123 other people are riding their bikes from Boston to New York this weekend, as Amy and I are, to raise money for services to people living with HIV/AIDS. The picture above is of Garrison, who lives in California and has ridden in many AIDS rides before. To fly out for this ride, he had to overcome a variety of illnesses -- despite which he is one of the reliable bikers who rides as the "caboose" at the very end of the group to make sure the slowest bikers finish safely.
Tom first rode a year or two ago with his son, but when his son couldn't make this year's ride, Tom signed up, fundraising and biking anyway.
William is bike mechanic from Brooklyn. It is not easy for him to make the fundraising quota, but he has ridden every ride since the event's inception eight years ago.
Rusty rides in memory of his brother, who died of AIDS in 2002. Rusty was also one of the caboose riders.
Allen and Scott are from New York City, where Allen is a schoolteacher and Scott runs a public relations firm.
Although all these pictures happen to be men, there are also some women riding, and many more men and women on the support crew who feed us and clean our injuries and keep us safe on the road. The riders are gay and straight, HIV-positive and not. They are diverse and warm and wonderful.
Here's a story from today's riding: The riding has been very strenuous (over 100 miles each of the first two days) but full of personal reward as we meet the physical challenges. We were warned of the difficult of a particular hill we would face at mile 22 today, on legs tired from yesterday's riding. We were told that the hill is a metaphor for living with HIV/AIDS. "It will be unexpected and scary," we were told. "Some of you will ride up, some will walk, some will do some of each, and some will be carried in vans. And that is what living with AIDS is like." But I have to admit that I thought that with all my training, with my new bike and clip-in bike shoes, this hill would be manageable. It was only about 400 feet in elevation, and I didn't think I would have a lot of trouble.
When we got to the hill, it looked steeper than I had expected. But I had been going up a lot of hills over two days, and I didn't think I would have to walk. So I started up the hill. Pretty soon, I realized that this hill was much steeper than anything I had been on. About one-third of the way up, passing the many bikers who were walking, I started to worry. My heart was pounding, I could barely breath, and I didn't feel good. So I decided I had better walk. Except that it turned out that wasn't an option. I am not completely accustomed to the clip-in bike shoes, which require a particular swift movement to detach your foot from the pedal, and in my labored struggle, I was unable to get either of my feet off the pedal. So struggling and slowing, I kept trying to pedal up the hill, but knew that I was running out of options. I couldn't make it up the hill, and it appeared I was either going to faint or fall over. There were a number of crew members cheering us on as we struggled up the hill, and I tried to figure out if I could shout for help and have the closest one catch me. But instead, one of the crew members ran up behind me, put a hand on my backside, and started to run up the hill propelling me to a sustainable speed. When he let go, perhaps fifteen feet higher up the hill, I had more momentum and was within sight of the crown of the hill. Gritting my teeth, I made it up the rest of the way.
It was a real accomplishment to get all the way up the hill. Getting in that predicament was also a result of my overconfidence, perhaps arrogance. And I would never have gotten to the top without some unseen and unknown person behind me giving me the crucial help. If that doesn't say something about the world, I don't know what does.
If you would like to contribute to the fundraising for this event to help people with HIV/AIDS, you can click here. Thanks.
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