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ALC wrap-up

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---
layout: post
title: "545 miles in slow motion"
tags:
- alc
- cycling
---
San Francisco, Santa Cruz, King City, Paso Robles, Santa Maria, Lompoc,
Ventura, Los Angeles. For the better part of seven days, I sat on a bicycle
with over 2,200 cyclists and 650 volunteers riding from one part of California
to another to raise money for HIV/AIDS services as part of
[AIDS/LifeCycle](https://www.aidslifecycle.org). In perspective, 545 miles is
further than the distance from Boston to Washington D.C., further than Brussels
to Berlin, further than Tokyo to Hiroshima. It is countless hills, steep
descents, farm fields, supportive on-lookers, packets of chamois butter,
potholes, water bottles, and sliced bananas. Based on this, my first year's
experience, it is also six inner tubes, one bike tire, and an entire bike frame
long. It is all worth it.
Along the way I tried to capture as much of the experience [via
Twitter](https://twitter.com/search?l=&q=%23aidslifecycle%20from%3Aagentdero%20since%3A2019-06-01%20until%3A2019-06-14&src=typd)
for the numerous people who helped me raise **$6,000** for HIV/AIDS services in
California. I am incredibly grateful for all of the support and hope that my
snapshots of the ride proved to be enjoyable for others as the ride itself was
for me.
<center>
<img src="/images/post-images/alc-2019/alc-2019-halfway.jpg" title="Halfway to
LA"/>
<br/>
<em>Halfway to Los Angeles</em>
</center>
## Day Zero (0 miles)
My journey to Los Angeles started a bit further north in Santa Rosa. Day zero
required me to grab everything I would need, [load it into a
car](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1134852334389829632), and drive down
to Cow Palace in San Francisco for orientation the day before the ride was set
to begin. Since the departure on day one is effectively at _dawn_ I decided
that it would be best to stay the night in San Francisco, rather than attempt
the 60-ish mile drive that morning.
Orientation mostly covered legalese, rules, and guidance for the ride. Some of
it conveyed from the ride director Tracy at the lectern, some of it conveyed in
various video clips, but all of it made the level of professionalism and
production support for the ride abundantly clear. After all the chatting was
done, _everybody_ got their [wrist bands for the
week](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1134898127050162176). The wrist
bands were to remain on you the entire week and help denote what food line you
should be in, whether you were a cyclist, etc. I took the unsolicited advice
from my neighbor "put it on the hand you don't wipe with."
Between the end of orientation and when I finally went to sleep, I probably
[consumed 2-3,000
calories](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1134941844171706368) which I was
sure to need the following day; a habit which continued for the next six
nights.
## Day One, Santa Cruz (82 miles)
My alarm went off sometime between 3:30 and 4:00 am. First day, and the bus
from the hotel was leaving at 4:30. Not sure what to expect, I pack all my gear
up, and walk into the lobby where I'm greeted with a dozen or so cyclists
already in their bike shorts and wind breakers.
Oops, guess we're not changing at the Cow Palace.
I pop into a bathroom and grab my clothes from my "day one" ziploc baggie and
try to bundle up as much as I can. It's chilly and I haven't eaten yet.
The mood on the bus is a mixture of excitement and grogginess. Some of the boys
behind me are joking about Chamois Butter, the anti-chafing cream that will
become a fixture of our everyday, sounds like a drag name. They laugh and
imagine her sisters Cocoa and Almond. The thoughts of the Butter Sisters drag
super group melt away when we pull into the parking lot where 10+ big rented
moving trucks are lined up for [thousands of chilly cyclists to drop their gear
off](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135157391295565824).
The opening ceremonies were an emotional introduction to both the importance of
the ride and the impact of HIV/AIDS on the gay community in California.
The emotional roller coaster of ALC was just beginning.
[The ride out](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135179064333889536) was a
dramatic swing in the other direction, my nervous energy offset by my focus on
not running into anybody and keeping one foot clipped out to avoid toppling
over at low speeds. Once we got onto the streets of San Francisco, everything
would improve, I figured. Sort of. While SFPD had closed down some
intersections along the route out of the city, they hadn't closed them all, so
the first few miles were spent in stop-and-go cyclist traffic as we hit
stop-light after stop-light. I imagine this is what rush hour in Copenhagen
feels like, with far less shouting and cowbell.
The road started to open up as we made it to the western edge of the city, just
in time for a bitter cold fog to envelop us. Those first few miles were spent
anxiously staying in line, shivering, and wondering if the rest of the day
would feel this easy.
With the [first fifteen miles
done](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135204374152531969) by rest stop
one, I was in good spirits and began the rest stop system I would follow the
rest of the week: eat food while waiting in line for the bathrooms, grab more
food for my bag, refill one bottle with powerade, the other with water,
stretch, and then back on the road.
The morning remained fairly overcast as I continued on to [rest stop
two](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135235912076484608), where I
followed the system once again.
As the day progressed however, we started hitting very unpleasant headwinds. I
don't ride with a bike computer or using a tracking app on my phone, but the
headwinds were clearly slowing _everybody_ down. Somewhere before [lunch
time](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135316089821323264) the sun came
out, making the coast look absolutely stunning as we pushed along it.
Unfortunately however, I missed some spots with my sunscreen coverage. The
inside portions of my upper thighs, and the gap between my long sleeves and the
gloves. The burns on my thighs would make for some unpleasant riding the rest
of the week, and then take a couple weeks to heal properly.
By early afternoon, my butt started to hurt. To be somewhat expected, having
spent most of the day in a bike seat.
With the sun high in the sky, I rolled into camp in Santa Cruz sometime in
the afternoon. Not having had any other indication of how close to the front or
rear of the pack I was, the [sea of tents already
assembled](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135333158528770048) gave me a
pretty good hint.
My tent-mate Mike was "princessing" every night, so he had already gone to his
hotel. He was kind enough to set up the tent and grab my "green military
bag" from the gear truck. When I arrived at the tent, I discovered that Mike
and I might have different ideas of what "green military bag" means, so I
hurriedly lugged the camouflage roller bag _back_ to the gear truck and grabbed
my olive green duffel (standard issue).
After showering in the mobile shower trucks, which I didn't know were going to
be our shower options, I trundled off to the food tent and discovered one
benefit to eating vegetarian: the shortest food line.
I ate as much as I could and stuck around for the camp announcements, until the
volume started to bug me and then I went off to my tent. Ear plugs in, I tried
to sleep.
82 miles was the longest I had ridden to date.
## Day Two, King City (109 miles)
Century day. I woke to my first alarm around 5 in the morning to hear hushed
voices and zippers already bustling around me. My first morning in camp was
just as educational as my first evening was. Struggling to my knees to get
dressed in a tent which wouldn't accommodate me standing, I fiddled my way into
my bike gear, and then shivered out of the tent into the misty Santa Cruz
morning. Everything I had eaten and drank the night prior was ready to come
out; the bank of toilets by the tents had a line longer than my patience so I
snuck off to another bank over by bike parking which turned out to be mostly
empty. The days following I would make a mental note of which toilets were
likely to be underutilized in the evening and the morning, even if it required
a little bit more walking.
I have some difficulty eating _right_ when I wake up, but I forced some oatmeal
and a banana down my gullet, dropped my gear off at the gear trucks, and went
to [bike parking](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135545078590533632)
which was **packed** with people trying to leave. Topping off the tire pressure
in my front and rear wheels, I got in line, stretching along the way to the
exit.
My teeth were probably clattering by the time I started pedaling. I don't have
a lot of natural insulation, so the chilly morning air blowing into my bike
clothing made for an uncomfortable departure from Santa Cruz. The city was
mostly flat with one short but incredibly steep hill. While some cyclists
walked up it, I dropped gears and powered up it. My endurance leaves something
to be desired, but I can climb with the best of them.
The chilly clouds accompanied us to [rest stop
one](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135576061599670273) on the border
between urban and rural. More food, bathroom, refill the bottles, apply chamois
(butt) butter, stretch, and off I was again.
Entering farmland the roads were **abysmal**. Gravel, potholes, uneven patches.
The types of roads you would worry were wearing out the suspension on your car
were rattling all of our spines. A few miles outside of rest stop one I could
hear sirens in the distance. Eventually an oncoming fire truck would pass by me
and continue down the column of cyclists to whatever mishap had occurred
further back. I would hear later that a friend of a friend needed to go to the
hospital and required surgery on their leg, there's no telling whether that
fire truck was linked to the same incident.
Rattling along, I pass the "fried artichoke stop." An unofficial stop where
hundreds of cyclists stop by and probably make this restaurant's entire year. I
passed right by. I'm not a fan of artichoke, but I'm even less of a fan of
lines. Onward to lunch.
A gentle downward sloping descent with a left turn at the end which was
_covered_ with sand and gravel caught a cyclists just ahead of me. The bike
slid out from under her and she lied there on her back with a couple other
cyclists around her. I slow while "moto", a motorcycle-powered
volunteer who helps mark the route, starts to wave people to slow down. She
is communicative and seems more annoyed than anything else; what's a little
road rash? I continue on to lunch, reminding myself that gravel doesn't give
much traction to my narrow road tires.
I don't recognize anybody from my team at lunch, so I find a nice shady spot to
eat and stretch. My butt still hurts. There's a television camera crew, and
somebody is giving an interview about ALC. The sun is out, and shirts are
coming off. The park seems like it's right in the middle of town, which makes
me wonder what these people think about the gays coming to their town.
At my friend Harley's urging, I stop by the medical tent to ask somebody to
take a look at my aching hindquarters. I know that they're pressure ulcers, but
I'm hoping for some relief. Nurse Sarah directs me to a tent like those we
slept in, and has me bend forward on a chair so she can inspect my bottom. My
feelings of vulnerability are eclipsed by my desire to get this problem fixed
so I can finish the ride.
She's concerned that one of the pressure ulcers looks close to opening this
early in the ride. The applies some patches, mentions "night cream" for later
at camp, gives me some advice, and sends me on my way.
I decide that medical would have to take my bike away to stop me from
continuing the ride. In the meantime, I would just have to be more attentive
than usual to my rear-end to ensure nothing got worse.
Between lunch and rest stop three, the tailwinds continued to impress. I found
myself riding separate from the pack with this one woman who I had seen
earlier. Cranking over farm roads with a strong tailwinds, especially after
that brutal day one, was a blast.
When we approached the "Otter Pop Stop", another unofficial stop, my riding
buddy and I didn't even hesitate to keep on pushing. My heavy steel-frame road
bike notwithstanding, I was probably pushing 30+ miles an hour rattling over
those roads as we pushed deeper towards King City.
I developed a couple more habits which I would continue for the remainder of the ride:
* Whenever you see somebody else drink, you drink. Usually I would get so
focused that I might otherwise forget. You don't want to be drinking when
you're thirsty, since that means you're already getting dehydrated, not a good
place to be when you're riding all day.
* Whenever you see the "Rest Stop 1 Mile Ahead" sign, drain the water bottles.
There's no downside to putting more fluids in at this point, the bathrooms
are just up ahead!
Before rest stop four, there's a bridge over a river. The opportunity for a
cool down on a hot day makes the river another unofficial stop, with plenty of
skinny-dipping. Hot and uncomfortable, I considered taking a dip in the miles
approaching the river. Then, as I generally did during the ride, my thoughts
came back to my butt. I figured that if I was close to opening up skin
_yesterday_, today I'm probably in sorry shape too. Considering whatever lovely
bacteria floats around in a river, and then sitting on that bacteria for the
remainder of the day, helped me decide to pass on by. It sure sounded fun
though.
Having stopped at every official rest and water stop, by six I was rolling into
camp. A campground hidden away from the road, which was accessible to us by a
foot path of gravel and sand; my 100+ miles of riding were concluded with a
little off-road walking.
## Day Three, Paso Robles (63 miles)
Only sixty three miles? No problem! My butt was feeling better after the night
cream and I had just ridden my longest ride ever at 109 miles, 63 was nothing!
Except for the mountain known as "quadbuster" on the ride, which we would be
climbing after about 8 miles of flat road.
[Leaving King City](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1135912414761836545)
took at least an hour, that same gravel and sand track we came in on, was
packed with a solid line of cyclists walking the mile from camp to the road.
Once we found asphalt I was delighted to learn that it was real road, not the
combination of tar and craters we had been riding the day prior.
At the base of "quadbuster" I stop into rest stop one for the usual. When I
returned to my bike, a bike parking volunteer said that they heard a pop and I
might want to take my bike to "bike tech" to get checked out. Taking a look
revealed that both the front and rear inner tubes had exploded in the warm
morning sun.
A delay of this nature was not what I expected, but better now than in between
rest stops I remind myself. 45 minutes and $14 dollars later, I've got two new
tubes and I'm cranking up the hill. While I passed people, some walking and
some pedaling, all of us huffing and puffing up the hill, multiple lunatics in
bike shorts sped down the hill in the opposite lane. Not satisfied with one
mega-climb, these nutters were doing _multiples_.
Somewhere after that climb, and another little climb that followed I ambled
into rest stop two. I don't remember much about it other than the little church
and that it was hot. Too hot for mid-morning. I reloaded on fluids and snacks
and got back out onto the road. Perhaps 300ft out of the rest stop exit, I
noticed that my rear tire pressure is way too low. A few expletives and a little
walk later, and I'm visiting bike tech again.
They checked the tire for debris, found nothing, and then replaced the rear tube
and sent me out on my way once again.
Hot.
I unzipped my bike jersey to get more of the cooling wind against my skin.
On a stretch of road by myself a bee flew into my shirt, stung my on my side,
and exited out the back, hopefully to die a miserable death. "FUCK" I shouted,
sitting up to see the welt already developing on the tender skin underneath my
rib cage. The day was clearly going well.
So hot.
At rest stop three, I stopped by the medical tent where they gave me a little
cream to make my bee sting less obnoxious and made yet another stop to bike
tech for another inner tube due to the low tire pressure. Another bike tech
cleared the tire, installed another tube, and once again sent me on my way.
ALC has stopped in a little town called Bradley for years. At some point the
locals stopped leering at the gays on their bicycles and started to use the
influx of people as a fundraiser for the kids at their little school. They sell
burgers and sodas with a special "$100 club" wherein the kids will serve riders
their lunch in an air-conditioned room in their little school. I heard that
this year we helped them raise $20,000 which the school uses to sent kids from
this little town to science camp, disneyland, and college.
My face was too flush at the time to appreciate all of this, between the sun
bearing down on us, another trip to bike tech, and copious amounts of
sunscreen, I felt like shit. My bottom lip was a bit blistered from all the
exposure, so I probably looked like shit too. With two little girls
alternating between shouting "welcome to Bradley!" and "thanks for coming to
Bradley!" in their bullhorn, I grumbled back onto the road angry at nothing in
particular.
By rest stop four my anger had turned into focus on myself. I had started to
develop a headache, which for me is usually the first indication of either
dehydration or overheating. I didn't have to pee either, which was concerning.
I developed another one of the habits I would carry through the rest of the
ride: do not leave a rest stop until you've peed. I hung out in the shade for
probably 30 minutes, watching the ALC medical volunteers check in on how
various people were doing, to make sure that everybody was remaining healthy.
At rest stop four on ALC, the roadies running the rest stop perform a different
show each day. I think they do the show every 30 or 45 minutes. I was there
long enough to see the show, in triple digit temperatures, and then to watch
one of those roadies get back to work. To go from dancing around in the heat,
to breaking up bags of ice and refilling water coolers, all in heels, was
impressive.
The entrance to rest stop four was up this short but steep little hill, which
was a nice start for me. As I was leaving, another group of cyclists rounded
the corner heading for four, and when one of them saw that hill he let out an
exasperated "oh fuck you!"
Indeed.
I hated each of the ten or so miles from rest stop four to [camp in Paso Robles](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1136070722021814272).
I hated each of the steps from the gear truck, carrying my tent and duffel, to
my tent site. I was so tired I just dropped all my shit, grabbed what I needed
for a shower and left. I was in a better mood after a shower, so I put the tent
up then, and headed off to schedule a massage which I had been saving for day
three, knowing I was going to feel like garbage.
After the massage I went over to bike tech to figure out why I kept getting
flats. It took us a _lot_ of searching to ultimately find the needle-sized
puncture but we couldn't find what had been causing it. We opted for a new tire
and tube, bringing my daily total up to _five_ inner tubes. While the tech
installed the new tire, I helped some other bike techs set up their tent, as
they were not staying in a hotel that evening like the others were. At this
point, I was a pro.
Somewhere between first and second dinner, somebody reminded me that we did
quadbuster that morning.
With the brutal heat, the sun cooking my brain, I had forgotten all about it.
## Day Four, Santa Maria (91 miles)
I am become bicycle, pedaller of worlds. By the beginning of day four,
everybody had more or less gotten into a groove myself included. As Harley put
it "you become a cycling machine." The kind of machine that says things like
"on your left" when passing somebody in the chow line.
[Leaving Paso Robles](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1136273329864634368)
was _another_ epic long journey from bike parking to the starting line.
Interrupted by one of the stubbled gear roadies standing atop his truck by bike
parking and singing along with show tunes in his long white dress.
The conversion to cycling-machine caused me not to remember much of the day,
except for the arrival at the official half-way point where the photo above was
taken. Atop a mountain with an absolutely stunning view to the west, hundreds
of cyclists waited in line to stand at the edge, hoist their bicycle above
their heads, and pose for a picture. I didn't think twice about hoisting my
steel giant of a bicycle above my head. It's overweight and I've got weak arms,
recipe for disaster, or at least a bad picture.
After having sped down the mountain into the cool coastal breeze, we rode along
more busy highways as we plugged on into San Luis Obispo (SLO). At one of the
stop signs, a local volunteer was rapidly throwing rubber bracelets on
anybody's wrist who would stick them out, thanking us for riding and welcoming
us to their city. "That's SLO Gay"
Another fundraising lunch awaited us at some college campus, whereby a veggie
sausage helped fund local STI testing and treatment services.
Despite Mama Harley telling me that the grass was full of sticker-burrs, I took
my shoes off anyway. My butt wasn't hurting, which meant something good or
something bad, but I was in a positive mood, so I went with it.
Atop one of the hills we crossed a big chalk line which had "norcal" and
"socal" written on opposing sides. Five or six women sat and stood with
decorations, cow bells, and streamers to welcome us to socal and thank us for
riding. I later learned from Mike that they had never decorated for ALC before.
All along the route people would come out, cheer, and thank us for riding.
After a couple hundred miles, that sort of thing really does help.
Eventually I found my way into rest stop four and decided to wait long enough
to see a show. A wonderful Wizard of Oz musical number, the plot of which I
missed, but the costumes were fabulous as per usual.
Shortly after leaving rest stop four, I was [at camp
again](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1136433922877808640) for my new
evening routine of grabbing gear, dumping it in the field, showering, setting
up the tent, eating, stretching, eating, and then going to sleep.
Any troubles I had about falling asleep lying on the ground with earplugs in my
ear, had all but disappeared.
## Day Five, Lompoc (43 miles)
The fifth day of the ride, also known as "Red Dress Day" was certainly a
highlight. The overall ride is shorter, but _everybody_ is dressed up. With the
Carmen Sandiegos, flight attendants, waldos, mechanics, and other themed
customs abound, we certainly were catching some looks along the way. My
favorite however were [these two absolutely fabulous
ladies](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1136842924254097410) who I ran
into at rest stop one.
The jovial nature of red dress day was a good distraction from the two
steepest climbs along the way.
I found my pace buddy from earlier in the week and we set off from rest stop
two towards the climbs. Winding our way along narrow roads we gradually
climbed, passing others along the way, until finally I pulled away from her to
really aggressively climb the last part of the first hill. Throwing both my
weight and strength into the hill, nearing the top I heard a ***clank*** which
I assumed was my chain bunching or picking up something like a rock or twig.
I continued on to the top where I waited for my buddy.
As she summited our first hill of the day, we continued on.
After the downhill when I could resume serious pedaling, I noticed that under
tension I was hearing the clanking noise again. It didn't happen on every pedal
stroke, but was audible when I was pushing strong into my right foot. I spent a
mile or two looking at the sprockets by my feet, trying to see what was stuck
in my chain. Looking from behind, my buddy didn't see anything amiss either. As
we approached the hairpin curve into the second big climb, back onto the
highway, I pulled over: I _had_ to know what this was.
The steel giant flipped over, I started rotating the pedals studying each cycle
of the sprocket. Not seeing anything I followed the chain back to the rear
hub and spotted the problem. I had [sheared my bike frame at a weld
point](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1136705051676700673).
I let out an exasperated "fuck."
"What is it?"
"I broke the frame, I'm done."
Explaining what had happened my buddy was more astonished by the situation than
I was.
I flagged down one of the sweep vehicles, loaded my broken bike, and was taken
to lunch. Along the way the two sweep roadies, from San Francisco and Atlanta
respectively, were great company. I got a chance to figure out why the sweep
vans are so cautious and slow riding up and down the line of cyclists; turns
out they're checking all the boys out!
At lunch I made _another_ visit to bike tech where I hung my bike on the rack
and explained that I broke my frame. "Fuck, another one?" was the lead tech's
response before returning to his work.
I later learned that by this point in the ride, I was the third cyclist to
break a frame.
I didn't even know "breaking a bike frame" was a thing.
As luck would have it, [InCycle](https://www.incycle.com/) the bike shop that
travels along with ALC also brings along **40** extra bikes to rent to people
along the way. While they didn't have exactly my size, 61cm, they did have a
58cm which I was willing to make work.
My number transferred to a new bike and the steel giant hanging on a rack, I
was able to ride the few remaining miles from lunch to camp to finish out the
day.
<center>
<img src="/images/post-images/alc-2019/red-dress.jpg" title="Red dress day"/>
<br/>
<em>Feeling pretty in my red dress</em>
</center>
My teammates were as shocked as my pace buddy was: "you **broke** your frame?"
When I was explaining what happened to them earlier, I stumbled into a theory:
the brutal roads on day two could have caused a stress fracture, or it could
have been the five or six times the rear wheel was removed and reattached on
day three, but either way the excessive torque I put into my climbing [finished
the job](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1136733463262814208).
## Day Six, Ventura (88 miles)
The thought of "less than ninety miles, this should be easy" crossed my mind
when I stepped into the extremely brisk morning air in Lompoc.
What kind of weirdo thinks things like that?
On the agenda for day six was the most dangerous descent of the entire ride.
Hugging the highway, we would climb up to the peak of a mountain, and then drop
down all the way to sea level. People have been seriously injured on this
descent and safety was top of mind after all of the other shenanigans I had
been through this week. With a lighter bike, accompanied by disc brakes, I made
it safely down the mountain to the gorgeous coastline north of Santa
Barbara.
As I made my way down the coastline, I came across two of my teammates. One
dancing and giving the thumbs up to passing cyclists, to let them know things
were handled, and the other changing somebody's tire. A third teammate emerged
from the brush, I assume after taking a leak as she was wont to do. Chatting
with them I learned that the woods-pisser had helped change the guy's tube, but
done it wrong and it had almost immediately been popped, likely pinched against
the rim. Fortunately the other two were close behind and offered to do a proper
job! I was of no help, but stashed their trash in my bike bag and headed off to
lunch in [Goleta](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137073346170908672).
Calories ingested, butter applied, water bottles filled, and I was off again.
Like with most other towns we rode through, Goleta was plenty of stop lights
that prevented us from getting a good rhythm going. Before I got to the city
limits I approached three boys on the side of the road who asked "do you know
how to change a tire?"
So I pulled over.
I thought _everybody_ on the ride would know how to change a tire, but i was
wrong in that assumption. These three were riding together, and one of them had
found some staples, and while he had all the equipment necessary, he wasn't
adept at using them. Fortunately he had some CO2 cartridges which turned out to
be quite handy; pumping a tire up to 100psi with a little hand pump is a pain
in the ass on a good day, even less so when you've got better things to do with
your calories.
Once I had them sorted, I sent them on their way and followed shortly
thereafter.
Less than five miles later I was lucky enough to also find some staples and for
the first time in the entire ride, had to change my own tire. Well, not _my_
tire, but the rental bike's. It took me a little bit to figure out how to get
the rear wheel off, between the disc brakes and a different frame attachment
point, it took a little bit of poking. Unfortunately this time around I didn't
have anybody with a CO2 cartridge handy, and had to hand-pump that sucker up
enough to carry me to [rest stop
three](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137105118778671105), where I could
use a real pump.
Between rest stop three and rest stop four, there was the (unofficial) [ice cream
stop](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137111782810480640) put on by some
local LGBTQ groups. Unfortunately there wasn't much space to sit down and rest,
so I scarfed some cookies and cream down, and got back on the road.
Following further along the coast, my previous thoughts of "this should be
easy" were wiped away by more headwinds. By the time I rolled into [rest stop
four](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137135333349347328) I was pretty
fed up with the wind, not that I could do anything about it. Since the rest
stop was squeezed tightly between the road and the coastline, rather than put
on the show, this time it was a "dance party" complete with a DJ. Throngs of
mostly shirtless men danced around, to my amazement because I not only didn't
feel like dancing _at all_, I couldn't imagine dancing in bike shoes. As I
waddled by, the DJ asked the people that had been there for an hour or two to
move along to camp because bike parking was full.
Incredible.
Pushing against the wind for another 10-15 miles took what felt like hours but
eventually I found my way to camp in Ventura, [right along the
beach](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137179567116865537).
At dinner that evening, the ride director shared with us that there had been
**no** incidents on the descent, and to send our thanks to CalTrans for street
sweeping all the gravel and debris from the shoulder.
Following dinner there was a candlelight vigil along the beach, which took me a
little while to understand, since I had assumed there was going to be a bit
more structure, and that one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence were going
to speak.
Before returning to my tent, I sat in some grass, stretched and marvelled at
this, the last night in camp.
## Day Seven, Los Angeles (70 miles)
The [last morning in
camp](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137345806585831428) was somehow
cold again. It was always cold. Waking up and putting on cycling gear doesn't
do much to defend against those chilly coastal breezes. There were news cameras
at camp, I assume interviewing somebody for their morning show that day. The
arrival of ALC coincided with LA's Pride weekend, not to mention there were a
few thousand of us, which did tend to draw the eye.
At [rest stop one](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137370497035800581) I
met up with my pace buddy and a few other people. We rode out together, our
nerdy biker gang, and pushed towards Malibu.
It was during this stretch that I realized that I have explosive speed, and I
can climb, but I cannot maintain a strong speed for very long; no endurance.
By the time we got to [rest stop
two](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137379066359627776), I decided to go
my own pace. Partially because they were wearing me out, but more importantly,
my team was going to meet up before the finish line so we could cross together.
But we were going to meet up at **3 pm**, I probably had more than four hours
to cover 30 miles.
Separating from that group probably didn't matter for my pace, because once we
entered Malibu, the entire road dynamic changed. Stop lights, hills, close
quarters, and bad drivers. More so than anywhere else we rode through, Malibu
drivers _consistently_ drove like assholes. They did not slow down, they did
not give any space, and they definitely did not care. On one occasion I had to
brake sharply because somebody had parked too far into the shoulder and
on-coming traffic from behind me did not give me any space. The descents,
gravely farm roads, and stretches alongside US 101 did not even compare to how
unsafe I felt riding through parts of Malibu.
I managed to survive and arrive at
[lunch](https://twitter.com/agentdero/status/1137415873344368640) _very_ early.
Although, when you wake up at 5, lunch at 10:30 doesn't seem as unreasonable.
With time to kill, I kicked off my shoes, sat in the sand, sat in the shade,
and tried to waste as much time as I possibly could.
One of the teams, the wackos who rode fixed/single-speed bikes the whole way,
stood by the side of the road and lunch and shouted "FUCK YEAH RIDER!" to
cyclists making their way to lunch. Like the dancing boys from the day prior, I
marveled at how these people had so much surplus energy.
Harley, his friend Jens, and myself rode off from lunch into Los Angeles for
the last 15 miles of ALC 2019. Taking our time, running down the clock until
3pm, we still showed up in the designated meeting area with a couple hours to
spare.
Harley grabbed drinks from the store, Jens smoked a cigarette.
While we waited for more of our team to trickle in, other teams also stood
around waiting for their peers to arrive, all of us shouting and clapping at
the cyclists passing us by. At one point a cyclist locked wheels with somebody
in front of him and went over his handlebars. He stood up, shaken but fine. I
made mental notes to ride as carefully as possible to the finish line, since I
didn't want to eat pavement in the 544th mile.
Once the whole crew was assembled we disembarked for the exciting last mile of
our entire journey.
It turned out to be one of the most boring of miles, slowly meandering through
a neighborhood before ending at the finish line. The finish line itself was
exciting, throngs of people, an announcer, noise, the whole atmosphere was
electric. I was however too focused on the speed bumps, other cyclists, and not
crashing, to really take it all in.
On the _other_ side of the finish line, we all crammed into a big bullpen to
either park our bikes, or line up for bike shipping. I dropped my rental bike
off and by the time I had found my broken bike in the parking area, I was able
to join my team who had made it almost 20 yards in the shipping line! The
"after the finish line" process took over an hour, standing on a asphalt in the
hot sun. Combined with the waiting in the parking lot for my team to show up,
I ended up far more grumpy and drained than I would have liked.
A $75 taxi ride to my hotel by the airport and a shower later, and I found
myself slowly drinking a beer and eating _again_ to recuperate from the day. I
fell asleep by 8:30 and woke early to catch my 6am flight, _first class_ back
to San Francisco and a day where I wouldn't eat many thousands of calories,
drink gallons of water, or cycling dozens of miles.
The flight back lasted 90 minutes, backtracking the route which I spent the
previous 7 days riding.
---
It would be incorrect to say that I remember every mile from San Francisco to
Los Angeles. I do remember most of them however. I can recall how my body felt or
imagine the vistas seen along the way. I joked once or twice how it all
felt like summer camp for grown-up drama kids. A collection of mostly gay men,
with a smattering of everybody else thrown in.
My people.
The effect referred to as the "love bubble" takes hold by day two. Embraced by
the collective positivity and bound together by a challenging shared
experience, everybody seems to get comfortable with one another almost
immediately. I don't know if that's because of the type of people who
participate in ALC or a result of the ride itself. It's infectious and makes it
impossible not to have a good experience, regardless of how your body parts are
feeling.
The sun blistering in my lip slowly healed over the next couple weeks, around
the same time it took my scorched upper thighs to peel and fade through various
shades of red before leaving me with a distinctive cyclist's tan.
My broken bike frame ended up being covered by a warranty, providing what I
would call a "security deposit" on a newer endurance road bike. One which will
hopefully survive a few more miles than the previous one.
I catch myself pining for the roads again. With the typical fantastic summer
weather in Sonoma county, I yearn to get out there and ride _somewhere_,
without having any particular destination in mind. The thought of riding fifty
or a hundred miles doesn't phase me. Aside from missing a road bike at the
moment, I start to imagine what foods I would pack in my bag and which
direction I would ride but the thought of "can I?" no longer exists.
I have not yet signed up for [AIDS/LifeCycle
2020](https://www.aidslifecycle.org/). I need to wait until closer to the end
of the year to make sure it would work in my schedule, but the thought is
already in my mind.
This year's ride raised a total of 16.7 million dollars, of which my supporters
contributed **$6,000**. Along the way, I tore through six inner tubes, replaced
one tire, schmeared countless packets of chamois (butt) butter, and wrecked one
bicycle frame.
Whenever I am able to ride next, it will be a challenge to top this, my inaugural
AIDS/LifeCycle.
I can't wait.

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