Greetings from Peru

Greetings and salutations from Cusco! The boys and I found an internet room, and this is our wacky treat at the end of our long, adventure-filled days. For about 30 cents American, we can play on the internet for about an hour. HOW COOL IS THAT???

I'll tell you: VERY.

And so here I am. We just finished one of the most incredible meals ever, complete with capuccino and creme brulee, and now I sit typing this missive. What a day. What a trip! So far we've:

- Gone white water rafting in the Andes
- Gone horseback riding in the Sacred Valley
- Walked all over, around, on and through pre-Incan ruins
- Seen traditional dancers in full, colorful garb
- Enjoyed Pollo a la Brasas like no other
AND
- Seen a llama be sacrificed. As in dead, entrails lifted overhead as the sky opened up and began to hail.

Seriously. I'd like to see any of you bastards top my week. In fact, the week isn't even over yet. There is the market at Pisac tomorrow, and more ruins, then off to Machu Picchu on Monday.

After the cruel ridiculousness that was my previous week, I am so glad to be away and off experiencing life outside the small fishbowl. And away from some of the stinkier fish.

Breathe. Let go. Live.

There is beauty here like no other I've experienced. There is kindness here that my life was sorely missing. There is adventure here, whispered, breathed, shouted, said in awe-filled breathy hushes-- amazing, unrepeatable, unbeatable ADVENTURE-filled days with my two beautiful sons. Our constant enjoyment and the familiarity one another's company are constant gifts we give to eachother. They are such good traveling companions, such kind people. A trip like this is an eye-opener, and it is truly a bright blessing to behold as my two young sons come to understand how rare this trip is.

Breathe. Live.

Day is done...

$8 million raised for AIDS research & relief.
105 miles, our longest day.
45 miles, our shortest day.
12 camp set-ups and downs.
7 days.
585 miles.
1,840 riders.
2 tired legs.
1 blue bike.

I would like to extend a hearty thank you to all who helped make this ride a reality. Thank you to those who donated to my ride. Thank you Tri-Sports Bikes for making sure I was set with my needs, and for helping me to look ahead and define those needs. Thank you Bryan Zera for technological support.Thank you, Mom, for your support of my wanderlust.

And thank you roadies, for taking care of all of us, and making sure we stayed healthy and safe.

Lifting the spirits

Day six began as a cold, foggy Lompoc morning. Riders were tired, sleepy, and finally showing outright symptoms of a feeling we were all warned about on Orientation Day.

"You've been told about the many mixed emotions you will experience on this ride. Eurphoria, sadness, deep pride," said the announcer. "But I'm here to tell you about one emotion that no one ever talks about. A feeling that lives in all of us, one that we all try to hide. But one morning you will wake up, and you will be tired and cold, and you will be in line at the port-o-potties and wishing for porcelain, and someone will say something to you and you'll snap. And there it will be. I'm talking, of course, about your inner cranky bitch."

Today was the first day I saw many a cranky bitch unleashed. One of them was almost mine.

Did I mention the cold?
The exhaustion?
The stabbing pain in my shoulder?

I will say this: caffiene helps.

All tolled, when the cold lifted a bit after our first rest stop, people began to show signs of elation.

The ride along the coast was spectacular. how could something so beautiful not lift your spirits?

We stopped in Santa Barbara for some Starbucky goodness, and then again a couple miles later, when the good people in the community set up an ice cream stop for the riders including massage tables, water, strawberries and other delectible fruits.

School kids lined the road, cheering us on.

Cranky bitch be damned: it was a beautiful day.

Life in the purple tent city

Whispered conversations stir me from my sleep. A giggle floats past. Once again my conscious mind becomes aware of the sonorous boom from the tent to my left . It rumbles low and deep, and is soon joined by a craggy, nasaly honk three tents behind me. Then a third camper joins in, all unbeknownst. Snoring in stereo.

Such is the nightlife in my purple tent city.

The folks that run the AIDS Lifecycle event have everything so organized, its unbelieveable. If you like to ride and camp, this has to be the most reasonable way to tour the state. There you go: A little known traveling secret.

My day begins at 5:15 a.m., generally speaking. Camp noises bring the day to life early. I dress, pack up my belongings, take down the tent, and scurry over to the port-o-potties to do my business.

That would be the downside of this ride. Port-o-potties are not easy to manage normally (women never sit), but exponentially difficult in riding clips. Suffice it to say, balance is everything.

Breakfast awaits in large tents and is served by unbelievably friendly volunteers. There is an express line, serving oatmeal, yogurt & granola, and fruit. The mainline serves something different daily but the choices are delicious. Breakfast burritos, scrambled eggs and bacon, cottage fries-- all of it delectible and thanks to the riding, guilt free.

Feeling a little sore? There is a sports medicine tent, staffed by sports trainers, chiropractors and occupational therapists. Just need a massage? Sign up at the massage tent.

Soon we head out into the beautiful day. After about 12 miles, we are greeted by one of the many rest stops along the way. When I say rest stop, think "mini camp, sans sleep tents." There is water and gatorade, port-o-potties, and lots and lots of snacks. And a med tent. And a bike repair tent.

To keep things interesting, each rest stop has a theme. Example: The prom. All the volunteers were dressed in various flouncy gowns, waiting on the riders hand and foot.

Later that same day, we reached our last rest stop, whose theme was "Prom after-party." The prom queen desheviled, the prom king drunk, groupies all in various states of rocking outishness to ACDC'S "Back in Black." All while still serving us.

At day's end we roll into camp, greeted by cheering volunteers, pounding drums, playing music, and peals of laughter. This mobile city appears to have magically transported itself: Medical tents, camp store, port-o-potties, all our luggage. We set up our tents, our living spaces, all according to markers laid out for us. We shower in mobile showers which are clean and hot, we dress in jeans and sweats and enjoy our fabulous dinners which are served by dedicated, kind volunteers. Tonight was a choice of chicken marsala or pork ossobucco. I don't know what the vegetarians had, but I'm certain it was good.

And then comes the evening entertainment. There is a talent show tonight. Comedians last night. Each night offers something different.

It is an amazing life, these days of riding and eating and sleeping and starting again.

Best of all, this fundraiser alone has raised $8 million, which will be used to assist those with AIDS.

That alone makes the trip totally worthwhile.

Red Dress Day

Day 5 on the ride is "Red Dress Day," as we pass through Santa Maria and head into Lompoc. Years ago the day began as "Dress in Red Day," with the thought that as riders streamed down the road, their collective line would resemble one, long red ribbon. Over time fashionistas transcended the bland.

Conquering the Twins

Quadruple shot 16oz vanilla latte.

This pretty much tells you how the ride is going today. Note the use of the present tense: IS GOING. It is after 5:00, and we're still 15 miles out from camp.

That is partially my fault: I needed the java in order to continue.

We've been riding since about 7:30 this morning and we're going to cover a little over 95 miles by the time we hit camp.

Today's ride -- as noted in a previous dispatch-- covered the Evil Twins, two identically seemingly endless climbs that went about 1,000 feet vertical.

The downhill, my friends, was unbeflippinlievable. I felt like I was flying. Clear, wide shoulders, covering about a million miles (estimation), overlooking Paso Robles and the Pacific. And then, when the adrenaline wore off, I was still facing 50 more miles of riding, most of it next to beautiful coastline.

Gotta get back on that bike. Fifteen more miles to go.

The Evil Twins

Riders pump tires, snack, stretch and all around prepare for the 1,000 foot climb up the section known as "The Evil Twins." The hill is apparently broken into two sections. Just as you're done cursing the first part, around the bend rests his evil twin.

King City to Paso Robles

I hear him long before I see him, but more than curiosity, I search out this big Meatloaf look-alike with the beads, cowboy hat, pony tail, lab coat and purple skirt because I NEED him. I need him like I've needed no other man in my life. More accurately, I need the power he wields and I'm willing to walk awkwardly over 200 feet in my cycling shoes to get it.

He stands with an air of comfortable authority, legs slightly apart, shaking a rattling stick covered with long bandanas and curling ribbon, at the top of which sits the head of Jack Skellington (of Nightmare Before Christmas fame). Or maybe it's Jack's twin.

Riders pass and he asks who will be next; who needs the good energy. Embarrassed riders walk on by, ignorant ignorami that they are; but I, like the several other riders around me, I am a knowing knower, and what I know has needs. I go to him like a moth to a light. A smart, needy moth.

I stand before him, my arms outstretched, ready.

He begins rattling is great energy stick and rumbles from deep within his person,"MMMMMOOOOJJJOOOOOOOO!!!!"

This is the Mojo Man, and from what I understand, he's been with the ride for at least the last few years. Some riders get it: he's just sending them good vibes. Others riders don't, and think that it's all silly and embarrassing and mumbojumbo.

And to all of this I say: YESSSSSS. Yes. Yes and more yes.

It is highly likely that what the Mojo Man does is farcical. It is certainly silly. And different. It is also very real, this transference of energy, in ways I can't completely comprehend. But I'll try to sum it up simply: Energy begets energy.

It's like a snowball rolling downhill, that slowly becomes a roaring avalanche and overtakes the hills below.

It's how we were able to ride almost 80 miles, then hop on the bike the next day and pump out another 105. And then hop on today and do another 75. The more energy we put out, the more energy we are able to put out. It goes out and yet still somehow builds within. Maybe we're sending it out to each other, each of us, our small droplets of energy, and they have a ripple effect onto our fellow riders.

Another example: Today was the biggest climb so far, known as the Quad Buster. This rat bastard of a climb covers roughly 1,500 vertical feet in just under 1 mile. There are no switchbacks. We saw the entire beast as it lay before us, and it was uuuuuugly. And so we did all we could do: We pedaled. And pedaled. And cursed and focused and sweated, and pedaled some more. And then the most amazing thing happened: About 2/3 of the way up, we heard screaming and music and cars honking. Cheering. Happiness. This great wave of energy was roiling from above, building as we neared, urging us on, pulling us up.

The whole mood suddenly felt different. Not easier; just... less hard. I took it in, all of it, the music, the cheering, all those good vibes; I took it all in like oxygen. And I made it to the top, no stopping.

SIDE NOTE: The downhill side flippin' rocked.

And this, gentle reader, this is why I seek out the Mojo Man. This is why, when he offers is booming luck, his good vibes, his good and great mojo, why I drink it in like Gatorade. Because I feel somehow different. Better.

Sated, I head out, and ride in the face of brilliant 95 degree day with the same amount of care and a little more energy.

I got the good mojo on me, baby. That's what it's all about.

Santa Cruz to King City

Today's ride was 105 miles. It was by far the longest ride I've ever done, and I think, if not for this communique, I would be off in dreamland.

We rode from Santa Cruz to King City, two towns likely never otherwise associated, if not for this sentence. Having done all my training out near Auberry Road and Millerton Lake in the Fresno area, I'd like to point out that I have become somewhat of an expert on a few things. And if you ride those roads, pat yourself on the back: you are right there with me.

First off, these two towns (and all those in between) know nothing of crappy road conditions. What a bunch of wimps! They have wide bike lanes (yes, ACTUAL BIKE LANES), clear and smooth, with only the occasional sprinkling of rocks. I think you would all agree with me that you are not a real cyclist until you brave Millerton Road, with its six inch "lane" while drunken gamblers roar past.

But hey-- why pave and clean up the shoulder when we could have a velodrome?

Second, I know road kill. I've smelled road kill. I've practically ridden over road kill. And this stuff here, sir, is no road kill. I saw a squirrel. I saw a racoon, but it was off in the bushes, and might have died of natural causes. And I saw a snake-- a whole snake that frankly looked as though it were merely stunned so I'm not even counting that.

Look, you want a second career? Become a furrier and travel Auberry Road.

Not so out here. Where are the coyotes, I wonder? The dogs, cats, foxes, frogs and rats? I'm used to the flattened petting zoo that is my usual ride, complete with a rigor mortis ostrich.

Finally, this weather... I'm leaving that one alone. Gift horse, et al.

One hundred five miles. Despite my "expertise," it wasn't until today that I felt like a real cyclist.

Day One: San Francisco to Santa Cruz

Today was on of those amazing, incredible, once-in-a-lifetime days, from the moment I woke up, to this very minute, and counting every second in between.

Much like having a baby, despite what others told me I couldn't quite comprehend what the actual experience would be like until I faced the labor. And this, the first day of the AIDS/Lifecycle Ride, was filled with labor by more people than I can possibly count.

We rose at 3:45 a.m. to ready ourselves and taxi over to the Cow Palace for Opening Day Ceremonies by 5. There, 1,840 riders met, stretched, panicked, carbo-loaded and after much pep-talking, headed out into the balmy (for San Francisco) 60 degree weather and began the fifth annual ride.

It was a breathtaking sight: hundreds and hundreds of riders, enthused beyond words, wound our through the streets of San Francisco, taking up an entire lane of traffic.

Despite the craziness of the hour, the road was periodically lined with onlookers, cheerleaders, family members, sign holders, police officers, roadies-- all of them supporters.

The day was like a dream. One minute, we were winding our way through city streets, the next, suburbans neighborhoods. We followed foggy, tree-lined highways, only to find ourselves facing sunshine and breathtaking ocean views around a different bend. We labored up hills we thought would never end, only to be surprised by the speed and distance we covered in a matter of seconds heading downhill. There were stands of Eucalyptus trees, and stretches of strawberry fields, grassy meadows, and the expansive Pacific.

Only, this wasn't a dream, and I could feel every mile I pedaled. I knew the moment I stopped watching the road or the cyclists around me would be the moment I would lose all control of the bike. It was hazy and comfortable like a dream, but the reality of danger was intense.

One rider was seriously injured when an impatient motorist turned directly into his cycling path in order to make left-hand turn. Two others received roadrash for momentary lapses of concentration - either their's, or others. Bloody noses, scraped faces, chins and knees - abrasions on this first day that will serve as stinging reminders in the days ahead to always be mindful.

There were cheerleaders. Actual shouting, happy cheerleaders banging drums and singing out praises. There were dancers - older retirees blasting tunes from their car, energetic women in their 40s rocking our to ABBA's "Dancing Queen" and then an actual dancing queen, as in of Sheba, an undulating belly dancer who appeared out of a hazy mist in the distance.

There were the riders of the Monty Python-esque tall bikes and the low, long recumbant bikes, rolling past, and then suddenly, with the ocean crashing on my right, sloping hills to my left, a table filled with pies lay before me. Pumpkin pies. Delicious, free, perfect, totally out-of-season pumpkin pies.

I would say I was in a Slvador Dali painting if not for the lack of melting clocks - though time passed in the same, lolling fashion.

And just as suddnely as the magically appearing pie stand, the ride ended. Passing cheering people, rainbows wigs, and yet more signs, we entered a purple tent city in a park in Santa Cruz where we will spend the night.

And dream. Strange, cycling-filled dreams.

The one.

I had every intention of sleeping in until at LEAST 6:30 this morning, given my ridiculous "late packing/inability to fall asleep due to overexcitement" episode last night. It was seriously one of those nights where my mother's voice continually floated up from the past to haunt me.

"Theresa Lynn! It's twelve o'clock. You have an early day tomorrow. Turn off that light." Much like my high school days, I took her sincere message to heart, but blew her off anyway. At some point even mom's voice went to bed, and I was left with my own elated exhaustion.

So when my girlfriend sent me a text message wishing me luck at 5:00, I was... well, I wasn't ready for my eyes to be open. But my stomach reacted in flutters anyway.

After nine months of training, fundraising, worry, planning, avoidance, more worry , and a little more training, Orientation Day had arrived. I, and thousands of much-more dedicated others like me, descended upon the San Francisco Cow Palace to sign-in for this, the 5th Annual AIDS LifeCycle Ride.

We fools would be riding our bikes across this great state, some 585 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles, to raise funds and awareness of AIDS.

And the memories continued to surge. I saw my first concert at the Cow Palace: U2, back in 1985. The building itself looks exactly the same. (Smells pretty much the same too.) That was the same year I learned there was a disease called AIDS. Of course, at 15, I was more worried about bang-height, capri pants, and how totally awesome I looked in my cool, white-framed Ray Bans than I was about a disease that the government wouldn't acknowledge and would in the decades to come surge to pandemic proportions.

Did I mention how sweet I looked in those sunglasses?

Here I found myself, some 21 years later, same place, different concerns. I waited in lines with hundreds of other riders, then gleefully turned over the responsibility of my beautiful Blue (my bike) to the AIDS LifeCycle Roadies (who are apparently THE NICEST people on the face of the planet). I got my praticipant number (which interestingly enough was not 24601), which will be my identifier over the next seven days. And, almost most important of all, I got my wristbands, which make me an official rider and allowed to hork down the chow at the reststops and back at camp.

Next we watched a safety video: what to expect, how to ride, how to be a good citizen in a tent city.

What I am about to say next may shock and alarm some readers. In fact, it may be so shocking and so alarming, you may find yourself utterly... dismayed.

Apparently, some of the people on this ride... now I don't want to let any cats-out-of-the-bag, or really throw anybody for a loop, but... there are gay people here. You read that correctly. The AIDS LifeCycle Ride, cosponsored by the San Francisco AIDS Foundation and the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center has suporters that apparently are homosexuals.

Hope I didn't throw open any closet doors there on anyone.

Personally, what was more surprising to me was the vast number of ALL PEOPLE at this event, people from all walks of life, all political philosophies, all genders, all transgenders,
all everything, riding all kinds of bikes (tall ones, short ones, fat ones, flippin' sweet ones, really dorked out ones) all for the common goal of helping those who are suffering with this disease.

Watching the Safety Video was the first time I'd truly felt banded with others in this ride-- that all our aforementioned somewhat solo experiences of training and fundraising was converging at this point in time, for this one purpose.

This crazy mishmash of people-- I am one of them. And each of us, with our own flood of memories, move forward from this point, united in this common goal.

That, my friends, is sweeter than those sunglasses. By far.

Two for the price of one

Two days, baby. Two days and the ADVENTURE begins. And I'm finally packing, which I think is a good thing. You know. Because I keep having these fleeting moments of panic, images filled with me arriving at the AIDS ride sans cycling shoes, and suddenly I'm having to go the complete 585 wearing my Tevas. Or worse, arriving at camp at night after that first long day, crawling into my sleeping bag and realizing I have no pillow.

I SAID NO PILLOW! DOES THAT NOT FILL YOU WITH HORROR??

So I'm packing.

In other news... those of you that are going to miss me desperately, fear not: I will be blogging this event for both FresnoBee.com and Modbee.com. I plan on posting daily-- barring any major failures in technology/electronic communication. Whoo hoo! So you can keep up with this great adventure firsthand, getting pictures and commentary from the inside. Also I plan on talking about my arse much less, so you'll have that going for you, too.

Same great post, two great places to find it.

As a side note, I'd like to acknowledge the amazing assistance of Bryan Zera, who made the technology-end of things work for me. Yes, I work on computers. Yes, they still scare me. But just the part with the cords. Thank you, Bryan, for all your help.

Three little monkeys jumping on the bed...

I think the hardest part in this whole ride is knowing, right now, right this minute, that in a few days I will be off kilter and out of balance, as I will be desperately missing my children. And there's nothing I can do about it.

Its' something I know I will experience, a given like high tide or the full moon. Every May I feel myself bracing for the loss of June, when my boys head to LA to visit their father for the summer.

The first day day is always like a vacation; there is less to do, less to worry about, I loaf and watch tv and hang out with Sydney. By day three, the carefree, breezy joy of vacation has ebbed away and I'm left yearning for their boyish charm, their goofy jokes, the constant wrestling and laughter and ridiculous accusations over everything and nothing. It's a mild frenzy that fills my days and without it I feel completely off kilter.

The saving grace the last few years has been Sydney. The emotional chasm left by my boys has decreased slightly with the arrival of my sunshine girl, aka, little Ms. Busy. Keeping up with her "Don't walk, Run" way of life, her animated chatter, her desire to be with me everywhere, ALWAYS (bathroom or no bathroom), has helped divert my focus away from some of the misery of loss I feel when my boys are away.

But the added difficulty this year is that -- with this ride-- there is no Sydney either. In fact, I will be completely childless, which I find terribly unnerving.

The challenges of facing hills and sores and tired muscles and tent sleeping is something I absorb and understand on a physical level. The knowledge and expectation that I will be pining vociferously for my children, all three of my beautiful, perfect, ne'er do wrong monkeys is a physical pain that Advil and more liquids won't resolve. It's just part of it all.