Barbara and Barbara's son Jeff somewhere in metropolitan Fremont. After dinner and a dessert big enough to have powered us all the way to L.A. we were entertained with a wonderfully gruesome tape all about the Loma Prieta quake. It was so impressive that Michael and I drove back into San Francisco on small surface roads, avoiding all bridges, overpasses and underpasses. I slept outdoors that night. Next time they visit me in New England I'll have to show them a documentary about... uh, I know, the Dukakis presidential campaign! That oughtta do it!

If we're gonna have an in-group, we have to have our secret jargon, too, right? Day Zero does not refer to August 6, 1945, but to the day BEFORE the actual ride starts. Actually, Day Zero (three syllables) is a lot shorter than the-day-before-we-start-riding (eight syllables). Day Zero is when all loose ends are tied up, all mysteries answered, and we check out the other bikes and bikers.

Fort Mason. The buildings in the lower part of the picture are where the AIDS Ride starts.

Day Zero took place at the starting point for the ride, the Festival Pavilion in Fort Mason, which is not far from that touristy pier which is a cheap imitation of Boston's wonderfully refined Quincy Market. During our long walk over to Fort Mason we experienced some live theater, SF-style. Posted around the city on certain streets are these amusing signs saying that trucks above some dimension are "Not Advised." (Wouldn't want to actually BAN them, now would we?) Some young Teamster who apparently was not inclined to taking advisement from a Traffic Department had tried to take his full-size moving van over the crest on Fillmore. Physics intervened. We expect he will sit there until some earthquake changes the angles of the hill enough to allow him to proceed.

I had expected Day Zero to be as much fun as college registration. I foresaw long lines, lost records, jerks with attitude. Wrong! (I make a lot of mistakes). Instead, the whole day was but the first example of the AMAZING ORGANIZATION of these Californians. One quick line and one quick man who fastened my red bracelet (meaning I was an L.A. rider) and my yellow bracelet (vegetarian) on my wrist. Gave me an orange bracelet for the bike. Sent me over to the tent department where Michael and I performed the quick little ceremony to become 7-day tent partners and were assigned our new address "Orange 18." Over the week we would become familiar (some said TOO familiar) with the folks of Orange 17 and 19.

It was done! We were in! I had carried along photocopies of every pledge form and check I'd mailed, prepared to do snarling, toothed battle to prove my right to ride. No need! Now all we had to was admire all the very fine new equipment that flowed into the vast building. Grab some snacks. Pick up a couple freebies. Glance at the route map (prepared by Bikecentennial/Adventure Cycling). Allow our gaze to drift around on the excellent decorations that defined the areas within the pavilion and raised our excitement.

But hold! Up there! What is that, who are they?! Running along under the peak of the former warehouse's roof was a catwalk lined with chain link fence. People were up there. Sullen, slumped people. People not chatting, not bubbling, not grinning. Lots of 'em. These were (dare we consider the concept?) PEOPLE WITHOUT SUFFICIENT PLEDGES! Those people were sent aloft to wait. To wait to enter a room at the end of the catwalk. It was said that in that room were staff who would "work" with the people to make the minimum pledge. I trembled with chill despite the California sun. I pictured a room of rehabilitated former EST staffers and old cadre from Cultural Revolution "struggles." A darkened room, a single bright light source, at least two cellular phones for each "worker" and computers linked to the financial data of the world. All the resources of family, friends and ex-lovers would be considered fair game.⁷

I turned my eyes away, thankful that my 46 pledgers had spared me such torment.

Back on the main floor, where we all busily admired each other, I ran into Allen and Neil, former New Yorkers who are veterans of many Boston-Provincetown rides. They're Californians now, and seemed to enjoy the idea of tormenting me with visions of California hills.

We walked past the mechanical area, where a dozen mechanics were helping riders put together bikes. Very fine bikes. Very fine, expensive bikes. Very fine, expensive, sophisticated, lightweight bikes. Lots of very fine, expensive, sophisticated, lightweight bikes. Behind that we saw the huge security bike corral, wherein we saw a thousand (literally!) bikes. Among them were many, many more very fine, expensive, sophisticated, lightweight bikes. Back to the main floor, and I couldn't help noticing the youth of tomorrow's riders. THE YOUTH AND THE MUSCLES. The youth and the muscles and the shaved legs. The youth, muscles, shaved legs, and just-perfect bike clothes. I became (I hang my head) intimidated. This hadn't happened to me in years and years. But, I thought, it's different out here in California: there's no winter to make you stop riding, the hills are different, the highways are better and traffic easier to deal with, you could ride more places, there are really big mountains, there's more racing, there are more places to mountain bike. I began to sketch a picture in my head, a picture in which California riders had overcome the barriers we have in New England. Maybe you could be young, gorgeous, have a huge upper body, shave your legs, buy expensive bike clothes and bikes and be a super biker and do everything! Maybe out here I really was gonna just look like a 40-year old who rides only nine months out of the year on bikes that cost under $1000. Oh, a week of being patronized and pitied. Oh, dread!

WRONG! (These mistakes pile up). The expensive, lightweight (etc.) bikes belonged to people who had more money than training. They fell victim to that old, old mistake. They thought the bike did the work! There is some satisfaction to passing a brand new $2500 machine with my slightly chipped 1989 Cannondale. But it's even better when the rider on that $2500 machine is under 30, gorgeous, has shaved legs and huge pectorals and biceps! Well, well! Everything back to normal! A few hours into the ride on the first day I passed the biggest body builder on the ride who was WALKING his bike up some measly 3% grade. This particular body builder improved, however. By the end of the week he was arriving at camp at about the same time I did.

Every day of the ride some people would have to give up and wait for the sag wagon to carry them on to the day's destination. They would be separated from their bikes (horror!) which would be transported on some other truck. Every day the first truck that passed us with sagged bikes would be loaded down with knobby-tired mountain bikes (not every bike was light). Shortly thereafter, the second truck would come by packed with lots of very fine, expensive, sophisticated, lightweight bikes.

The rest of Day Zero we spent bringing our bikes over, enjoying a preview of the week's food, and being "entertained" while we waited for the absolutely mandatory safety speech from Dan Pallotta himself.

I had spent all spring, the days leading up to the ride and Day Zero channeling and sublimating my nervous excitement, knowing that I needed to just get my rest and train without breaking a collar bone. I knew from experience that if I let all my excitement go I would work myself into a frenzy, lose sleep, ride crappy and burn out before the end of the first day. I knew if I could just stay relaxed and then blow all that energy into my legs on Day One I would be able to handle any hills, any distance, any headwind. All around me were people who had decided to channel their TREMENDOUS ENERGY differently. For the vast majority of my co-riders, this ride would be much, much longer than anything they'd ever done before. The giant banners hanging in the Pavilion depicting giant bikers, the equipment, the crowd of bikers, all produced over-the-top pressure. Then when the local gay and lesbian MARCHING BAND came in it was almost too much. They gave them only enough time to play about 4 pieces. Even so, they managed to squeeze in the CENTER HIGH SCHOOL fight song. Just for me, I guess.

Finally, the excitement dropped during the safety-speech-of-death. Dan Pallotta got up there and managed to both show us left and right turn signals while conjuring up images of the death, dismemberment and permanent disability that would be created by the slightest wavering from his strict standards of safety. The crowd went from dancing on table tops to long funereal faces. But it worked (or something did). Never have I been on a ride where 99% of the riders held themselves to such high standards 100% of the time (and 99% of them did it 99% of the time--I'll send you a pie chart of that real soon). 1825 riders, half of whom at any one time were saying "On your left" while the other half listened to it. 1825 riders all signaling every turn. 1824 riders stopping for every stop sign (there was one female rider in California who I wanted to turn in to Dan Pallotta⁸).

We headed home. We slept.

DAY ONE San Francisco TO SANTA CRUZ (92 MILES)

4:00 AM. I got up and ordered a cab for 5:30. Stood and sat around in the cold, dark house trying to eat a little breakfast that I wasn't hungry for, wondering if there was any other sport that required its participants to get up and do this so many times?! Michael got up. We did every last minute little thing, the taxi arrived perfectly on time to-the-second and whisked us over to Fort Mason where the San Francisco bikes were flowing in (Day Zero's bikes were all L.A.). Tension was high. They had laid a black astro-turf carpet the length of the Festival Pavilion. Painted yellow highway lines down the middle of it. Nice touch! We got a preview of the week's breakfast food.

So let's say something about OK's Cascade. This is the company that provided us three meals a day, hot showers, sinks with running water, and clean porta-potties. They're normally in the business of providing this service at disaster sites. They went to the Northridge earthquake. They were in Des Moines during the midwest floods. We might have been a little easier for them since we were planned and scheduled. But we also needed them to roll with us about 80 miles a day, something an earthquake rarely requires. They're the only company in the U.S. that can provide all the services they do. They performed without flaw. When Michael and I left camp each morning at about 7:00, OK's Cascade was still there running at full steam, still making and serving breakfast, still running showers, all porta-potties still in place. Bike as fast as we could, when we got to the destination camp, there was OK's Cascade all set up, shower open, kitchen cooking away, soda and other beverages freely available, clean porta-potties all in a line. Same equipment, same people. Then dinner from 4:00 to about 9:00. Showers stayed open until I don't know when. These guys would be up all night. Then the very same people would be up with breakfast ready on the dot at 5:00 the next morning. No one ever saw any of them sleep.

This company is home-based in Washington state, and most of their employees look like they crept out of the back woods. They seemed to enjoy sitting in the cold rain to boil giant pots of water over a propane flame at 4:00 in the morning. These were your basic bearded (except for the women), beer-gutted, tobacco-chewing (especially the women), rifle-toting, possum-eating folks your sisters warned you about. But (my mistake again!) there was never ever the slightest hint of any homophobia or AIDS-phobia. These were just a lot of relaxed people who cared only about doing a perfect job. They even came up with $100 contribution for the ride!

Now if you think about it, a perfect job for these people means: everybody gets as many calories as they want and nobody gets sick. Just what we want. But, of course, presentation doesn't count for much here. The food was clean and cooked (you bet it was cooked). Flavor? Yes, there was some. My decision to check the vegetarian box on the registration forms was fortuitous. It meant I at least had the choice between the vegetarian and carnivore options. Others were condemned to things like salami sandwiches in the middle of the ride, hot sun overhead, 50 miles yet to go. Mmm, he-man bike food. I got peanut butter and grinned. Sometimes the vegetarian choice was the sort of stuff that Woody Allen loves so much. One night, GRILLED TOFU¹¹ was graced with the same "barbecue sauce" (a misdemeanor in Kansas City) that was being poured over the chicken. Never have I had tough tofu before. Ah, California!

But back to Fort Mason, where OK's Cascade was dishing up our first breakfast that included a serious, serious mistake called a "strawberry bagel." Every morning we could choose the strawberry or plain variety of this offense. These were not bagels by anyone's standards, certainly not by east coast standards, not by California's, not even by Kansas City's standards. I was not dubious of one rider's claims that someone in Israel had been hanged once for selling something like this. These were simply distant cousins of something starchy. I couldn't finish my first one, and never touched another all week.

We entered the Festival Pavilion and located our bikes. All fine. I didn't check my tire pressure, not wanting, in the nervous press of things, to rip off a valve. There was strange music. There were stretches and calisthenics for those so inclined (not I). We had water. Each of us went to the bathroom 112 times. We all donned our helmets. We packed and packed and packed every one of the 1825 of us and every one of the 1822 bikes (there were three tandems by my count) into the Festival Pavilion. And we stood and waited and tried not to bump bikes. We had our MOMENT OF SILENCE. There was probably the national anthem.

And then somebody let us go. I couldn't even see the door. There was movement. Noise. Cheers. Bells and horns. It was 7:45 right on the dot. Within 15 minutes Michael and I were near the door and suddenly no one was standing in front of us and I could hardly believe that I managed to get on my saddle without kicking someone or falling over and thanked all good fortune when I managed to click my right foot in on the first try and then WE ROLLED OUT of the building.

We rolled through a narrowing wall of cheering spectators and photographers under some big archway. Then crept out of Fort Mason onto the waterfront road. Overhead the news helicopters captured it all. Days later I talked to the rider who had designed the layout of banners inside the Festival Pavilion. He had positioned himself at the back of the hall so he could see the whole thing. It had taken him OVER AN HOUR to get out of the building. We rode and rode and rode until we had gone A WHOLE MILE. Then we stopped. That had been the big rush start for the media. The real start, for sane safe-minded riders came in a big parking lot on the edge of the Presidio. We stood around here too, but not so long, nor so crowded. Here we were bikers, not media showpieces. They would count out about a half-dozen people from the parking lot. Wait about 15 seconds. Count out another half-dozen more. Thus did they eliminate the dangerous crowding that would have occurred if they had just let us go. I had worried that this crowding was going to make Day One a dangerous nightmare. But in one simple stop and restart, all such danger melted away.

Michael and I got counted out. Now we were really finally on the road, mixing with cars and other bikers and nothing between us and L.A. but miles. Now, NOW, FINALLY NOW! I could let all the months of nervous tension go into my legs and just go. I went. I passed bikes and more bikes. I passed uphill like a rocket. On the very first hill in the Presidio I saw too many people who hadn't learned what all those gears were for. But I was not in my role of training ride leader here, so I passed 'em.

Somebody put in some downhills, too. On the first big, twisty downhill I was exercising my usual caution when I heard the roar of a tandem approaching from the rear. Imagine my surprise (no really! imagine it!) when it shot by and I saw that rather than a tandem, it was "only" a one-speed BEACH CRUISER with a coaster brake and huge, fat 35 pound tires and super-comfy wide seat. It was exactly the same as mine back home in Boston, except I've at least added a front brake to mine. Aboard this screaming anchor of a bike was a fellow California AIDS Ride 2 rider named Larry. This was not just a fool kid following us through the Presidio. This was not some guy who planned to just ride with us out of the city. He planned to ride all the way to Santa Cruz that day, on that bike. And he planned to ride with us the next day with thousands of feet of climbing. And again and again every day after that. He was going to ride this cardiac monster all the way to L.A. It bothered me a little that he managed to stay with me through San Francisco, but I attributed that to the traffic lights. It surprised me quite a bit when he caught up with me at lunch 51 miles into the ride. When he made it to Santa Cruz I figured he would not be able to ride the next day. When he caught up to me again at lunch on Day Two I talked to him. His only worry was whether there might be beer available at the camp that night (there was). I KNEW he'd never make it to L.A. Then, on the evening of Day Six down in Ventura when they pointed him out at the evening's entertainment to let everybody know that he was STILL riding, I hoped I could find him the next day and apologize for yet another of my mistakes, and ask his secret. Alas, I was never able to find him in the crush in West Hollywood.

He did not appear to be any super biker. He was a lightweight and had average biker legs. He had a knee brace, but didn't wear it most of the time. Maybe he walked the big hills; I never had the chance to find out.

We went from the Presidio through Golden Gate Park, and then south on Sunset Boulevard (L.A. wannabes!). The day had started out cool and drizzly, but as we passed through Daly City, the sun began to break through and we had to take off layers. This became the pattern for the week: foggy mornings, sunny by noon. We continued on through the suburbs, eucalyptus trees lining our way occasionally. At many intersections there were small groups of people cheering us on.

Then we turned west, and UP. This could have been a New England hill, except it went on way too long. This is where the better bikes and better-looking bodies dropped away. We climbed up to Skyline Boulevard where the road immediately started right back down. Here was where those people I dropped on the way up caught me again. I had never seen such long, steep, straight descents. The road stretched away and down (very down) for at least a mile before twisting left. My superior imagination allowed me to visualize myself reaching 60 mph before that curve and flying right into the rocks and trees. Those behind me with dull imaginations simply let fly. I risked being rear-ended riding my brakes. I managed to reach the bottom alive, where after a few more miles we reached:

THE COAST, California Route 1. From there to Santa Cruz it was nothing but coastal riding for 60 miles. This was easy riding. Long rolling hills, wide shoulders, ROARING OCEAN, soft brown and green hills on our left, maybe a little tail wind, cloudy again. Lunch was at San Gregorio State Beach. We had a sag stop in Davenport. There were 5 sag stops every day, one about every 15 miles, which sounds like way too many, but we adapted to it pretty quickly. Occasionally we would blow off a stop. The same people would staff the same sag stops each day. Sag 1 developed a costume theme. Leaving Paso Robles they were Hawaiian, in Solvang they were Viking warriors, one day they were into leather and bondage. Sag 3 was always lunch, which was plenty. Sag 4 worked out cheers, songs and dances. Sag 5 was the "Sag of love" and the "Attitude-free zone." I never figured out what Sag 2's theme was. Only Sag 3 (lunch) would have porta-potties⁹, and California doesn't have the greenery of New England nor the corn fields of Iowa, so we all got used to being very public in our functions. One rider at the end of the week complained that he was now saddled with an overwhelming urge to pull down his shorts in public every 15 miles or so.

We rolled into SANTA CRUZ to find the best bike lanes that I saw anywhere in our journeying (except maybe Santa Barbara). They were so good I almost liked them. Santa Cruz's bike lanes go just where any good biker would already be riding. Where motorized traffic had a right turn lane, the bike lane would cross over to the LEFT side of the right turn lane, just where it should be. Other cities on our ride were not so good. San Luis Obispo, to my surprise, had non-committal bike lanes. They would follow along the curb, but when you got to an intersection the bike lane would just disappear, leaving the inexperienced biker completely on his own to figure out how to get through it. San Jose avoided this problem by seeming to force the biker to make a right turn at every intersection. San Jose always put the biker on the most dangerous side of a right turn lane. Monterey had the worst bike paths. The surface was in terrible condition. Where the path paralleled a street, it really was just a sidewalk, sometimes dirt. At intersections the biker had to become a pedestrian to cross, and there weren't even always curb cuts!

On the other hand, in Santa Barbara the bike lanes were really generous. Some streets had been made one way so that one lane was for cars and the other for bikes. I think the California driver's willingness to respect the bike lanes is essential to making them work.

It was just starting to rain lightly as we got to the campground in Santa Cruz. Our bikes went into the security area again. We found the tent truck and picked up our lovely new dry tent. Grabbed a couple pieces of lovely new dry foam¹⁰ from the foam truck. Found Orange town way across the park. Our little bungalow was to be situated near first base. The rain was picking up as I hurriedly read the fast-dissolving instructions on how to set up the tent. Thank goodness it was really simple, because no instructions survived that rain. We then made a second trip across camp to the trucks to get our bags, where we met Jonathan, a crew member and a flight attendant from US Air. He was our personal baggage assistant all week long. He took a week off from work and came all the way out from North Carolina just to throw bags around for us. As the week went on we got better at picking up our things and could carry everything in one trip.

We located and figured out how to use the showers and sinks. The showers were in truck trailers with little canvas huts attached for dressing areas. The sinks were in free standing cabinets near the showers. There were 6 or 8 sinks along a cabinet, but they were too narrow for an average American (even an average American biker) to stand at each one. OK's Cascade somehow supplied hot and cold running water to both the showers and sinks, and made the waste water disappear in giant blue plastic bladders.

Then dinner al fresco during a break in the rain. Took a short walk into town to try to find ice cream. People were still rolling in to camp. We saw one biker come in about 6:30 who didn't even stop, but rode right back out of camp, intending to complete HIS FIRST CENTURY. He was really excited. I think I didn't realize the significance of a century when I did my first one in 1979. But I'm sure I could never have shown so much excitement at 90 miles.

Finally, with all our needs satisfied and more rain heading in, it was time to head off to bed. It was approaching 7:30 -- much too late to be up and about in Santa Cruz. Quiet time in camp was supposed to start at 9:30. I was never able to stay up that late, but some nights I did wake up about 10:00 and everything would be dead still -- except for the ubiquitous roar of the generators for OK's Cascade. They powered bright (very bright) lights that stayed on all night to flood the campsite.

DAY TWO SANTA CRUZ TO THE PINNACLES (78 MILES)

I had set an alarm for 4:30. Breakfast was scheduled to start at 5:00. My RAGBRAI experiences had taught me that getting up before the crowds would allow me to get coffee and breakfast and a visit to the porta-potty without having to wait in any lines. But this first morning I got up about 4:15 (still a trace of east coast time in me). Only the people from OK's Cascade were up. The sky had cleared off completely, and there was a full moon hanging over a piney skyline. There was no line at the one phone, so I used the opportunity to leave a few messages on a few phones back in Boston pointing out that for THEM it was Monday morning, while for me it was a full moon and a day of riding to The Pinnacles.

The sky began to lighten. Michael got up. The camp began to stir. Breakfast done, teeth brushed, we took down the tent, re-packed our bags and returned it all to Jonathan at the baggage trucks. Wiped most of the night's rain off our bikes, and (uh, gee, nothing else to do) got on the bikes and headed off for THE PINNACLES.

I started with an attitude, correcting a rider who tried to pass me on the RIGHT, and another rider who passed a stopping bus on the right!

We rode inland just a bit (maybe only a mile) and came to Sag 1 at a Seventh Day Adventist school and something else! What was this? It was in the dirt. Little rows of green things going off towards the ocean. It could have been agriculture, but instead of a giant piece of John Deere equipment, there were lots of people all bent over out in the field. A quick call to the Secretary of Agriculture, and a little closer inspection of the plants revealed that this was my first view of a CALIFORNIA STRAWBERRY FIELD. I was impressed by its size, but it was just a baby compared to the ones I would see later in the day. The ditches in the field held lots of ripe strawberries that had just fallen, and there was no fence to stop me, but little yellow no trespassing signs kept me away.

After some clothing adjustments and a fat-free fruit bar, we rolled along beside the strawberry field which became a broccoli field and then strawberries again and the land got a bit flatter and flatter and flatter and the fields got bigger and there was lettuce (iceberg, red, even boston!) and then it got REAL BIG and we rode through a salad that was the size of a county! Every field had a small army of bent-backed workers who had arrived in some very nice cars that lined the highways we were biking along. Occasionally we would get an acknowledging glance from the workers, but they usually kept their heads down.

This was all new to me. I'd never seen some of this stuff growing in the dirt, and what I had seen I had never seen on such a vast, vast scale. I had never seen so much plain, physical labor going into farming. I had never seen such an obvious grotesque waste of water. There had been record precipitation in California, so there was no shortage of water, but I was still shocked to see that most irrigation was done by aerial spraying, and that it went on even on hot, windy days. Many days later I decided they weren't irrigating the plants, they were trying to HUMIDIFY THE VALLEYS.

Then Watsonville, which could have been any big county seat in IOWA, except the farm goods were all different. We took a turn southeasterly here, so we could enjoy the headwind that was coming across that vast salad plate. Past Watsonville we went through strawberry fields that were so big or so warm or so damp that the air, the whole atmosphere, smelled of them. It was as strong as if I'd just smashed a bowl of ripe ones in the kitchen. The smell went on for miles.

Out here in the headwind we got our first draft violator. The safety rules for the ride were strict, and the rule that was clearly the least popular was the one that banned drafting and pacelining. The punishment for a violation was supposed to be utter banishment from the ride, but it never happened. Leaving Watsonville a woman came up behind Michael and me and rode close enough to take advantage of our draft. We had a few choices. We could have dropped back and reasoned with her. We could have dropped back and called her names. We could have pulled some quick maneuvers to put her in front and then drafted her! But we decided instead to simply gradually increase our speed more and more until she could no longer stay with us, thereby revealing to her that she was a physical weakling, as well as MORALLY VAPID; all without saying a word.¹³

Ahead of us we could see the end of the salad plate. Some good rolling hills (the size of Vermont mountains) were our obvious destination. And finally Sag 2 was there to greet us at the edge of the hills just past the blackberry patches, and to warn us that we were about to share a shoulderless, twisting road with very large trucks. Indeed, they were right. We dispensed with our usual polite calls of "Car back!" A car was nothing. A car was a welcome comrade that might keep a truck away from us. Everyone just pedaled. No side-by-side chats. There were only the cries of "TRUCK BACK" when one of the big ones came around a curve behind us. We'd hug the little white line which stood between us and a nice big drop off. No strawberry fields here. But these were, after all, California trucks. Why, I saw them even put on their brakes rather than cut a biker too close on a tight curve! We all survived, the road opened up and we set off on the gradual climb to 2000 feet.

We began to go through orchards. We made guesses identifying almonds and avocados, but I didn't have to guess when we began to ride through the WALNUT GROVES! We encountered our first route change due to the spring flooding on our way into Hollister, the day's lunch stop. The locals had hung red ribbons on all the trees along our route through town. Lunch was in the parking lot of a Presbyterian church (peanut butter for me, SALAMI for the carnivores!). This town was full of churches. I saw at least two congregations of every denomination (a Noah plan, maybe). Maybe they lack cable TV and internet connections. While we were at lunch the local Spanish-language TV station was present, and one of our PR people was scanning the crowd of riders looking for a comely, Spanish-speaking person to put on the air.

Leaving Hollister we were impressed by the warning sign on the highway: "No Services Next 35 Miles." But we saw more of these, and the next day we spotted one: "No Services Next 100 Miles." THAT one was on a road we had just come down and we saw it when we turned around to look back. We also thought we decoded that ubiquitous "USA" markings we had been seeing on the pavement.

We had seen "USA" with arrows all the day before. At first I thought it was a foot race, because the arrows were so crude. But when we saw them all along the 90 mile route, figured it had to be a bike ride. We were mystified, though, when we saw them pointing backwards. Who would do a bike ride of hundreds of miles and ride on the wrong side of the road? Finally Michael suggested Underground Sewer Access, and indeed the markings did seem to coincide with culverts under the highway. Over the days I improved on this to either Underground Service Access, or Universal Service Access. Or, it could have been Uniform Service Act. We could have asked a Californian, but then what would we have had for entertainment?

We passed through Tres Pinos (we didn't count 'em) where the good people of Sag 4 had gone and bought local FRESH STRAWBERRIES, of which we could each have one. That's 1825 strawberries (how many pints?) out of their own pockets¹. We rode through rolling cattle country which should have been brown, but not this year. As the day moved along we watched the rain clouds threaten and cross our path without getting us wet, until it finally began to come down again. We slogged along on the rolling two-lane, skipping Sag 5 to avoid hypothermia. The rain stopped in time for us to make it up a good hill, and then down to our turn into the Pinnacles.

Here I encountered my first-ever CATTLE GUARD, which is nothing more than about a dozen railroad tracks set across the road. I was very cautious and walked this first one. The next one I rode across with some fear, and the next one I just crossed. We repeated this trio the next day on the way out of the camp, riding back to the highway. The next day we encountered several cattle guards on the highway and they became routine for us -- or as routine as crossing 6 railroad lines in 5 feet could be². At one of the guards I suggested to another rider that it would be fun to just stop and jam the bike in it to block the road and then stand by to see the fun when the next bikers arrived. He agreed it was a hilarious idea. You can see that after a few days of endorphins, everything bike-related becomes fascinatingly fun.

The Pinnacles are a National Monument, and they're an interesting rock outcropping that has drifted along the San Andreas fault, or some fascinating thing like that. But they are NOT bikable, so what good are they? We, in fact, camped at a private campground not within sight of the National Monument itself, and we were socked in with clouds and occasional rain, so we never saw the rocks.

We rolled into the muddy bike security area and retrieved some scraps of plastic to cover our bikes (learned to do that the first night). We were early in camp and things were in a bit of chaos. The tent and foam trucks had only just arrived and were a madhouse as people rushed them to try to get set up before the next rain. George, from the Boston ride office, had to save the day there. Fortunately, OUR MAN JONATHAN had handled our baggage, so there was no problem with that. This night's camp was a bit wacky. Instead of the usual rows and columns of tents, we had to conform to rolling terrain with creeks and trees. One of the streams could have cut our camp off from breakfast and our bikes, if there had been a flood. Some people were stressed. Some of us had ADVENTURE. I was real glad I'd decided to use sandals as my off-bike shoe. No wet socks or shoes to worry about. Course my feet were cold, but as soon as the sun came out they got better. Some people (SOUTHERN Californians, we guess) had brought no long pants, and spent most of their time in this cold wet camp shivering.

That afternoon a lot of us were all CROWDED NAKED in the canvas quonset hut waiting to get into the shower when an OK's Cascade truck just outside revved its engine and blew its air horn a few times. The laughing panic in the hut hit suddenly as we all realized there was nothing but a tiny bit of canvas and lot of trust protecting us from some huge truck that we couldn't even see.

There was a campstore with the usual citronella candles and beef jerky and overpriced Kodak film and beer. There had been no store near the camp the night before, and it seemed that a lot of people had developed a severe beer thirst. Usually the store was open only 2 hours a day. When one customer asked when they'd close, the employee told him the usual 5:30. The owner quickly intervened to say that "WE'LL BE OPEN UNTIL THE BEER'S GONE." I know after 80 miles on the bike, one beer will put me out, so that's all I bought. But others had bigger eyes. I saw a lot of six-packs flying out of there. And a lot of those six-packs weren't killed that night, but only wounded. Next morning there were lots of two- and three-packs sitting out on the picnic tables.¹⁴

The campstore was the center of social life at that camp because besides beer, they had the only phone in the camp. The many cellular phones on the ride were out of touch back here in this electronic wasteland. I waited in the line for an hour or so for this phone (the tent was set up, I'd showered and eaten, the sun was out, I could probably make this big sacrifice to call my mother). A pair of tandem riders (is that redundant?), nursing their Foster Lagers, had appointed themselves phone timers. Everybody was restricted to 3 minutes. One person (and only one) ignored their request to hang up after 3 minutes, so they orchestrated the entire line of those waiting to scream "get off the phone!" in unison. It worked really well.

In Pinnacles was the only time the super-organization of the ride trembled. But it didn't fall apart. At the camp, we were dependant on well water plus any that OK's Cascade could truck in. The well water should have been sufficient, but someone a day or two before had left a valve open and emptied the well. Upon our arrival there was some well water, but it went dry by 5:00³. Your favorite rider was infinitely thankful that he had the skill and luck to arrive early enough to get all watered and fed and cleaned before THE WATER SHUT DOWN. Some said that most of the California wine being sold at the campstore was going to be used for sponge baths. Of course, no one used the French for that. Showers and sinks were returned to service a few hours later, but in the morning things were running low again. The water from the sinks was brown, so we left without filling our water bottles. We still had some water left in them from the day before, and it was cool.

DAY THREE THE PINNACLES TO PASO ROBLES (85 MILES)

[Now, nobody tell Mom this, but...] this was the day of DISASTERS for a few people, but not for me. The rain had stopped before we woke up in The Pinnacles, and the sky was clearing as we headed back out to the main road. From there we climbed into the fog. When I reached the top, Michael was a little way behind me. A large, American pickup truck passed, two rancher-types inside. It gave me a generous half-lane of space as it passed. I began the long, twisting, foggy descent. In less than a quarter mile I came around a bend to find what I thought was one of us bikers doing her morning stretches out in the middle of the highway. "Crazy," I thought, until I heard her moans. She said she'd been hit by the pickup which had then driven on. She was on her back, still attached to her pedals. No blood, no bones sticking out that I could see, but I stayed away, my first aid skills being almost zero. There was one biker with her already, and more were gathering quickly. Michael showed up at about the same time as a car with a cellular phone. I saw that due to this blind curve on a steep descent, we needed to try to get the hundreds of oncoming cyclists to SLOW DOWN before they got to the accident site. Michael and I moved back up the hill and began flagging the cyclists and yelling at them to slow down. 99% were cooperative, and the other 1% were quickly disabused of their snottiness as they rounded the bend and had to begin panic braking. We were out there waving and yelling for about half an hour before the ambulances (two of 'em) showed up. Now it was even more dangerous for the cyclists as the ambulances blocked the entire roadway, and the few other cars on the road had stopped on the blind curve. It was another quarter hour before the ambulances got away. It seemed that all the cyclists had passed us by now. But with the rest of the great downhill ahead of us, and a nice smooth road at the bottom, and our 45 minutes of adrenalin-filled resting, we caught up with most of them before Sag 1.

The road continued forever and ever, mildly rolling through cattle country. We were in a long valley between rolling hills (those Vermont mountains again). For awhile, a small plane, presumably with the press, followed and then buzzed us. We crossed one brand new bridge still under construction. Judging from the erosion in the area, and the number of crushed cars in the streambed downstream from the bridge, we guessed that the old bridge had been destroyed in recent floods. It was here that a clicking noise started in my Cannondale. It sounded like it was in the front wheel, but the click went away before we arrived in Paso Robles, so I decided to ignore it, thinking it may have just been dust from the gravel of the construction area. It didn't come back until more than a week later when we were northbound on California Route 1, where it became chronic. Didn't get it fixed until I got back to Boston.

After Sag 2 we began to follow PEACH TREE LANE, AN AMAZING ROAD¹⁵. This is a public road that eventually narrows to the size of a bike path. It IS paved, but only wide enough for one motor vehicle. There is nothing along it but ranches, and the few trucks that passed us generally drove in the ditch to give us room. At one spot, miles from the sag stop, a row of our porta-potties sprang up along the road. We figured the women had complained about the lack of facilities. Peach Tree Lane had no towns, no gas stations, no bushes, and very few trees.

Sag 3 (lunch) was just a spot where there were a few trees and the barbed wire fences were a little farther back from road. The hundreds of cyclists there made it almost impossible for the occasional car to creep by, which was not good when the sheriff's car, ambulance and fire truck showed up. One of our sag vehicles brought in two women who'd been injured out on the road [no need to tell Mom about this]. One had been descending some switchbacks too fast and lost control on a turn, crashed and broke her collarbone.

The other woman had carefully observed the rule against wearing a walkman, and had hung some sort of radio on her handlebars. On a twisting descent she had been trying to tune in a station. She said she had been sick of getting nothing but Rush Limbaugh. Suddenly, she, the road, and her bike went three different ways. She managed to lift a large flap of skin on her upper right arm, and was bleeding in the roadway for awhile before a local resident drove along and spotted her. The ambulance was for HER. I was there when she arrived at camp that night, still blood-stained, with a GUINNESS IN HAND and looking for a joint. I guessed she might have occasional bouts of weak judgement. She didn't ride anymore that week, but when we arrived in Beverly Hills someone had managed to secure a tricycle for her, which she was able to ride in the closing ceremonies, her bandaged arm held high overhead.

During lunch a helicopter had been circling the area, and we assumed that it was press, again. We smiled. We waved. Silly us. It was for the woman with the broken collarbone. Just as Michael and I left lunch, the helicopter found a field it could land in a few hundred yards down the road. As we passed, they were hoisting the cyclist over the barbed wire fence. Michael suggested a photo of this for Mom would be quite reassuring. I thought not.¹⁶

Very shortly we arrived at the "HILL FROM HELL." We had been hearing about this first of the really big hills for days. We were to believe it was an absolute wall, a terror to cyclists. Why even the strongest, most skilled cyclist must be in his very lowest gear BEFORE starting up the hill, or he risked going over backwards! Last year lunch had been at the top of the hill, and people complained that they lacked the calories to climb. So this year, lunch was before the hill and people worried that the hill would be made slick with the vomit of the ill-fated riders preceding them. Some riders picked up their lunch and carried it, planning on eating at the top of the hill.

We ate our lunch and trusted to the fact that we had never vomited on a ride yet. When I actually hit the hill, I was a bit of a fence-straddler. On the one hand I asked dubiously, "Is this it?" while on the other I shifted down into my granny a bit earlier than I might have if I hadn't been scared. Then I rode to the top. So that was a California "Hill From Hell." I would have called it "Allston Street," and not even "Summit Avenue." It sure did psych out some other riders, though. I saw more than one rider jump off and start walking as soon as he saw the hill. After the top, there was a tremendous downhill (with a cattle guard or two). I was quite amazed that I had no company. I had dropped a lot of fellow riders on the climb. Michael told me that during his descent of the same hill, a car carrying riders from our ride actually stopped in the middle of the road to admire the tremendous view, thereby creating a deadly hazard to those on bikes!

Then we had more miles and miles of rolling cattle country, completely unlike Massachusetts (or Iowa). Came to Sag 4, another wide spot in the road, where the women were advised to be quite careful of the weeds near the fence. These weeds were the kind that would reach out and become one with your skin quite quickly. You'd spend the rest of the day trying to pick it out. One woman near me bragged of her expertise in these matters as she dropped her shorts, and then was loudly surprised by her error when she pulled them up. A nearby crew member quickly directed her to the medical van at the other end of the sag area.

Then more miles and miles of rolling cattle country (picture it), the only surprise coming when I was riding side by side with Michael and was caught by surprise when a car came up behind us. At the wheel: none other than Dan Pallotta HIMSELF. Argh! I saw myself being held up for ridicule and shame at tonight's dinner for violating the rule requiring us to ride single file, but I somehow slipped off the hook.

Finally we crossed into San Luis Obispo County, the road turned left and we had a view across Route 101. We stopped for snaps and saw the sign behind us warning "No Services Next 100 Miles." That was Peach Tree Lane.

We now paralleled 101 and the Salinas River, slowly descending towards Paso Robles. It had been clear and sunny since we got out of the morning fog. This was to be our first bright, clear, warm arrival into camp. But suddenly a road hazard! A dry wash had gotten itself wet and was running all over the road. Any cyclist with a mountain bike and knobbies might have made easy work of it, but we sissy road bikers shied. Fortunately, The California AIDS Ride 2 met all contingencies. Our route arrow marker dude was there on site. He had assembled a little foot bridge of boards and cinder blocks on which we delicate road bikers could walk and carry our bikes to the other side. We MINCED MERRILY across, thanking him. Later he explained to me his mother had helped him build it, and she had been sleeping in the van when we went by.

Finally Paso Robles. Bright sun, and a county fairground. Suddenly it was RAGBRAI! Restrooms in real buildings, with running water! People hung their damp clothes everywhere, on the stadium seats, and especially on the chain link fence that separated us from Route 101. We got a lot of attention from the highway, some, no doubt, due to the clothes hanging, and our tendency to undress wherever we felt like it. But I think a lot of the drivers had heard of us on the news. They gave us long honks and thumbs-ups, and just one or two screams of "pre-verts" [sic] and "faggots."

I've been thinking about this "prevert" thing. Why do the stupidest people always yell that? Is it a joke? Are they really that dumb? But now I've realized I misunderstood them. Pre Vert. They mean "Before Green." And what is before green? In the standard spectrum, it's yellow, like the sun. I think they just mean to call us SUNSHINE! (They can still kiss my sunshiny butt!)

Michael and I had two goals that evening: laundry, and real food in a restaurant. We managed to find both adjacent to each other. We weren't the first cyclists to the town's one beat-up laundromat, but we did get there before the rush. After a while, riders started showing up in motor vehicles! We were about a mile and a half from camp. Right across the street was a Mexican restaurant. Once inside the restaurant, I guessed it was Anglo owned and operated, but it was still far better than any Mexican I'd had in Boston. At a table nearby was another pair of cyclists escaping from the safe, but dull, OK's Cascade cuisine. They were from Arizona (the Grand Canyon State), but had recently visited Provincetown where they had found the most delightful little guest house called "The Beaconlite." Proof once again that there are only about a half dozen of us in the world and the rest is done with SMOKE AND MIRRORS. By the end of dinner, some big clouds coming up made us expect more rain, so Michael rushed back to camp to secure our tent while I finished up at the laundry. It was just a little California tease, though. No rain tonight.

While I was waiting for the last bit of laundry to dry, along came the arrow man again. This time his mother was awake, so I got to meet her, too. They were running ferry service from camp to the laundry. We never had the luxury of time to allow us to perform this nice service on the Boston-New York AIDS Ride.

When I got back to camp Michael and I prepared for field surgery in our tent¹⁷. The sterile field established (we zipped the door shut), I donned my surgical gear (old, used welding gloves) and ordered Michael to drop 'em and bend over so I could give him his biweekly injection of testosterone. We had practiced this a couple times with his nurse back in Boston, but even so I couldn't quite remember all the details. The needle went in and came back out empty, so I must have done something right. Later Michael said it had been less painful than his nurse's injections. Maybe he lied. Maybe the 90-degree heat inside the tent made the difference.

DAY FOUR PASO ROBLES TO SANTA MARIA (81 MILES)

Up at my usual time this morning, but the weather was warm and dry. The usual crowd of early risers hung around the coffee urns wondering if we'd do a ride today (Hey gang, I've got an idea!). We watched the usual kitchen crew go through their usual morning ritual, as though we were lazy house cats. Then when the kitchen staffer took up his ladle to dish up the oatmeal (our equivalent of the sound of a running can opener motor) we launched ourselves into action. I would usually have cold cereal with 2% milk (the only kind), artificially sweetened yogurt (the only kind) and oatmeal¹⁸. I never touched the plastic danish, although Michael said that after two hours in the pocket of your jersey it was good eating. Of course the evil bagels were shunned like a dog's business. On a hungry morning I'd go up for some of the powdered eggs. I tried the sausage one morning, too. We had bleacher seating this morning and I learned from observing my younger, more flexible co-riders that it was best to face the rear of the bleachers, using the bench behind for a table. This was so efficient and comfortable, I wondered at the learning abilities of the many around us who continued to try to eat from their knees, or (even worse) from around their feet.

Then ABC TELEVISION came to the camp. Someone with GOOD MORNING, AMERICA was along on the ride. After I'd finished breakfast and the morning's glow was just starting to come up over 101, the ABC camera crew went at it with brilliant lights (even more brilliant than OK's Cascade's) flooding the tent area. We all put on our couldn't-be-happier smiles and walked behind the reporter looking like campers after 3 nights in the wild.

Later, as I was removing the glorious Cannondale from security, the GOOD MORNING, AMERICA crew managed to get right in front of me. I happened to be following their person out of security. She had to stop and say something appropriately touching, yet uplifting to those people who had the misfortune not to be on the ride. Me, I just wanted to get my bike out. I held back from snarling into her shoulder, knowing that blowing her off out on the road would be much more satisfying. I think maybe my blissful-glow-doing-a-wonderful-thing smile might have dropped for a some moments. Hope the cameras didn't catch it. Dan Pallotta would have had me by the short ones.

Michael and I embark. Now that the sun is really up, the fog has really settled in (oh, California!). We head out of town and up a climbing state highway with great drop offs on either side. I would guess there were tremendous vistas that we were missing due to the fog. This guess was confirmed later by another rider who had left Paso Robles later than we did. We climbed and climbed, and then we dropped. And what a drop. We were, just like the baby sea turtles, making our way back to the sea.

We turned off the state highway onto little Old Creek Road¹⁹. We had been given numerous warnings about this LONG, STEEP, TWISTING DESCENT. One man who I was riding with began to descend much faster than I when we came to the first major drop. We came to a lefthand switchback, then a quick one to the right. He was already out of my sight, but only a couple hundred feet ahead. There was the screech of panic braking, then the rattles of a bike hitting something more solid than air. I came around the switchback to see that in taking the corner too fast he had gone to the outside, which was the side with the cliff going up, so he didn't go flying down into a chasm. The face of the cliff was just dirt here, not rock. He was actually still up with one foot still in his cleat, leaning into the dirt cliff face. "Nice recovery" I told him. What else could I say? I think he learned his lesson about taking blind corners too fast.

An indication of either how scary this descent was, or how closely everyone observed the warnings was that I rode down almost the entire 3½ mile length alone. I'm such a chicken, everyone else usually passes me on the downhills. But I just dropped in isolation, back and forth, braking into every corner, hoping that I would still have brakes enough for the next one. Finally, the road straightened, the fog cleared, people began to pass me, and we reached the bottom where we (what else?) began to climb again!

Up, this time, to Whale Rock Reservoir. This was a REALLY LOVELY STRETCH. We were right in the middle of fat, rolling hills, the fog behind us, long twisting road with bikers visible ahead and behind on every bit of the road that could be seen. The reservoir itself was beautiful, in that modern austere, dry brown California way. After some days in California I could look at it and think "Wow, beautiful!" But now back in New England, my perspective has returned. Wouldn't that reservoir have looked nicer with at least one tree beside it? Some days later in the ride one of the native Californians told me that when he reached the overlook at Whale Rock Reservoir he stopped and cried at the beauty. I expressed my agreement with him, thinking just to myself that it was too bad this man had to wait until so late in life to discover the emotional side effects of endorphins.

And then (you must have this pattern figured out by now) we descended again! A descent that we knew really meant something, because ahead of us we could see THE PACIFIC WELCOMING US BACK. A screaming fast dropping wide open almost straight road along which our only hesitation occurred when we passed the "Fess Parker Vineyard."

"Did you see that?"

"Is that THE FESS PARKER?"

"There couldn't be two of 'em."

Then flat. Route 1. Right along the coast toward Morro Bay, where we saw what had to be the one of the greatest monuments to the swinishness (apologies to the Hawkeye State) of the 1950s and 60s. Morro Bay's great landmark is a huge rock that rises up hundreds of feet (well, at least a hundred) in the bay. Sort of a lovely little mountain just offshore, where it draws your eye out across the ocean and towards the sunset. And right there. RIGHT THERE! Right there where your eye is drawn to this big hunk o' nature in downtown Morro Bay is a gigantic power plant! I don't mean two miles up or down the coast where you still would have access to water and fuel shipments. I mean the power plant and the rock in Morro Bay are married! Why not a steel plant on top of Mt.Rushmore? Why not quarry in the Grand Canyon. How much would it cost the Golden State to buy this thing and tear it down? There is a state park just south of town that we discovered on our return route. From that park, the power plant is not visible, and we took our photos from there. Every post card you see of the rock in Morro Bay is from that state park.

We turned our backs on this DEEP OFFENSE and cycled up to our next sag stop, observing a lot of riders who had stopped at Miss Betty's Donuts. It was a tempting place. That smell wafting across the road was much more attractive than another helping of fat-free fruit bars. But no! After all, ABC-TV might be watching.

Then back onto Route 1 which lazily rose and fell over the miles to San Luis Obispo. Along the way we were passed by some local racers, which was momentarily confusing. They looked like us, like real bikers, but some didn't have helmets, and one ran a red light. Once I realized they were a "them" and not an "us," I could deal.

Into San Luis Obispo where we passed the Madonna Inn Ranch, but not the Madonna Inn. We didn't catch the Madonna Inn on our return trip, either. Friends back in Boston had assured us that "YOU CAN'T MISS IT." Famous words from car-driving people. My guess is that it must be along Route 1/101 south of San Luis Obispo center--a stretch of road that IS NOT BIKABLE, guys.

We proceeded back to the ocean at Avila Beach. We were invited to stop here at a hot springs. I was tempted to do so, but I was afraid that an hour of lassitude in hot water would make the rest of the day's ride almost undo-able. With chin up, and my shining eyes looking forward to glorious victory, I cycled on.

We rode along the coast on a regular, local road. This was getting to be real southern California. Sunny, sunny, sunny. Expensive, exclusive residential developments facing out to the Pacific. Occasionally a runner in our bike path who would jump out of our way as we snarled by at 25 mph. We passed through Pismo Beach and OCEANO (a town I never learned how to pronounce--of the two possibilities, one sounds stupid and the other sounds pretentious--maybe there's a local slurring like O-shnow).

Then out into eucalyptus and salad country again. We passed through Guadalupe and then turned eastward toward Santa Maria. The road was flat flat flat and we had a powerful tailwind (later, people complained to me about a headwind there--I think they were confused). We rocketed, missiled, flew to our destination: the county fairgrounds.

Santa Maria was wonderful place THIS TIME. This was the only city that Michael and I stayed in twice. If you want to see how it transformed itself for our return visit, skip ahead a few days.

We arrived a little earlier than usual, so some things were still being set up. The showers were empty of people. Michael and I went looking for a bike shop. I had decided I wanted new tires, and the bike shop that traveled with us was totally inadequate, having run out of inner tubes on day 1. Get a clue guys! Just outside of the fairground gate we encountered a young ice cream vendor. I perused his menu, seeing the usual selections of frozen items for sale until my eye lighted on "CUCUMBER-CHILE POPSICLE." Maybe this is old hat to Californians reading this, but I must explain to the New Englanders that I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. And this was not the ice cream vendor from the local health food store or religious cult. This was just your average ice cream wagon. I bought one, of course. $1.25 each, a bit extra, I think, for the luxury of such exotic vegetables combined in one icy cold treat. It was good! The cucumber was really refreshing after the day's heat, and the chile was just enough to make it painful. Low in sugar, too²⁰. My suggestion: Gates BBQ Sauce popsicles. Michael asked the vendor how was business. The vendor suddenly lost all ability to speak this English. Sheez, whadda I look like, sumbuddy from the gummint?

We asked a nearby volunteer about the local bike shop, and were given directions with the warning "the owner is KINDA STUPID." That was the UNDERSTATEMENT of the entire ride. I wanted tires 32 or 35 wide (I'm not gonna explain this to non-bikers). When we got to the shop, I asked simply for "wide, Kevlar-belted tires."

"Wide?," he wondered. "16s or 18s? Is that what you mean?"

All right. Every biker here who thinks that 16s or 18s are wide start walking to Santa Maria right now. What if I had asked for narrow? Would I get 2 or 4? I told him I was thinking more in the range of 32 to 35.

"32!? 35!? That's wide! That's for a tandem or touring bike. You got a tandem or touring bike?"

What the eff! I'm asking to spend money and he wants to see if I'm qualified! "Yes!" I bark, "You got the tires!?" I'm ready to bite that wrench right out of his hand.

"I think so."

He pulls himself away from destroying the rear wheel of some youngster's bike. Grabs his tire stick and brings down a piece of shit 32 width tire with not a scrap of Kevlar in it. "Kevlar belted!" I say, "Do you have any with Kevlar belts?" I'm standing next to him now, so I could probably take him out in one quick move.

"Kevlar beads. Well, now I'm not sure . . ."

"NO! Kevlar BELT! Not bead. BELT!"

"Oh, no. I don't have anything like that!"

"Well, you could have saved us both a lot of time if you'd just said that first!" I shouted as I strode out of the shop, wreaking havoc, tipping displays, cracking titanium frames, letting air out of tires, and dropping a small timed NUCLEAR DEVICE just as we got to the door.

This was the main, downtown family bike store in Santa Maria. It was in fact "Main Street Bikes." I am concerned that this one man may be doing a lot to wreck the future of biking in this wonderful piece of flat country. We went to a pay phone and called another bike shop in Santa Maria. They claimed they were 13 miles (MILES!) from downtown. I was baffled. I remember riding into a smallish county seat, and suddenly I was hearing distances to make me think I was in Kansas City. How big was this town? Well, I wasn't about to walk 13 miles, and after a ride when I'm showered and wearing clean clothes, the bike is retired for the night, no exceptions.

The next day on the way out of town we passed near the other shop, and realized they must have meant 13 BLOCKS, but when I'd asked "Miles!?" they assured me "miles." What is this? Language barrier? Bad public school education?

But on the way to that terrible bike shop we had discovered the local farmer's market going on in the parking lot of the big downtown shopping mall. There we observed the local exotica: broccoli, real tomatoes, real strawberries, real celery, even iceberg lettuce grown locally! And cheap. I can't tell you how cheap, because there would be a tremendous rush to California right now. Michael bought a quart of giant wonderful strong-flavored strawberries for just . . . not much. And I, I bought RAISINS from the man who grew them! Raisins! Can you just imagine! And cheap, cheap, cheap. You could double my mortgage payment, and I could still live cheaper in California considering what I'd save on food. Course, the cucumber chile popsicles would be the budget killer.

Before anybody picks at me, I had always thought the hot vegetable was spelled "chili" and the South American country was "Chile"--but in California I found the vegetable spelled "chile" as often as "chili". You could argue it was Spanish, but it was being used in English everywhere.

On our walk back to the fairground we passed a nice little middle-class bungalow surrounded by A GERANIUM HEDGE! Five feet high, two feet thick, 20, 30, 40 feet long (I don't know). A real hedge, that I almost overlooked, until I realized it was made up of giant versions of the little pot dwellers. I gaped in slack-jawed amazement. It was like the first time I went to San Francisco and discovered that jade plants grow OUTDOORS.

At one intersection we had a clear view east from town. According to our plans we would approach Santa Maria from that direction next week. Off in the distance the horizon was nothing but mountains. How far? How high? I didn't have the skills to guess. I just felt a little nervous, then turned my back. Nothing to do for it. We were going to cross them fully loaded. If it hurt, it hurt.

Dinner was a complete change of pace that night. The guys with OK's Cascade either read my mind, or swept up vegetable droppings from that day's highways. It was a baked potato and salad bar. Very fresh, very green. Meat was secondary, even for the carnivores. I ate massive amounts of everything I had ridden through earlier that day. (See what the locals eat.)

DAY FIVE SANTA MARIA TO CACHUMA LAKE (46 MILES)

Only 46 miles. A day of rest, you think? Oh, but the ride organizers had us in terror about the two greatest hills of the ride, both of which were this day. The first one they tried to scare us with was "Heartbreak Hill" (duh, pretty original); and the second one was (what else) "The Wall." These babies, which if all the rumors were to be believed, would have us begging for a vacation in a Japanese POW camp. But they didn't come until after lunch. Lunch at the Zaca Mesa Winery. Here we suffered for being fast riders. Wine tasting didn't start until 10, and we finished our lunch at 9:30.

Really, all I did was pick up my lunch and drink some fluids. I knew that with the two most hugest, greatest hills of all cycling just barely ahead I didn't want to be full of today's peanut butter. Grabbed a spare Butterfinger, and stole an extra can of Gatorade. Thought about some saline solution from the medical truck, but couldn't get close enough. I was terrified something mighty. "Heartbreak Hill" was just ahead. L´Alpe d´Huez would be just a pimple compared to these mighty thigh-breakers, I was sure.

With grim, determined faces and knees aquiver, we set forth. My first real clue came when I saw a small gang of well wishers alongside the road. There were these CHEERLEADERS, see. Just like real high school cheerleaders, just like the cheerleaders for the San Diego Chargers, except these cheerleaders were bearded men about my age, and were they ever friendly! I guess! Naturally, I must proudly say, their cheers and cartwheels were ever so much more creative than those of the youngsters you may be used to seeing out on a football field. These cheerleaders traveled along with the ride (volunteers, not paid Hollywood talent), and we caught them at least once a day, usually near the top of a big hill. And here indeed they were. They cheered me for having "made it." Made it? It? That was it? I had ripped up "Heartbreak Hill" without even getting a flaw in a ventricle.

Yes, disappointed again, but the hill was aptly named. It was not too different from the real Heartbreak Hill on Comm Ave in Boston. It's a hill that might make a bunch of girly-men in tiny running shorts break their hearts, but to the rest of us, it's JUST GOOD DRAINAGE.

Then it was on to the mighty "Wall." My experience to this point caused me NOT to picture some threatening steepness like Smuggler's Notch. When it came, it wasn't even as steep as that hill in Truro that some people say is not a hill, but it WAS about twice as long. I might have shifted gears. Best part of the hill was near the top where we found a sort of slender, belly dancer, with a kind of Egyptian air in black spike heels and tiny, tiny black bikini. She was shimmying and swaying to a boom box in order to help us up the hill. Rumors later said that this was Dan Pallotta's boyfriend, but I was unable to confirm them.

Finally, at the top of these "hills" we stopped to eat our lunch. If they'd been real hills we'd have had a great view, but it was just moderately good. Some cows, some rolling hills, one giganzo HUGE SPIDER who wanted to walk all over my lunch. In New England I would have tossed him away, knowing there are no dangerous spiders there who walk up to you in full daylight. But this was California, and rather than try to remember my west coast fauna I thought it best to just jump up and yell. I finally poisoned him with the green peppermint that we got every day in our lunch absolutely without fail. Those mints were the only changeless part of the whole ride.

We rolled on . . . which way? If you guessed DOWN, you'd be right in step. And down and down, and then out onto a state highway to a sag stop in LOS OLIVOS. And here I missed it. There was a school there, and all the school kids had gathered to cheer us on waving signs and such. One little boy held up a sign saying "DO IT WITH A RUBBER!" (Was he a bridge player?) And I missed it! I was there! I saw no school, no kids, no signs. But that was THE photo op of the ride. AP got a photo of the kids and some bikers, and that photo went out and got picked up everywhere. The timing was good, too, since we were now just two (2!) days away from L.A., and they needed a good picture for publicity in that great city.

We came to our final approach to Cachuma Lake (a lake that no one claims to have heard of). We ascended. Of course. Funny thing in California. There really are no lakes, so they call their reservoirs lakes, and their reservoirs are all up high, because the cities are down on the coast. We climbed. But by now it was nothing. A hill, up or down, all the same. More miles. The bike rolled. The legs powered.

Here's what was interesting in Cachuma Lake: (1) the Tanqueray folks were coming to see us; (2) I read about the history of Cachuma Lake; (3) we emptied the camp store AGAIN; (4) we had funny swarms of mosquitoes; (5) we had a distractingly beautiful sunset.

Some of the L.A. staff of one of the most wonderful companies in the world (TANQUERAY) came up to the camp. We had secretly hoped this might mean a "hospitality" tent, but we hoped in vain. Nope. They came with their spouses and children and seemed to have a good time. Pardon me for falling into stereotypes. I mean to say we were visited by adult men and women as well as younger persons.

After we had all been at camp for quite awhile I went by the camp store to see what they might have left for snacks. Snacks they had, and they had one great big cooler with not a single container of beer²¹ in it. All it had left were three lonely, lonely bottles of something pretending to be wine, but labeled "Red-Rosé." "What," I asked the air, "is 'Red-Rosé'?"

The stranger next to me, wearing one of our ubiquitous wristbands spoke up, saying "I have no idea, but I'm sure it's not appropriate to serve it at 40 degrees."

Oh, yes, I do love camping in the backwoods.

Earlier I had walked up to the entrance to the park to welcome the (hundreds and hundreds) of slower riders (although I'm sure they enjoyed it just as much as I--I just don't think I wanted to enjoy it as long as they did) to camp. But I was distracted by photocopies posted at the information kiosk. These were copies of articles from circa 1958 all about the glorious completion of the most glorious Cachuma Lake. Cachuma Lake is a water source for Santa Barbara (certainly one of the very, very finest cities on all the Earth). The articles were wonderful examples of 1950s patriotism, extolling the tremendous bliss that the completion of the reservoir would bring to "the hardworking farmer, the housewife in her kitchen, the factory worker" blah blah blah. Seems that Cachuma Lake was quite the boondoggle (I'm reading between the lines). Every reservoir built by the New Deal had provided water to farmers at no more than X dollars per acre. Cachuma Lake was going to cost 5X dollars per acre. Naturally, even the stupidest Congressperson was aghast at such an idea, so it took a little longer to get approved. Approval in hand, they proceeded to dam up this sucker, which was the easy part. There were two difficulties: (1) getting water into the reservoir (too little flow in that tiny creek); and (2) getting water out of the reservoir. The article never explained how they solved the input problem. The output, however, was fixed by building a terribly long tunnel that passed through all sorts of unstable materials and introduced hot spring water into the flow from the reservoir. Mostly it seemed an efficient way to boil a few construction workers to death. Finally in 1958 it was water and power and a state park, and 37 years later we came along. It all balances out. The water level was a bit low when we were there, even with the wet spring.

Interestingly, Santa Barbara County has this year embarked on a campaign and rate restructuring to encourage INCREASED water consumption. Perhaps they'd like to buy a power plant from Morro Bay. Learning can be such a slow process.

At dinner that night I fell into conversation with Pai, who created the graphic designs for the California AIDS Ride 2. He, just like Johnny, makes ripoff t-shirts and he showed me a couple. I sincerely complimented him on his use of purple. He told me that it was supposed to be black, but the first batch of t-shirts had been screwed up and come back purple, so they'd decided to stick with that. Ah, art!

This evening I decided to stay up a bit longer for the evening's entertainment. Every night there would be some good music, preceded by a rehashing of the day's gossip (quite fun) and words from the route-master, who would cover details of the next day's voyage. Usually we could listen to it all from our tent as we fell asleep. But by staying up, I got to observe these odd mosquito unions. A sometimes obvious, sometimes invisible clump of mosquitoes would descend on one table, driving the occupants absolutely mad. After a lot of waving and rushing about, the bugs would lift, hover a few minutes, then go for another table. Same reaction. I'd never seen such colony-like behavior from mosquitoes.

During this delightful entertainment, many of us were distracted and turned our backs on the stage to watch great, gorgeous banners of pink fly up from the west, to wrap around the mountains all about us. It's what we were there for.

DAY SIX CACHUMA LAKE TO VENTURA (90 MILES)

We began by backtracking a bit, then turning to go through California's most infamous bike town: SOLVANG. Solvang is home to possibly the best-known century in North America. Early every spring it attracts something on the order of 10,000 cyclists. Solvang is a wealthy area, originally settled by Dutch²² immigrants. Obviously, it's possible the town would embrace and celebrate cyclists, but it doesn't work that way. Seems that all those damn cyclists interfere with the local citizenry's speedy and efficient drive down to the gas station or over to the mall. Solvang has developed a culture of organized police harassment of cyclists. We were warned that police would be watching at every intersection. We were taught the "Solvang stop," a mere stop not being sufficient. In Solvang for a stop to be a stop, your foot must be touching the pavement for a count of two. Anything less is a ticket.

How many police were watching the motor vehicles that day, you might ask. How many drivers were ticketed for running red lights and stop signs and cutting off cyclists with illegal right turns? Well, there are just so many police to go around. Counting the feet of 1800 cyclists at every stop sign takes a lot of personnel.

Nonetheless, Michael and I made it through Solvang without a ticket (but not everyone did). We stopped in midtown with a couple hundred other bikers for real coffee (a latté for me), my first in 6 days. It was like jet fuel. But before we could take real advantage of it on the other side of town, Michael had his first flat.

Having settled that, we turned onto the Avenue Of The Flags (on which there was one whole flag) and then entered our first stretch of U.S.101, A FULL FLEDGED CALIFORNIA FREEWAY. I suppose this would have scared me some days before. But by now I knew the unparalleled skill and good manners of California drivers (that is NOT sarcasm). We had been warned that after getting past Solvang, we would have to contend with five (5) narrow bridges on 101. On these narrow bridges there was no shoulder, so we would be one with the traffic moving at full highway speed [again guys, no need to tell Mom]. This was, believe it or not, fully legal. We were supposed to do a full stop before each bridge and only proceed when the righthand lane was empty. I didn't even notice the first bridge, since it was just like routine Boston-area style bridges that I'd crossed hundreds of times. When I found myself sharing the lane with a 65-mph semi I wondered if this was one of those places I'd been warned about. It was nothing worse than I'd handled many times in both New England and Iowa, but in order not to arouse the wrath of Dan Pallotta, I did check more thoroughly at the next four bridges which came in quick order. The mistake of the organizers was that there was a sixth narrow bridge much farther down 101 that day. I was surprised, but knew what to do by then²³.

We were on 101 here, because in this hilly area close to the shore, there are only two bikable roads going our way, and the other one is nicknamed "Death Alley" (an exaggeration, I'm sure). This part of 101 was quite impressive, taking us occasionally through some dramatic cliffs along the shore. During one swooshing descent I had a moment to appreciate some WPA-style stone work on a tunnel that the northbound lanes went through. We followed 101 for 30 miles then exited to some lovely smaller roads (something about the size of Boston's Central Artery). A bit of wiggling and we entered via a bike path the campus of the UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT SANTA BARBARA where we had Sag 3 and lunch. After eating, I grabbed the Yellow Pages and renewed my search for new tires. Santa Barbara had a big selection of bike shops. The first one I called was great. Not only did they have exactly the tires I needed, but the owner and I were immediately on the same wavelength. He knew bike touring. He knew about the California AIDS Ride 2. The only problem was getting him to shut up. He gave me directions to both his stores, and we decided to head for his downtown store, since our route would be passing just a few block from there. (More about biking at UCSB)

We left the campus still on a bike path that twisted through parks along the shoreline. The bike path ended where we took a left on Puente Drive and experienced... THE MIRACLE OF THE JACARANDA TREES. I had never seen nor heard of a jacaranda tree prior to this, but they were just thick along Puente Drive, and their numbers increased as we approached Los Angeles until in Beverly Hills we saw whole streets that were lined with nothing but jacaranda trees for blocks. For the reader who has never been to Puente Drive or points south, a jacaranda is thick with blue flowers (in May, at least). The flowers themselves have only a faint perfume, but there are so many on the trees and crushed on the street we could smell them as we rode along. I can only assume that anywhere north of Puente Drive jacaranda seedlings simply freeze and die in those harsh southern California winters.²⁴

A jacaranda bloom

We managed to keep riding, despite the dizzying display of blue flowers on all sides. We headed for downtown Santa Barbara. On the way we experienced some wonderful bike lanes. They had taken residential roads that could have carried two-way traffic and made them one-way with one lane for bikes and one for cars. It was great! We could fly! (Now, if we could just get rid of the cars altogether, we could go even faster!) One block to our left was a mirror image street for travel in the opposite direction.

Michael and I left the designated route to find our very lovely bike shop in the EXQUISITELY LOVELY downtown Santa Barbara. They had the tires, just as they said, for a price that nearly pinned me to the floor. But I was in no position for price shopping. I took them, planning on mounting them that evening. We road a few blocks along the extraordinarily lovely main street to rejoin the California AIDS Ride 2 at the breathtakingly lovely main dock of Santa Barbara. We rode through neighborhoods where the homes grew from quite huge and lovely to is-that-one-house?-huge and not-to-be-believed-lovely. We got on another stretch of bike path that was the product of inspired genius! An ordinary road had been falling into the ocean, so rather than waste millions trying to save it, or turning it into a death-defying one-way, they'd simply made it a bike path. More on this later.

Back on regular roads we picked up some flake who thought he could ride faster than us, but he did it only by running all the red lights and stop signs at full speed. I showed him what a weakling he was, and would have showed him more, but I had to wait a bit for Michael to catch up. [...as we passed through Carpinteria]

Eventually, we rejoined our old friend U.S.101 for another five miles. Then California 1 right along the coast, and finally into Ventura. We saw a collapsed bridge that I wanted to believe was the result of the Northridge earthquake, but people told me it had been due to the spring floods. Our camp that night was in San Buenaventura State Beach, sandwiched between the Pacific and Routes 1/101. It was big city civilization as we hadn't seen it since leaving San Francisco. Here we were, out on the edges of the great huge Los Angeles.

Jonathan, our man in the baggage cadré, greeted me with an icy beer, knowing this would be our last night to share baggage and tales of the road. I mounted the new tires on the Cannondale, and left the old ones with so many memories there in the San Buenaventura State Beach trash can. While I was changing the tires I observed the bodybuilder who I had seen walking his bike on that first major hill out of San Francisco. He was just arriving, perhaps only 15 minutes behind me. He was ecstatic, I mean SCREAMING GIGGLY HAPPY over his improvement in the six days of riding. He'd become a biker.

Our campsite was ringed with new hotels, slick fast food joints, expensive homes. It was camping in real California style! We took a short hike, being the outdoorsmen we are. We observed the waterfalls and vast wetlands of a Doubletree Hotel. Many, many of our co-riders were lined up to take advantage of the Doubletree campgrounds with its stiff walls, monstrously large sleeping bags, and private plumbing.

At this point we could spot a co-rider without checking for the tell-tale wrist band. The most immediately obvious clue was the wondrous and unique biker's tan, making the rider look like the offspring of a mating between a leopard and a zebra (I have a copy of that tape, if anyone wants to borrow it). A careful observer might also overhear a butt conversation. The clincher would come when the observer would see that the rider glowed and floated with enhanced karma on his evolutionary path to something greater than flesh-based human.

Our hike took us across a really big animal trail to an area where natural wild foods were abundant. It was called IN 'N OUT. We dug up some french fries and ate them while squatting alongside the really big animal trail out front.

The showers that night were immediately adjacent to the dinner area, which was just a little embarrassing. Even though we'd all gotten to know each other really well over the past several days, it felt just a bit strange to walk, slightly damp, with a wet towel right among the dinner tables to get back to camp.

I made a point of staying after dinner for the info and entertainment that night, since tomorrow would be our last day. There were special rules for our last day and here they are:

• We would ride to a "holding area" in Beverly Hills. You should all be held so well.

• When we got there, we would receive our "Victory" t-shirt (which I refer to as my $2200 t-shirt, to distinguish it from the mere $35 t-shirt I got for registering). The "Victory" t-shirts were solid color, long sleeves. They came in one of the six colors of the rainbow. The first ones to Beverly Hills would get RED. When those ran out, they gave out orange, and so on, until those tired old stragglers at the back got purple. No indigo.

• We had to be into the holding area by 3:00 PM so that we could organize for the grand entrance into WEST HOLLYWOOD (Valhalla, Shangri La, the Emerald City, call it what you will). Those arriving later than 3:00 would be grabbed out on the road and sagged into Beverly Hills. No one was to be excluded. The Saturday ride was to be 70 miles, and many of our co-riders had been coming in as late as 9:00 PM on days of similar length. The speaker emphasized quite strongly that most people had to actually be on their bikes, on the road before 6:00 AM! I hadn't heard such a coordinated group gasp since I was told JFK had been shot (4th Grade, Mrs. Swaney, the righthand row, third from the back). Naturally 6:00 AM was quite do-able and normal for me and Michael. No need for us to change, but there were a LOT of late sleepers on this ride. A rider was required to be out of camp by 9:00 AM on all other mornings. The rumor mill told me that the crew was chasing people out at that hour every day. Michael and I were generally out between 6:00 and 7:00.

• Also, the Beverly Hills police had us change our route, so our maps were no good once we got into the city, and we were just to follow the arrows painted on the roadways.

We were also told that one of the sag stops was to be on a bit of property owned by MTV, and that there was a chance we would be on TV. (yawn) Where's Schwarzenegger? Bruce Willis? Keanu? David Geffen? Johnny Depp? Too busy to come out for a little ride into the city? I would have been polite to Schwarzenegger when I passed him, but I wouldn't have passed Mr. Reeves.

Then Dan Pallotta got up for the last word. He gave a very moving speech, saying that his goal (and our goal) was not merely to do this ride, not merely to raise $5 million, not merely to support two charities, not merely to keep providing education and services for ever and ever. His goal (and our goal) was to help begin to make the first steps (which would one day appear to be just baby steps) to stopping AIDS, to stopping its spread, to push it back, to eliminate it while we still have the chance. He compared it to conditions that we have learned to accept as part of human existence: War, Murder, Hunger. AIDS, he said, is STILL NOT YET just another accepted part of the human condition, but some people are beginning to think it is. We still have the ability to choose whether to make AIDS a one-time challenge to humanity that is controlled and defeated, or to be remembered forever as the generation that allowed it to become a part of all human life for all the millennia of the future.

He told of a conversation he had overheard between two people, one older, one younger. The older person mentioned that Jonas Salk had died. The younger one didn't recognize the name, so her older friend reminded her "Jonas Salk. He stopped polio!"

"Oh," the younger one responded. "What's polio?"

DAY SEVEN VENTURA TO WEST HOLLYWOOD (70 MILES) OH, YES!

There was no lack of energy and motivation on the California AIDS Ride 2, and it really showed this morning. For the first time I was awakened by others taking down their tents, lugging their bags, wondering aloud if they had time for any breakfast. It was the great day! In the intimacy that panic creates, some of our neighbors told me they would be glad to be free of my snoring. I visualized hugging them, but thought about letting air out of their tires, too.

Breakfast started at 4:30 this morning, in special recognition of the early risers. The crowd was large. I heard people wondering how you were supposed to eat in the dark. My secret was just to be sure that in the lighted food tents nothing but food got on my plate. Then, out in the dark, I ate everything except the plate and didn't worry about it too much. Before I finished eating this morning there was already a fairly heavy and growing stream of bikes out of the camp. Michael and I observed this, looked at each other and knew it meant only one thing: LOTS OF PEOPLE TO PASS TODAY!

Infected by the excitement all about us, we got out of camp perhaps 15 minutes earlier than we would have otherwise. The weather was overcast, and we had some mist coming down at times. We passed through Oxnard, out into flat citrus orchard and ranch areas (not flat enough for salads). Then we mounted our old friend Route 1 for the last time, and followed it as it hugged the shoreline for 34 miles. We passed some of the most DRAMATIC CLIFFS AND SLIDES on this stretch of the ride. It was clear that the Pacific was moving in here.

Sag 2 was at the MTV location for the Beach Party, near Leo Carrillo State Beach. Karma here was, surprisingly, not good. These were the first people who we had encountered who thought they were doing US a favor by letting us stop there. They neglected the benefit they were receiving from 1800 trans-humans hanging around. Instead, security said we couldn't go here and couldn't go there. The place had only one driveway, and many of us parked our bikes on it out of respect for California's fragile vegetation. So what happens when some grandiose DJ arrives in his limo? Is he to WALK the 200 feet, or are all of us to pick up our bikes and look for other places to lean them? Right. We picked them up. This was someone famous, but I didn't recognize him. Several of the more stylish riders flocked to be near him. A lot of us returned the good vibes by peeing in the bushes²⁵ and rushing on to happier places before security caught up with us. So next time you watch Beach Party, look for the rich, green shrubberies.

We continued on past El Pescadore, Zuma Beach, Point Dume, and MALIBU. My Boston readers will be astonished to learn that there is a Malibu Beach on the WEST coast, too. While it doesn't compare with Dorchester's and its great vista of the Boston Gas tank, it does pretty well for California. Passing through Malibu, we saw dozens of old, shredded, tipped house foundations in the mud cliffs high on our left. Right alongside them was construction of brand new homes with brand new foundations. Vanity. Our last Sag 3 was in Malibu. They didn't forget the green mints, and entertained us with something slightly reminiscent of PRISCILLA using an aluminized blanket on top of the medical van.

We passed Las Tunas and Will Rogers Beach. Along the way signs of real civilization began to spring up. Clearest in my mind was a house with a giant rainbow flag between us and the Pacific. On the deck a half dozen men waved us on²⁶. We finally exited Route 1 to start on a bike path along a beach. This path was very clearly marked with one lane for bikes and another lane for all other traffic. We felt it to be in the interests of safety and ego gratification to announce this loudly to every runner in our bike lane. However, we were careful to politely avoid the bambinos that were allowed to totter freely all over the path. What is wrong with parents these days?! 1800 bikers, runners, walkmanned skaters, and here a two-year old walking without the assistance of mother's hand. How darling! Do you expect her to reach three, honey?

Finally, a left turn and we began our plunge into THE CITY. Well, not really. It was Santa Monica, which while certainly populous, was quite open and fresh feeling. First we had to climb a hill to get away from the ocean. Hill? Hill! I seem to remember those from days before. At the top of the hill was Sag 4, with entertainment by the Pet Shop Boys (via CD) and only 11 miles to Beverly Hills.

We followed lovely, lovely San Vicente Boulevard, which might give Ward Parkway a bit of a challenge. Large homes, all the jacarandas you could admire, a mild rise. Frequent signs along the way warned us of the local laws: no overnight parking, no littering, no for sale signs in car windows. Drive-by shootings were handled by the Zoning Commission and required a special permit.

And then we were somewhere else. And it began to look more like a city. For awhile the streets could be compared with those vast concrete swaths in Kansas City, but eventually the L.A. ones got even bigger. We were going down something that was wider than any parking lot I'd ever been in (maybe it was Olympic Boulevard). If it had been in Boston it would have changed names at least three times just going from the left curb to the right. The visibility was tremendous. Way way way ahead I could see it was still a giant concrete slab with traffic all over it. We all tried to take the righthand lane, and traffic was mostly cooperative, but I think the locals thought us a bit odd. The buildings became giant slick steel and glass things.

Up ahead, a mile away I could see an ambulance coming, lights flashing. Even after 7 days of California riding I was surprised to see traffic in both directions come to a dead halt for this emergency vehicle. All 8 or 10 lanes pulled to the right. You could have driven the whole Iraqi army through the space they made for this one ambulance. Well, surely, I thought, I won't have to pull over for it. When it comes past me it'll still be over in the next county, right? Wrong again. When it came by I had to stop for all the cars that crowded over to my side.

We climbed up a hill and shot through some incredibly sterile concrete and steel area that someone later told me was Century City²⁷. Hmm. Then things began to look nicer, more human scale. Beverly Hills. On one downhill we spotted an arrow telling us go left across 8 lanes of traffic. This arrow was less than 100 feet before the intersection. It was then I knew I was committed to doing the arrows on the Boston-NYC AIDS Ride. This was dangerous.

We crossed Wilshire Boulevard, observed the jacaranda-lined streets of nice homes. Then right across from the Beverly Hills post office (what was that ZIP code again?) was our holding area. Just an open lot surrounded by chain link. In a normal city it would be a park. In Beverly Hills it was urban renewal. It was only 1:00 PM, and Michael and I claimed our much-deserved RED VICTORY T-SHIRTS.²⁸

With so much time to spare, we decided to go pick up our rental vehicle and bring it somewhere near our end point. Michael had carefully worked this out. We had to have a large enough vehicle for our two bikes, and it had be available at a place within walking distance of our end point. He'd made reservations via Garber Travel with Thrifty on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. We began to hike, heading the wrong way first, which allowed us to take a stroll down Rodeo Drive (it was okay, but no bike shops). Finally, we got headed in the right direction on Wilshire. Whew, what a walk! Sidewalks all the way, but the blocks are long out there. We criss-crossed the bike ride route and paused for a moment to "Welcome back!" the riders, as was done at camp every night. The opportunity to pose in our Victory t-shirts in front of others appealed to me, too.

Finally, we arrived at the address of the Thrifty agency. But it was a Dollar! We went in and the A/C was not turned on (oh, sheez!). They had nothing for us, and there were no Thrifties in Beverly Hills. Michael called Thrifty and they knew nothing. He called Garber back in Boston and they knew less. The reservation number we had been given was not even a Thrifty number. Total screw up. Fortunately the man at the desk in Dollar (perhaps he recognized our exalted status) was quite willing to be very helpful. He called around and located a Chevy Blazer at the Budget at the corner of Wilshire and Santa Monica. We reserved it. He was willing to have the Dollar mechanic drive us up there. What a guy! I recommend that next time you're in L.A. you rent two or three vehicles from the Dollar agency on Wilshire in Beverly Hills.

We went out back where the Mexican mechanic popped us into a just-washed vehicle. He tuned the radio to something with Spanish lyrics, jumped the volume up a few hundred decibels and then took us out onto Wilshire at full warp speed. Yes! This was certainly L.A. now! Magnificent speed at the hands of a Mexican driver. We were confused, but it wasn't much different than acid. Just hold on and eventually you come down.

Bam! We came to a sudden halt IN TRAFFIC right in front of Budget. We hadn't been paused more than one or two tenths of a second before the horns began screaming behind us. If we had only known that by delaying all those cars for a microsecond, we had unintentionally extended the war in Bosnia, increased hunger in Africa, repressed the Tibetans, and brought Nixon back from the dead. Sorry! This turned out to be the FAMOUS BUDGET. There on the lot were Bentleys, some Mercedes, one of those low military vehicles called a Hummer, must have had a Porsche or two, Corvettes. We stepped into the nicely air conditioned office to rent our middle class Chevy Blazer which came without plates. I do not understand yet how in that state of automobiles you can drive a new vehicle for some great stretch of time without plates. Who cares. If it works, it works.

City of West Hollywood History of West Hollywood Pictures of West Hollywood West Hollywood Library West Hollywood's Gay Soccer Club West Hollywood Aquatics Municipal condom distribution in West Hollywood Map of West Hollywood Gay clubs in West Hollywood Tourist info for West Hollywood Video promotion of West Hollywood Calendar of gay events in West Hollywood

We drove over to West Hollywood and parked illegally (but we didn't get ticketed) and made our way back on foot to the holding area. We tried to guess where we crossed the line from West Hollywood to Beverly Hills by determining the density of gay identifiers. We were still, then, in our dirty bike clothes, wearing our Victory t-shirts. My old Shimano shoes which I had re-glued last winter were coming apart for the last time. They were still entirely solid for biking, but their walking soles were coming off.

Back in the holding area most of our comrades had arrived. They were down to the purple Victory t-shirts. People had too much energy to be crammed into an area smaller than any we had been in for 7 days. It was the time to get in those last hellos, those last good-byes, final photos, exchange phone numbers, hug strangers, flirt without shame. People grouped themselves roughly by t-shirt color. There was a strong rivalry between Red and Yellow (the Oranges were a bit subdued, perhaps disappointed at having missed out on Red). The Yellows mooned us, so we showed them better things. It was hot. Our water was on our bikes, over in a separate security area. We had no food. 3:00 came and a few bikers still trickled in. We cheered them for making it, and for avoiding the sag wagons somehow.

Finally time came to assemble for the great procession. Instead of doing the simple thing with REDS FIRST, then Orange, etc., they decided they'd have one row of 12 Reds across the street, then 12 Oranges, 12 Yellows, etc. Fortunately, we didn't have to be in West Hollywood until 5:00 PM. One poor woman with a bad PA system mounted a van near the gate to the holding pen. She would first call for 12 Reds, then 12 Oranges and so on. Crew members at the gate counted and made sure that 12 and only 12 would exit at a time. The 12 would then get their bikes and move to their positions on the road to wait. Personality differences between the color groups were obvious. A call for 12 Reds would produce great surges of pressure as we all wanted to get moving now and be up front and keep going and going and going through San Diego to Tijuana if they'd just give us the chance. At the other end of the scale were those Purples. A call for 12 Purples would have to be repeated at least once and still produced only 10 plums. The woman in charge would beg for two more Purples, please. Then the Reds again. She warned the Reds a number of times not to try to storm the gates. We yelled back that we wouldn't be satisfied without the blood of a couple of dead Czars, but secretly, some of our thoughts ran to the dressing chamber of Anastasia.

Eventually Michael and I popped through the gate, grabbed our bikes, made for our positions at the end of the assembly and gathered up our 12 reds in 3 rows of 4 each (we wouldn't have room to unfold to 12 across until we actually got into West Hollywood). But what's this?! In front of us are Blues? Where are the Purples? Oh, finally, here they are straggling along the sidewalk all confused. We backed up our Reds and pushed 12 Purples into the gap ahead of us. Thank goodness we were there to help them!

Then we waited. And waited some more. While waiting I saw the woman who had injured herself so badly back on day 3 ride by on her borrowed three-wheeler.

The Purples ahead of us thought they had a great idea by leaning their bikes in pairs, so they could go sit on the curb. "Watch this!" I warned, when we began to move and the Purples came out to grab their bikes. Six of them grabbed their bikes, heedless of the other one leaning on it. Six bikes crashed to the pavement.

Finally we were able to get up on our bikes and ride. It was never made clear to us if we were legally a parade, or what. Did we have to stop at stop signs? There were police everywhere. We ran stop signs. It seemed to work. We flowed out onto Doheny Drive and blocked traffic. We were stopped by a traffic light. We stood, but now we liked it. Now we had crowds on both sides watching us, and we had some drivers irritated. Some drivers who knew us were happy and encouraging. Occasionally a driver would blow his car horn in frustration. We would yell loud enough to drown out the horn. A woman watching from her balcony came down to pass out a six-pack of Cokes to some of the riders.

Ahead of us the road climbed a hill and we could see our colors going forward and up into the haze for a great distance. We finally got up there ourselves. We turned right and unfolded to our width of 12. Here we were being packed into 3 or 4 blocks just outside the closing ceremonies. We were solid. Cars from side streets were completely blocked in. Some drivers were really angry. There were chants calling for them to write a check before we let them through, but we never got anything. Most drivers eventually got away. I broke out my last Power Bar and handed it around. Most of us hadn't eaten since Malibu, which was many, many hours earlier. We passed the time yelling chants and joking with passersby. Several people came along looking for friends "Is he on a bike, wearing a helmet?" we would helpfully suggest to them. They fell for it every time. Oh, the