A call for money, creativity, and suggestions: Run me into the ground, please!

Six months have gone by since I moved to California, sobered up, and pulled my life together. I finally feel like the ground is solid under my feet again, but my head is swimming. Now that I'm here, what do I do now? I have set myself a few goals for the first half of 2011:

1. No big performance goals. I'm out of shape, and any performance goals are sure to end in frustration. I'm only allowed to do what looks like fun, and I'm not allowed to care about how I do in these events. I'm just here to collect stories, t-shirts, and fitness.
   
2. In direct contrast to goal number 1, I have some long-distance cycling goals to complete before July 1, 2011. I want to get the best female cumulative time in the California Triple Crown stage race -- three double centuries spread over spring and early summer. I also wanted to break the female course record at the Davis 12 hour Challenge, but as I wrote this I found out that it won't be held this year. Damn.
3. I will also be riding the AIDS LifeCycle again this year. This is my most ambitious goal, not because of the 545-mile week, but because I have set the goal of raising $7000 for the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. In 2008 it was all about the bike. In 2011, it's all about the cause. There are more than 44,000 people in the Bay Area alone living with HIV (based on 2007 statistics), many of whom use the SF AIDS Foundation's help to get the medication, counseling, and social services that they need to continue to live healthy lives.
   

While goals 2 and 3 may seem challenging, let's be honest. I can ride faster over longer distances than most if not all girls I've ever met at such events. (Not that there aren't faster girls out there, but they're not into ultracycling). Given a decent state of fitness (which I plan to achieve by "having fun" over the next few months) I will probably have enough fitness and cockiness to keep me in the running at the Triple Crown. And it isn't the 545 miles over 7 days of the AIDS LifeCycle that will be the challenge, it will be reaching my $7K fundraising goal.

I don't know about you, but I need more than that to keep me fired up. I need something to do every day that will peel me out of bed and keep me motivated to be consistent. With my eternally morphing goals, consistency is my downfall. Last week I wanted to be a triathlete, but the week before that I was a cyclist, and the week before that I was pretty sure that I wanted to be an ultrarunner. A month ago I was thinking about lofty road running goals. Or finally digging out that Tour de France ass and six pack and making a body like a fitness model. Or maybe it was finally time to get off my ass and try Crossfit...

You see what I mean.

Goal no. 1 is about not taking the joy out of training, but I do need some kind of goals to keep training. Otherwise I'll have another week like this past week where the only training I did was my Spinning classes, and I took comatose naps for 2-3 hours every morning because I couldn't think of a good reason to move a muscle.

I think a streaking goal would be fun, but it needs to involve more lunacy and creativity than a "no zeros" campaign on my training log. I'd also like to somehow tie it in to my fund raising for a good cause to get other people involved in the cause as well as my progress (à la Eddie Izzard's marathons around the UK). Ideally, it will tie into a glut of entertaining blogs again, as with the race-a-week year in 2008 and the chronicle of my crawl back to sobriety a few months ago. I would like to do something truly extraordinary, but with my work schedule, it will have to be the everyman kind of extraordinary.

Another thing that has been gnawing away at me is that the sparkling gay men with their perfect hair cuts and perfect bodies under their spotless and impeckable clothes are not the only group that benefits from the SFAF's assistance. As unpleasant as it is to see, smell, hear, interact with, think about, and be a victim of the junkies that troll the urban piss bogs of San Francisco, they remind me every day of where addiction can take you if you're not lucky. In the neighborhood where I work, I see them every day. Some of them are addicts, some have gone beyond addiction and have just fried their brains past the point of recognition, and many of them aren't even addicts but a drug tripped a switch they didn't even know they had. You do really, really stupid shit when you need your fix: selling your ass on the street, sharing needles, who knows what other unsavory activities. You don't give a shit, even if it means getting sick. Then, if one day you start to give a shit again, you could still be sick. For the people who are crawling back up from nothing, free health services could give you your life back. I was lucky that when I cleaned up, I still had my health. Somehow I stumbled on the mindframe and hobbies that allowed me to come out the better for my addiction, and with my body still intact. I feel like I owe it to the world to use my body to do something extra for the unlucky. Just one week of riding almost seems like a cop-out.

Here are some ideas for how I can roll my fund raising goals, my sanity, and my hankering to get back into the blogosphere into one. I want to do something inspiring, but right now my mind just isn't coming up with anything creative. I welcome ideas, suggestions, and heckling. I also welcome suggestions for how I can get more people involved in the challenge.

1. Since my goal is to raise $7000, then I could shoot to swim 70 miles, bike 7000 miles, and run 700 miles before the beginning of the ride on June 5 (that's an average of 6800 yd, 411 biking miles--yikes! that may have to be ammended--, and 41 running miles per week).
   
2. Or perhaps more realistically, complete the distance of 7 Ironmans over the next 17 weeks. Folks could pledge a small sum for every ironman I finish, or place bets on whether I finish at all. Or I could just accumulate an Ironman a week for the next 17 weeks...
   
3. A reader-submitted workout challenge where each week people have to submit their most greuling swim, bike, run, and weightlifting workouts and I blog about completing them. The submitter also suggests "value" of the workout, and people can vote on how great they think the workout is by pledging a certain sum for the completion of each. (Get creative here: treadmill marathons, Crossfit torture, the worst hill repeat workout you can think of...) This could also serve as a bank to spice up your own routines with other people's favorite workouts.
4. Run the distance of the AIDS Lifecycle (545 miles) before the event begins (32 miles/wk... on top of bike training). Ask for pledges for every marathon completed. Demand a good story from each one (if I get toward the end of a 26.2 mile stretch without any good stories, then I'll have to run around downtown SF in a giant penis hat... no, wait, that wouldn't get me much attention around here...)
   
5. Burn at least 545 calories every day by some means or another. Hey, it's not creative, it's not challenging, but at least it's consistent.
6. Swim the English Channel, bike across America, run the length of California.
7. Lift 1 million pounds per week. This one could be fun. It would get me into the weight room and doing some Olympic style lifting. I have no idea how the breakdown would go, but it would be a complete change of pace and I'm sure it would change my body composition and give my updates a whole new flavor. People could pledge for every million pounds lifted.
   
8. People could just pledge a certain amount of money per mile run, biked, or swum (think a penny per mile run, a penny per 10 miles biked, and a nickel per mile swum), and cap it off themselves at whatever they are willing to pay as a maximum pledge. Then I have to swim, bike, and run as far as I can in the next 5 months.

I don't know guys, help me out here. I want to make it fun for people to support the foundation, and I want to make sure that the event is enough of a challenge. HELP!

Day 6: I won the race!

Related posts:
Prologue: Dykes and Bikes
Day 1: A Ride Down Memory Lane
Day 2: And I'm faster than YOU, and YOU, and YOU...
Day 3: Back Pedaling
Day 4: I find a Fan Club and an Archnemesis
Day 5: Red Dress Day

I woke up early on Day 6 in order to hit the road early. All the holdups on Red Dress Day and the subsequent argument over how much pizza a human being has the right to eat had me feeling sullen and cranky, and I really wanted to get out there and see what I was capable of on my 6th consecutive day of riding. I still felt good, but everyone else seemed to have faded long ago and now they were cracked and peeling. Meg's friend, the heavy one, sagged before she even left camp (when I heard that, I was even more bitter about the pizza comment!). Meg would have problems later in the day. Shane was falling apart and just wouldn't admit it. "I saw Mdot girl in the med tent last night," he confided. "She was walking all funny and had her leg taped up." Alisa was in better spirits after her meltdown, but ready to get off the bike. Word on the street was that if you got too close to Trish she might explode. The only ones who still felt good were me and Lorraine. So while Shane decided to spend the day with Meg and Jess, I rolled out just as they opened bike parking and struck out on my own.

"Just to remind you, you'll be held at Rest Stop 2 until 9:00, so you might as well take your time!" a man was yelling over and over as he paced bike parking. It was 7:00 in the morning and Rest Stop 2 was only 25 miles away.


Coming out of camp we started to climb immediately. It was a long, long hill about 1,000 feet high and 16 miles long. It wasn't too challenging, never going above 5%, and I trucked my way to the top without much trouble. One guy that passed me on the climb said, "Hey, I know you! We talked yesterday. I'm Merc."
"From the cell phone chargers?" I said. Electrical outlets were hard to come by, and people tended to congregate around them to make sure their stuff wasn't unplugged. Now that I think about it, this man wasn't who I thought he was and I have no idea who he really was.
"What are you doing out this early?" he asked.
"Sometimes I ride with my friends, sometimes I want to beat the crowds."
"We call that, 'racing for the blue water'," he said.
"What? What does that mean?"
"In the Porta-Potties. You know, the blue water that no one's used yet." He had a point. I liked that. So even though they were going to hold me at Rest Stop 2, I raced for the blue.

Finally I got to the long, glorious downhill on beautiful, glassy pavement. The only problem was that we were on a sort of freeway at that point, and I was stuck behind a guy who was riding his brakes the whole way down, weaving all over the lane. "ON YOUR LEFT," I called as loud as I could. He continued weaving. He simply wasn't holding his line, and I didn't dare pass him going 35+ mph on a freeway. "ON YOUR LEFT!" I called again. Still, nothing. I came in a little closer. "LEFT!" ... nothing... "PLEASE don't make me ride on the rumblestrip!" I pleaded. Finally he moved way right for long enough for me to pass him. "THANK YOU," I yelled, adding a few impolite nicknames under my breath.

At the bottom of the hill, even before I'd lost the momentum from the descent, the rout spit us RIGHT onto highway 101. If you don't know the area, this is a MAJOR highway, and the best way to get to LA from all coastal points north. It's pretty and runs right along the water, but it's still a freeway and it's still scary as hell to ride your bike on. On top of that there was an UNBELIEVABLE headwind gusting up the coast. I'd never had to ride into a wind like this for any significant amount of time. In fact, I don't think I'd ever encountered a headwind like this until this week. When I got into Rest Stop 2 there were only about a dozen people there, and the roadies were still setting up. They were having a hell of a time getting the canopies set up in the wind, and it took me and another rider to hold one of the posts down while the roadie tied it to the bumper of his truck (the milk crates filled with full jugs of water weren't enough to hold it down). I still had 40 minutes to wait, so I grabbed a couple of Mojo bars and sat at the top of a 100' cliff to look at the ocean. A tall man, about 30 years old sat next to me. "Hi! What's your name?!" he said. He was so flaming, he would set off sprinklers.
"Claire, what's yours?"
"Joseph." Then he looked meaningfully into my sunglasses. "I want you to remember me," his voice dropped and he said it like it was really important. If he weren't the gayest man I've ever met (and that's saying a lot), I might have thought he was hitting on me. Now that I think about it, he may have been a positive pedaler not wearing a jersey. Either way, it was clear that he liked being the center of attention. "I haven't seen YOU here before..." he went on in a Cheshire Cat kind of way. I swear, if I didn't know better I would think he was hitting on me.
"I was here the other morning. Sometimes I ride with friends, sometimes I ride alone."
"Well I'm your friend now, honey!" he said.

At a quarter to 9 there were over a hundred riders in Rest Stop 2, and dozens more coming by the minute. I decided that if I wanted to keep my lead, I'd better line up now. I grabbed my bike from its spot right at the front of the rack and nosed my way to the front of the gathering crowd. Then I spotted Shane. "Come have snack with me!" he said.
"Like hell I'm giving up this spot!" I said. "Come here when you're done!" But when he was done I was surrounded by another hundred people. He found a spot about 20 feet away and we made faces at each other, since we were too far apart to talk. Mdot girl was there too, just a couple of shoulders away to my right.

The reason for the hold was that just beyond the rest area there was a narrow bridge with no shoulder. The CHP (California Highway Patrol) had agreed to close down a lane for us between the hours of 9:00 and 12:00 a.m., but no earlier and no later. As the crowd thickened, tension rose. Nine o'clock came and went, and there was still no sign that they were going to let us go. "C'maaaaaaan!" a guy right behind me yelled. "WHAT'S THE FUCKING HOLD-UP?!" I don't think he realized how far his voice was carrying. "It's 9:15 already! Let us GO already!" It was only 9:10. These obnoxious comments continued at regular intervals, whether encouraged or not. He would say something, maybe laugh at his own joke, wait about 15 seconds, and then say something else obnoxious. People around him (including myself) were starting to turn and give him dirty looks.

Riders waiting to leave Rest Stop 2 at around 9:15.

Finally, one of the roadies started moving down the line yelling, "We are just waiting for the CHP to come back and tell us that the cones are set and we will let you go. We can't let you leave before that!"
"That's fucking CalTrans for you!" (CalTrans = California Transit) yelled the obnoxious man behind me. "Fucking Schwarzenegger won't give any money to fucking CalTrans..." What the hell is he talking about?! He thinks just because ONE trooper is running late setting up some cones it's a giant government conspiracy?! This is hardly the Super Dome! I thought. It was like having Gilbert Gottfried right over my shoulder. More people started turning and giving him dirty looks.
"Uh oh, Jimmy!" he yelled to someone at the very front of the pack. "I think I'm starting to piss off the neighbors! Time to leave the neighborhood!" 'Jimmy' turned around and gave him a half snicker, half snarl and turned back to the guy next to him.
"What the fuck IS this?! Are we going to have to wait her all fucking day?! TYPICAL CalTrans, doesn't work for fucking shit..." he went on.

Mdot girl turned around, "You know, you have real bad energy about you, you know that?!" she said. "It's not like you're the only one waiting here, so why don't you just calm down."
"I got a real bad energy?! I got a real bad energy?!"
"Yeah, so why don't you just keep it down," she said. Alright, she was kind of a bitch, but at least she was actually SAYING what the hundreds of people around her were thinking.
"I should come over there and kick your ass!" he said. "I'll kick your ass and throw your bike in the ocean and show YOU who's got bad energy!"
She just raised an eyebrow and turned away. Still, Gilbert Gottfried didn't shut up.

At about 9:30 the roadies started making the rounds again with an update. "The trooper laid the cones only about this far from the barrier." She held up her hands about 16 inches apart. "We're going to have to wait until he re-lays them, then when he comes back here, we'll let you go.
"I could ride through something like that! Let us go!" yelled Gilbert Gottfried. "If you can't ride through something like that, you DESERVE to fall under a truck." Oh yeah, well why don't you go out there and try, then, thought a couple hundred annoyed cyclists. I'll drive the truck.
"Where's he in such a hurry to be?" I said to the guy next to me. I said it loud enough that I could be overheard. "He got an appointment in camp or something?"
"Some people just have to make asses of themselves, they can't help it!" he said. This guy was another Ironman athlete from the New York area and we bonded over triathlon, location, and rolling our eyes at each other every time Gilbert Gottfried opened his mouth.
He'd started to repeat himself. "If fucking Schwarzenegger weren't so busy blowing shit up and would put money into CalTrans..." What planet is this guy living on?! What is Schwarzenegger blowing up?! He may be Republican. He may blow shit up in movies, but he's hardly responsible for the war in Iraq..., thought hundreds of people around him.

The roadies were trying to make the best of a bad situation by inspiring us. "There are now roughly 2,000 cyclists gathered her right now. That is more than participated in the first AIDS/LifeCycle 7 years ago!" It wasn't inspiring anyone, just stressing us out that there were 2,000 of us and our bikes squashed into a tiny little Park & Ride off highway 101. I'd been lined up for nearly an hour.
"YOU SAID YOU'D LET US GO AT 9:00! WAS THAT 9:00 EAST COAST TIME?!" yelled Gilbert Gottfried.
Finally I turned around with the best look of disgust I could muster. "East coast time is 3 hours AHEAD, you moron."
He pretended like he hadn't heard me, but yelled, "I mean Hawaiian time?!" If this guy wasn't careful the crowd was going to pick him up and throw him over the cliff.

FINALLY at around 9:45 they announced that they would be releasing us in waves roughly 5 minutes apart. I smooshed forward to make sure I'd be in the first wave. They let us off, and I saw that Mdot girl was also going to be in the first wave. I got lost in the shuffle trying to clip in and she pulled out first, getting a roughly 50 meter head start on me. I made sure to say, "ON YOUR LEFT!" good and loud as I passed her, and surge ahead so that she couldn't catch me. Once I got up the momentum I kept it going. The headwind had died down a bit, but it was still strong. I didn't care. I was so sick of being around people that all I wanted to do was get AWAY. I hammered as hard as I could for the next 20 miles to lunch. Some people passed me, but not too many.

When I got to the bridge and the cones I couldn't believe it! The bridge was no more than 10 feet long, and there were only about a dozen cones laid out to block the lane! 40 minutes to do this?! Now that WAS silly. After about 10 miles on Highway 1, we hit Santa Barbara county and moved inland a bit. The road began to roll and I pushed harder. I saw a girl up ahead. She'd ridden away from me on the way out of Santa María and I hadn't been able to catch her. I was going to hang in behind her, but eventually momentum got ahold of me and I just passed her. I looked over and smiled, "Hi," I said.
"Hi."
Then I rode away.

As I pulled into lunch, I was among the first 10 or so riders into the stop. I looked around and didn't see any women. I stuck my fist up in the air, pasted the biggest, most triumphant smile I could on my face and yelled, "I WON THE RACE!!!" Of course, it's not a race, and this wasn't even any kind of finish line, just a rest stop, but it was a joke. Some people clapped, others smiled, others laughed, some looked confused.
I racked my bike and was walking right to the lunch table when a big guy in a t-shirt that said Media stepped in front of me. I froze. "Hi, I'm with the media and we've got a camera crew right over here and we'd really like to get an interview with a woman..." He stopped. My face was already ashen. "Not interested?"
"No. Thank you, but I am NOT interested!" I said. My mother will resent this answer for as long as she lives, but I knew that if I stepped in front of a TV camera I would just say something stupid. I wouldn't think to say anything about the charity, or to thank the supporters, or to say great things about the communities. I would probably get up there and start talking shit on all the other riders and how I was so much faster than all of them, even the boys. I don't really have a filter for what comes out of my mouth, so I just try to stay out of situations where it could get me in trouble.

I got my lunch and spent a few minutes refilling my bottles. When I sat down in a nice, sunny spot the girl that I'd just passed was at an empty table a few feet away. "Who do you race for?" she asked.
"No one. Just me," I said. "How about you?"
"I race against myself," she said. "It's more fun that way. You're a really strong rider."
"You too," I said. "You should race. You'd be good at it."
"Thanks." And then we both turned to our sandwiches. See? I'm not competitive off the bike. Not unless you're asking for it (Mdot girl! Cunt on a Pink Bike!).

Suddenly a guy started yelling from over at another table. It was probably Gilbert Gottfried, but I wasn't sure because even though I'd stood right in front of him for an hour, I never got a good look at his face. "Yeah, well if they ask you if you rode every mile, you can't say you did! You didn't ride every mile!"
He was yelling in our general direction. I looked around for someone behind me. She looked around too. "Who's he talking to?" she asked.
"No idea."
"What does he mean?"
"Hell if I know."

I was totally happy to be all by my self, wolfing down my sandwich in peace when a stranger sat down across from me and started yapping right away. He introduced himself, told me several details of his life which I did not ask for or listen to, and then finally asked, "Where are you from?"
"Boston, and yourself?"
"Boston? Really? What part?"
"About 10 miles north."
"What town?"
Nobody knows my town. People the next town over don't even know where my town is. There is absolutely no reason to go to my town unless you're one of the 25,000 people that live there, or need a Christmas tree or topiary from our huge garden center. You wouldn't even pass through my town if you got lost. Saying the name of my town usually shuts people up, because they've never heard of it and therefore have nothing else to say. "Winchester," I said. There, that should do it! I thought.
"Winchester?! Really?! I grew up in Winchester!"
No you didn't. You're lying to me. There is no reason why anyone from this far away would know Winchester. "Really?" I asked, disinterestedly.
"Yeah. I used to play at the Packer courts all the time." I stopped eating my sandwich and looked at him. The Packer courts are some tennis courts less than a mile from my house. "I used to live over by Lynch Middle School..."
"It's an elementary school now," I said in disbelief. This guy really was from Winchester, and it looked like he hadn't been back in over 40 years, and here he was sitting across from me at a picnic table in Santa Barbara, California. That didn't mean I wanted to talk to him, though.
He kept talking and talking, no matter how little feedback I gave him, until Shane turned up about 10 minutes later. Then he kept talking. Between words I managed to squeeze in a greeting to Shane. "Where've you been?"
"I left in the group behind you. I left Meg and them this morning. They were just going too slow, and my knees were bothering me too much. I just want to get today over with."
Meanwhile, the man from Winchester was still yammering on in the background.
"Well, I was just about to leave once I finished my sandwich," I said to Shane.
He looked at the man from Winchester still telling his life's story. "Hold on, I'll eat quick." In a daring show of gastric acrobatics, Shane gulped down his sandwich in a matter of minutes.
"Well, we'll see you around," I said to the man from Winchester, and we both got up and left him mid-sentence. We'd been around other people too much this past week to bother with manners.

Shane and I were among the first people out of lunch, but not THE first. We got caught in a group that was more competitive than they were good. Every time we would try to get around them, each individual would surge ahead to not let us pass. Plus there were lots of rolling hills and stoplights. The end result was that it was hard to stay together. I would surge on ahead, trying to get around the pack, only to be caught at a stop light or on a hill. Every once in awhile Shane would turn up again after I thought he was gone for good and heckle me as he passed. "You're not SPECIAL!" I would yell as I passed him back. I suppose we could have worked together to get out of the group, but we were both feeling like lone wolves at that moment, and we both wanted to prove that we were top dog. Eventually Shane was gone and I finally lost the pack. Now that I was alone, I missed him.
I asked him that night what had happened, "You guys were all surging all over the place and racing to every stop light. I don't know, it just wasn't fun. I was over it."

I guess I could have gone easier, but Shane and I were getting dangerously close to overdosing on each other. I was goading him too harshly, and he was saying more and more often how mean I was. "You know, I'm the only one of your friends who will put up with your shit," he said.
"No you're not! I have other friends!"
"Well I'm the only one who doesn't talk shit about you behind your back!" I know Shane well, and I know what he meant about people talking shit behind my back. I have a pretty good idea of what people say, and I deserve it. Sometimes I'm a bit caustic. Shane's comment was more meant to cut me down to size than it was true. I think we were jealous of each other. He was jealous because, even though he was doping and he was the one who rode his bike every day, I was still a slightly stronger rider. I was jealous because he wanted to do RAAM, and he was talking about trying to qualify next year. That was MY dream, and I didn't want him getting it first, especially since I'M the planner. He's always got his head in the clouds and coming up with hair-brained schemes: a commune in Costa Rica, a pyramid scheme, writing a book, buying real estate in San Francisco, starting a co-op. RAAM just sounded like another one of his hairbrained schemes, and I didn't want him talking about one of MY dreams like that. It made it sound cheap. It was probably better that we were apart.

The harbor in Santa Barbara. I'm going to live here someday.

For the last 30 miles I rode by myself. For the first ten miles after lunch we were riding through Santa Barbara, which is where I'm going to live when I'm a millionaire. They had us riding on a bike path, which was a pain in the ass because there were menacing signs everywhere that said not to go over 10 mph. I even managed to lose the trail once... okay, twice. Then, I came through a gauntlet of UCSB coeds handing out Red Vines and came upon a clearing with tables: they were giving away free ice cream and strawberries! I had a small cone of the most delicious ice cream I've ever tasted and stood at the strawberry table for about 10 minutes eating berry after berry. I couldn't believe Shane wasn't here by now (when he did arrive, he washed his hands for several minutes with real running water, not the hand sanitizer stuff that just spreads the dirt around!). I stood watching the cyclists come in across the street, and the only other person standing there was: Mdot girl! We were standing not 2 feet apart. We clearly knew each other, and we clearly weren't speaking to each other. Finally I said, "Have you seen Shane?"
"Is he the dude that rides with you guys?" she asked.
Duh! "Yeah."
"Nope. Have you seen Kim?"
"Nope." End of conversation. I stuck around for a few more minutes, and when he didn't come, I went on by myself.

Me looking fat and eating ice cream. This is Ginger. She came out every day to cheer us on somewhere along the course, wearing a different outfit every day. Shortly after this picture was taken someone asked, "Will Ginger be at the closing ceremonies tomorrow?" "No honey, Ginger is just for fun. Closing ceremonies are just to thank the riders. Ginger has no business stealing the show there." It was one of the most gracious things I heard all week.

The final 10 miles was a nerve-racking stretch on the shoulder of 101 along the beach. My ass was sore and the pavement was rough. The paint that they'd used to paint the bike lane logo on the ground must have been a half inch thick, because it rattled my teeth every time I rode over one. Every time a truck went by the wind would blast you off course. The headwind was strong, and I was lonely out there. Almost no one was ahead of me or behind me. For the first time I hit a low. I just wanted this to be over. I wanted to get off my bike and rest. I was checking my mileage every couple of seconds and it didn't seem to be budging. I started feeling sorry for myself.

Finally we got to the town of Ventura, where camp was. "Just 1.5 more miles!" a volunteer at an intersection told me. He lied. It was easily another 3.
Just then, a couple of guys rode up behind me. "Hey! Joseph, right? I remember you!" I remembered him because he'd asked me to this morning.
He didn't seem to care, he was talking to someone much more interesting: an attractive man. We were riding on a boardwalk again and there were pedestrians and more stationary obstacles everywhere. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!" Joseph screamed like a little girl. "Don't run over the cute ones!" There were a couple of 17-year-old jock-looking guys walking in front of me. I was not about to hit them. "I saw you, girl. You almost ran over those cute guys..." Joseph said, swiveling around in his saddle to check them out over his shoulder.
"Did not!"
We were only riding at about 15 mph, Joseph and his crush du jour about 5 feet in front of me, when a long-haired, bearded man busted out from behind a planter brandishing a cane. "SLOW THE FUCK DOWN, MAN!" he yelled, trying to smack Joseph with the cane. Joseph screamed again. The guy's face looked funny and he slurred his speech like he'd had a stroke, but he couldn't have been more than 40 years old. The lights were on, but no one was home. We sprinted away from him the final half mile in to camp.

The first thing I did when I got to camp was schedule my free massage. Every rider got only one free massage, and most people had the same idea that I did: to save it until the last day. Since I was among the first people in camp (except the sagged riders), there were still slots when I got there. When I got on the table my masseur asked, "So what hurts?"
I tried to think of something to complain about. "Actually, nothing," I said. "I just didn't want to pass up a free massage..."
"Nothing is bothering you?!" he asked. "Are you a rider or a roadie?"
"I'm riding. Well, I guess my shoulders are usually pretty tight. I mean, not right now, but most of the time," I offered.
"Alright..." he said, and had me lie down. He massaged my whole body. He did this thing where he put my knee in my armpit and my whole back cracked, but that was the most dramatic thing about the massage. When I was finished he said, "Wow, you really didn't have ANY tight spots or knots. You were right!" We were both surprised. It just didn't make sense. I hadn't even been stretching.
"Thanks!" I said, and hopped off the table.

When I got out, Shane had finally come back into camp. We'd both had low points today and we blamed it on the pizza the night before. We walked to the beach that was RIGHT next to camp. Shane's afraid of water (he discovered a dead body at the beach when he was 10), so he didn't go in past his ankles, but I waded in up to my waist. I had my cap and goggles with me, but the water wasn't all that warm. "How about I just dive under?" I said. "Just to say I did it."
"You're crazy," Shane said.
"It's been suggested." The next wave that came along I dove under it and ran back up the beach screaming like a little kid. "NOT THAT WARM! NOT THAT WARM!" I squealed. Once I got to our stuff I admitted. "It wasn't that cold either."

We weren't the only ones who had had bad days. Narine had gotten lost thanks to this one roadie who dressed up as a giant purple pill that said "YOU ARE MY VIAGRA!" and he would yell, "Keep it up! Keep it up!" to all the riders who went past his post. Today, it had been his job to wave us off the road and onto a bike path. "But when I rode by, I was so busy staring at this fool screaming in his stupid costume that I didn't pay any attention to what he was saying. I followed the road up that gigantic hill. Do you guys remember that? So I went up that big hill and down the other side, and eventually a sweep van comes up next to me and the driver says, 'Blazing your own trail?' I hate that stupid viagra guy." Apparently the rest of the old ladies had passed her in a pace line. "They come up to me like a freight train and Kim yells, 'Get on the back!' I wasn't getting on that thing! I'm here to enjoy myself and see the scenery, not blow through here like a tank engine!"

Meg had an even better story. She had been one of the last ones to come out of Rest Stop 2, and, as a slower rider, she got to lunch shortly before they were closing. They threatened to sag her if she didn't get out soon, so she wolfed down her lunch too quickly and rode away. Then, on the road after lunch her helmet strap was rubbing against her throat in a funny way that made her nauseous (I don't get it either). Suddenly, right as she was riding down a hill, she turned her head and puked... Only, since she was riding down hill, it splattered all over her. When the sweep car saw her, they were afraid that she might be dehydrated and wouldn't let her keep going.

In Lompoc I'd visited the Dedication Tent. The Dedication Tent was a closed tent where they played soft music and people could post pictures and messages for friends and loved ones who had died of AIDS. I went into that tent and read many of the messages. I stared at the pictures. There were people who had written lists of names a dozen names long. There were messages to brothers, fathers, sons, boyfriends, daughters, and friends. I came out of that tent crying and went straight to my tent.

In Ventura, the last night of the ride, we held a candlelight vigil. They gave out candles in clear, plastic cups and 3,000 riders and roadies went down to the beach and stood in a circle. The circle was about 4 people deep and roughly the length of a football field. The guys who dressed in drag in earnest (not the showy Liza Manelli types) wore their best skirts and wigs and stuffed bras. Everyone was quiet, looking at their candles. Even if you weren't into symbolic things like this, it was dark and quiet and there was nothing to do BUT look at your candles.

Then, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence came out. I don't quite know what the whole story is, but they are a whole group of gay men who dress up in nun costumes and kabuki-type make-up and do charity work at gay-centered events. I don't know if it's a San Francisco thing or if there are chapters in other cities. Apparently it's a really involved organization with a hierarchy and a whole system of moving up from a novice to a mont to Mother Superior. Anyway, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence came out with big candles and some sort of red banner and walked a lap around the ring of candles.
(Right: A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence on Red Dress Day)

Then, people started walking up to the waves and putting their candles out in the water. Only most people were wearing pants and shoes, and with the waves, it was hard to be in just the right place at the right time to put your candle out without getting your shoes wet. It was taking awhile for everyone to get to the waves at just the right moment. "Can't I just blow my candle out?" asked Shane.
"No, Shane! This is important."
"Oh, come on, half those people aren't even putting their candles in the water. They're just putting it out in the wet sand like a cigarette."
"Shane, if this were a memorial service for you, would you like to be put in the waves, or would you like to be blown out like a birthday candle? We're waiting for the waves!"
So we waited for the waves, then went back to our tent and went to sleep.

Day's miles: 87.68
Total saddle time: 4:54:07
Average speed: 17.9 mph
Total elevation gain/loss: roughly 2,000'

Day 5: Red Dress Day

I know, I know, this has been a long time in coming. You've probably forgotten I ever even STARTED writing about my experience at the AIDS LifeCycle. But if you haven't guessed already, these things take awhile to type up and, well, I've been lazy. So without further adu, onwards to Day 5.

Related posts:
Prologue: Dykes and Bikes
Day 1: A Ride Down Memory Lane
Day 2: And I'm faster than YOU, and YOU, and YOU...
Day 3: Back Pedaling
Day 4: I find a Fan Club and an Archnemesis

While I was packing for my trip I called Lorraine to find out what to bring. The conversation went something like this:
Lorraine: Have you packed your red dress yet?
Claire: What?
Lorraine: Your red dress.
Claire: Is that a joke? What would I need a red dress for?
Lorraine: For Thursday. Thursday is Red Dress Day. Everyone wears red dresses. It's really fun.
Claire: I don't believe you. Not for a second, Lorraine.
Lorraine: Fine, don't believe me then. But you're sure going to feel stupid on Red Dress Day.
Claire: I don't even think I HAVE a red dress. I look like I'm in drag when I wear a dress. Can I NOT wear a red dress? I have a red jersey.
Lorraine: Sure, you CAN not wear a red dress, but you're going to look lame. EVERYONE wears a red dress. Last year there was a guy who had cleats put on the bottom of his stiletto heels. People really go all out...

Later I called Shane.

Claire: Shane, have you packed a red dress?
Shane: No. Why would I pack a red dress?
Claire: Well Lorraine said... (and I explained it)
Shane: Whatever, that's stupid. I'm not wearing a red dress. I have a red jersey.
Claire: Lorraine said you'd look like a fool...

So, by some miracle I found a red dress in my closet (actually, it was kind of a choral color) that I hadn't worn in 7 years and packed it, even though I would look more like I was in drag than the guys.

Just because you're wearing a red dress, doesn't mean you don't have to stretch.

When I woke up on Red Dress Day, it turns out that Lorraine really wasn't having me on. I woke up to 3,000 cyclists and roadies all running around in red dresses, 3/4 of whom were men. Lorraine and the Old Ladies had gotten a hotel for the night, and they were planning to get some sleep and not get to camp until the absolute last moment possible. The day was only supposed to be 40-something miles anyway, and camp didn't open until 1:00, so we might as well take our time.

Shane went ahead in his red jersey, and the Old Ladies turned up at about 7:45. They were all dressed to the nines in red, poofiness, laciness, shininess, fabulousness, sparkliness and hotpants. The first thing Lorraine said to me when she saw me was, "YOUR DRESS IS PINK!"
"No it's not! It's red! And don't you ever say otherwise!"
"It's pink," she corrected me.

From left to right: Lorraine, Alisa, Trish, and Narine.

We spent the rest of our time pinning things onto helmets until the roadies ran around threatening to sag us all if we didn't hit the road. Lorraine pinned a pill box hat that she wasn't using onto my helmet, somewhat against my will. "Even though it clashes with your pink dress," she said as she handed my helmet back to me.
"It's red!" I insisted. It's not totally by accident that I'm not in any of the pictures from red dress day. Hey, I was in a dress, wasn't I?!

Not my picture, but we were around this chick for the hours it took us to get out of Santa María.

Finally we got out onto the road and started the SLOWING... STOPPING... SLOWING... STOPPING... ROL...STOPPING! routine. Since we were at the back of the pack, and since there were a lot of us, we had to go at a snail's pace through the eight million red lights in the town of Santa María. After about an hour and a half we were still in Santa María, we were still several miles from the first rest stop (at around 9.5 miles), and we all had to pee. We pulled off at a gas station and watched a man in a red dress walk into the bathroom and got in line behind him. About 5 minutes later we were still standing there. Clearly SOMEBODY was breaking Claire's No. 1 Rule of Public Pooping: Don't. "Fuck this, I'm going to the KFC across the street!" said Narine. Trish followed her.
Lorraine had a better idea. "Oh look! A car wash!" Alisa went in the bushes in the couple of feet between the car wash wall and a fence. Lorraine just walked right into the car wash. "It's got floor drains..." she said as she walked off.
"OH MY GOD! 1-1-1, GUYS!!!" I yelled from my place in line for the bathroom. When Lorraine and Alisa came out from their hiding places in the car wash Lorraine said, "Oh my god, you're still here?!" I made them wait another minute or two for the guy in the bathroom to come out. Then I did my business, we picked up Narine and Trish from the KFC, and resumed our SLOWING and STOPPING.

Stragglers in bike parking. This photo does it no justice.

After what felt like an eternity we hit the bottom of a long climb and were able to actually INCREASE our average speed by passing people on the way up the hill. I rode on ahead, and then waited for the rest of the Old Ladies at the top. This time I'd learned my lesson and stopped a few feet before the crest so that they wouldn't be going 35 mph yet while I was still re-mounting my bike. Before long Alisa and Lorraine turned up and I hopped in right behind them. When we hit the downhill we all stood up and hunched down into a crouch over our handlebars. I was 3 feet behind Alisa and her ass hanging out in those shiny hotpants and fishnet tights.
"ALISA! THIS IS THE BEST VIEW I'VE HAD ALL WEEK!" I yelled.
"WHAT?!" she yelled over her shoulder.
I rode up next to her and gave her a light tap on the butt. I repeated my comment. "Man, you gotta hit it harder, girl! I could hardly feel that one!" she said. So for the rest of the day I tried to get a good smack in. It's harder than it looks on a moving target. Each time she would say it was lacking something. Finally, about half way though the ride I got a good one on an uphill. My bike handling skills got much better over the course of the week. I was hitting nearly all my targets in the butt-poking game too.


We stopped at the second rest stop, which was the main street in a town of about 6 people called Casmalia. It was one of those towns made up of one poorly-paved road with a general store/post office with about as many square feet as my bedroom, and a house. In Casmalia every year they threw a dance party for us, and Lorraine had been looking forward to it for days. "Are you going to dance?!" she asked.
I don't dance.
We stood in the long line for the bathrooms, and decided to pass on the long lines for snacks. Man, showing up at the end of the pack sucked. When we went to try to start dancing (or in my case, watch the dancing), though, no one was dancing. Trish and Narine were over it and rode off. Alisa and Lorraine wiggled their butts for a couple of beats before the roadies started coming through and threatening to sag anyone who wasn't out in 5 minutes again. As we were leaving we found Kim and Mdot girl. They were not wearing dresses, pink or otherwise. Mdot girl had even foregone her red Mdot jersey for a green one from Ironman 70.3 California.


There were a couple of reasons why Day 4 was short. One was for it to be a rest day, but the other was because this was the day with the most significant hills. Coming out of Casmalia, we started climbing right away. I told Lorraine I'd see her soon and moved out to the left to pass all the fat girls in red dresses. I swear, the ride was 75% male, and all the females must have been in the back 26% of the pack. It was a pretty sad day for feminism seeing all those girls in their dresses climbing the hill at about 3 mph. I moved out to the left and started chanting "On your left" every other pedal stroke. Kim and Mdot girl were ahead of me coming up the hill. I passed them and they got in behind me. Oh no you don't! I thought. This was my chance to prove my salt after their slighte about the marathon the night before. I started powering up the hill. After a minute or so I stopped hearing Mdot girl calling out. I'd dropped her, but Kim was still there. Well, if Kim kept up with me, then Mdot girl would have no way of knowing how strong I was. Kim had to drop back and TELL Mdot girl what a badass cyclist I was. I surged. I couldn't drop Kim. Then I tried something that I'd read about, but never thought possible. "See you at the top!" I said and clicked up to a harder gear, stood up, and rode away. I stayed in that gear for about a minute, and when I dropped back down to an easier gear, Kim was gone. Ha! I'd done it. I rode hard to the top of the hill to make sure I'd gotten my breath back by the time Kim and Mdot girl showed up. Kim rode by about 30 seconds later, and Mdot girl was about a minute behind her. They rode off to talk about what a badass cyclist I am while I waited for Lorraine and Alisa.

We tore off down the hill and soon caught Kim and Mdot girl again. Next we had to climb an even longer hill that kept going up and up around every turn. At one point there was a hairpin turn and you could see all the cyclists climbing on the road directly above your head. It looked pretty damned steep. At the hairpin turn there was a roadie directing traffic, only letting us around the dangerous curve when there were no cars around. I had just barely dropped Mdot girl and Kim was still hanging on my wheel when we got to the stop sign. The roadie waved all three of us (and about 20 of our closest fat girl friends) through at the same time. I had barely clipped in again and reached a regular cadence when I pulled the harder gear trick again. I clicked the button, then clicked it again, stood up, and rode away hard. I dropped them before they even got started, and whenever they looked up the long straightaway up the hill they had to look at my pink dress among all the red ones disappearing off into the distance. I felt better now.

Lompoc, where the next camp was, is a typical steamy little town inland in southern California. It was bursting with strip malls and corporate chains, girls in shortshorts and skank tanks, and boys with big cars and floppy hair 'dos. In the local Walgreens there was a poster to vote for this year's senior beauty queen. You know, SoCal. But the PEOPLE in Lompoc were great! One woman had wanted to do the ride a year or two ago, but couldn't make it fit into her schedule. So instead of riding, she resolved to help the riders. She went to all the local businesses in Lompoc and asked for discounts for the riders. She ran off maps of town with all the businesses offering discounts highlighted and the companies who refused the discount blacked out. Then she went to the local car dealership and got them to donate their biggest cars for the night, and got her family and friends to drive those cars in a makeshift shuttle service. In each of the shopping centers in town she stationed high school cheerleaders in lawn chairs with cell phones and walkie talkies, and every time a group of cyclists needed a ride, they'd call one. All the cars and cheerleaders had tip cups to help buy the squad new supplies, and we were more than happy to give them generous tips. The drivers were a gregarious bunch. They couldn't wait to tell us all about Lompoc. There wasn't much to tell, but they kept talking anyway.

The camp site in Lompoc was famous for the ducks that would come into your tent if you left it open, and even attack you if there was food around. I was looking forward to maybe swimming in the duck pond, but once I got a good look at the stagnant water, I thought better of it. We went and found Meg and hung out for a bit while her friends showered. While we were waiting Meg told us her fantasy about being part of a harem. She had this idea that when the man wasn't around, it would be a giant X-rated movie with all the wives. "You know, you could just move into a sorority. It's like the same thing, but with more booze and without the husband," I suggested. She and Shane didn't seem to mind much that half the people in the F-section were listening in on our conversation, but it made me a little uncomfortable.

I've mentioned before that there was no privacy in the tents, whatever you talked about in your tent was everyone else's business. There was a whole crowd of people who wore Hillary t-shirts around camp. Hillary's campaign had officially rolled over and died a couple of days before in West Virginia, but the only people who didn't seem to know it yet were the Clintons and the riders on the AIDS LifeCycle who hadn't had access to a TV, radio, or newspaper in days. The night before, a couple of tents away from Meg, one of the Hillary legions was singing her praises over the phone. It was starting to bug Jessie (Meg's tentmate). Hillary this, and Hillary that. All she wanted to do was sleep. She'd had enough. The next time he said "Hillary" Jess said, "Obama!" in her best Mr. Subliminal voice.
The Hillary supporter paused for a second. Then he went right on talking. "Blah, blah, blah, Hillary..."
"Obama!"
"..." then, after a few seconds, "blah, blah, blah Hillary..."
"Ooooo-BAma!"
"..." ... "blah... blah, blah, blah Hillary..."
"oBAma!"

Shane and I had our own annoying neighbor story. Our neighbors on one side were really cool (a dude from Hawaii and a girl from one town over from me in Mass), but on the other side were a couple of girls who were AWFUL! Actually, one of them was awful. She talked incessantly, and the other girl didn't even respond to her. She was one of those people who could keep talking and talking and talking without affirmation for hours and think she'd just had a conversation. "He says he doesn't love me, but I know he loves me, my friends say that he totally loves me, he just doesn't know it yet, and I can totally tell from the way that he acts that he loves me and..." You know, that sort of thing. We didn't even know the other girl's voice. And this girl had sagged EVERY SINGLE DAY (or one of the girls had anyway, we assumed it was Monologue Girl, because she embodied all undesirable traits). The night before Shane had heard her say, "Yeah, I ride my bike everywhere. I've worn the crotch out on all my pants because I'm always riding my bike."
"And she's sagged every day!" Shane told Meg and her other tentmate, SJ (they decided to triple up), who was back from the shower now. "I ride my bike everywhere, and I haven't worn out the crotch on ANY of my pants."
And then I opened up my big mouth, "The reason that she's worn the crotch out of all her pants is because she's a FATASS!" Typical tactful Claire, but I know from experience. My inner-thigh fat wares through all my pants. Immediately I knew I shouldn't have said it. SJ is a big girl.
On the way to the shuttles Meg pulled me aside. "Can we keep the fat phobic comments out of it?"
"Fat phobic?!"

Alright, I'll admit it. I'm afraid of being fat. I think I might rather lose my left arm than be obese, but that's just me. I've had an eating disorder in the past, and I realize that this attitude is not necessarily healthy. I make a lot of fat jokes. It's impolite, and I hurt people's feelings and for that I am sincerely sorry. But still, the chick in the other tent WAS fat, and she HAD sagged every single day, and if all her pants were crotchless, it wasn't because she'd been riding her bike.
"You know," Meg chastised me, "for some people, it's not their fault that they're heavy."
I was ready to eat my hat. I HATE that defense. Yes, there are some people who have glandular problems, but those cases are extremely rare among the overweight and obese. If there's one thing I can't stand it's when girls sit there and have a "right on, sister" moment while bitching about how "unrealistic" magazine photos are, while they wolf down endless 1200-calorie hamburgers. Yes, anorexia and bulemia are horrible disorders, and I am all for discouraging them. It's a horrible way to live. But the REAL problem in this country is obesity. One in 1,000 teenage girls in America is anorexic. One in three people in the US is obese. So if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a group of fat girls sitting around saying that 5'4" women are SUPPOSED to weigh 170 lb, and that it's HEALTHY to have another slice of pizza, and exercising every day isn't healthy, and what is the media doing to our society?! This is why you are more likely to be fat if you have fat friends! And these are the same people who are all bitchy when you light up a cigarette in their same zip code.

It's simple biology. Your body is constantly trying to maintain homeostasis. If you have a glandular problem, your body is not maintaining homeostasis, and you will gain or lose a whole bunch of weight. But most overweight people are actually staying the same weight, because their body is maintaining homeostasis! They are simply putting in SO MANY CALORIES, that their bodies are able to maintain an extra 50 lb or so of adipose tissue. If they weren't eating so goddamn much, and eating so much shit, then they wouldn't be so fat. Period. And yes, each individual's metabolism is different. Mine is slow, other people's are fast, but if you don't eat too much food, then you won't become a fatass. And don't blame the media if you don't look like a model from a magazine, blame all those yahoos who are telling you that it's OKAY to be eating 2,500 calories a day if you're sedentary.



But I was overruled, and I sat there stewing at the all-you-can-eat pizza place getting seconds and thirds of salad after my 2 slices of pizza, while Meg and her friends wolfed down 5 or 6 pieces of pizza apiece and gushed about how much they LOVED food, and isn't it great being able to eat WHATEVER you want?! Don't get me started on people who think that exercise is an excuse to eat "whatever you want." Maybe I was getting a bit tired too. I was definitely getting cranky. I'd felt like I was hardly able to ride today, what with all the traffic in Santa María, stopping for half an hour at each rest stop, and only having ridden 45 miles. Everyone else might be tired and worn down, but I still felt great. The next day I was going to go out and REALLY ride on my own. I needed to get away from people. Especially the slower people at the back.
Total miles: 42.55
Time riding: 3:22:06
Average speed: 12.6 mph

... And I'm faster than YOU, and YOU, and YOU... (Chapter 3)

Related posts:
Dykes and Bikes
A ride down Memory Lane
Alisa: "Do you know him?" Me: "No, I just liked his jersey."

"Claire! Your alarm didn't go off!" It wasn't quite light yet, but there was enough light to see that Shane was alarmed. We'd arranged to meet up with Kat for coffee at 5:30. Shane and Kat broke up 2 years ago, but that doesn't mean there's been any less drama between then and now. They hadn't hung out in months and he didn't want to miss the excuse to see her without having to break down and call her himself.

"FUCK!" I said, looking at my alarm. It was 5:15 and supposedly Kat would be here waiting for us in 15 minutes. That is, assuming Kat was up. Luckily she was up but still at home, which gave us a little while to pack our shit up and take the tent down. I don't usually drink coffee except for before races, but I figured that since I was on vacation, and technically this thing was like a giant race, I could have all the coffee I wanted. I didn't want to miss a chance for some real, good coffee.

When we got back we met up with Lorraine for breakfast, and when people saw our Pete's Coffee cups everyone wanted to be our friend and find out where a decent coffee place was. On the ride they were serving Maxwell House instant coffee. It might as well have been water. Food was prepared in a kitchen truck and served every morning and night out of giant aluminum pans under a canopy. At night the vegetarians had a separate line, but in the morning I had to get in line with everyone else and just say no to sausage and bacon. The plan was to ride with Lorraine and her crew, but somehow we got separated from them again. With 2,500 cyclists, that happens.

We pulled out onto the street and couldn't even clip in for a few blocks. Slowing. Stopping. Slowing. Stopping. Rolling. Stopping. There are 3 highways that lead out of Santa Cruz, and they all meet in one intersection. Our camp ground was only about 3 blocks from that intersection, and getting 2,500 cyclists through it at rush hour is something that someone should have thought of before now. Way back in the crowd we could see the light changing and changing, but no one was moving. People were getting impatient. As we got closer, someone saw that there was a roadie up there directing traffic and the word filtered back and we stopped grumbling. Well, everyone stopped complaining except for to one ass hole. "AW COME ON! MOVE PEOPLE! IT'S FRIGGIN' GREEN FOR CRISSAKES!"
"There's someone directing traffic," Shane said. The guy didn't hear him, and went on complaining. "There. Is. Someone. Directing. Traffic." Shane repeated. The guy made a few more snide comments, but eventually the guy next to him said, "No, dude, really, there's someone up there directing traffic," and he shut up.

I wish we'd taken a look at the rout before we left in the morning so that we could cut out most of the Slowing. Stopping. Rolling. Stopping. It took us even longer to get out of Santa Cruz than it took us to get out of San Francisco, and they chose some of the most trafficked, worst paved roads in Santa Cruz with some of the narrowest lanes to do it. The asshole was still behind us, and when someone rode by way out on the left he yelled, "I wonder if that yahoo knows that we've ALL thought of doing that!" Like that guy was getting away with something? Like Mr. Personality was supposed to get an award for outstanding behavior for waiting around with everyone else? In the safety video the Kindergarten Teacher had explained to us, "Remember, 1-1-1." (she shows her index finger 3 times for effect). " It only takes one rider, in one town, having a problem with one local, and it could be the end of the ride. So please, if you see someone who is not riding courteously or safely, please remind them: 1-1-1." We continued along at a snail's pace, and eventually the asshole DID try to break away, only to scare the shit out of someone in a pickup truck who flipped him off at the next light. The asshole flipped him off back.
"Hey man, you really shouldn't do that!" someone said.
"It's just reflex," the guy scoffed.
"Dude, I was about to 1-1-1 his ass!" Shane said later.

Now in our third town of Slowing. Stopping. Rolling. Stopping! we got to the Ugly Mug, a coffee shop that had sponsored an ALC team, including our friend Meg (who you will meet later). The Mug was offering free drinks to cyclists, and while most people stopped for a free drink, Shane and I pushed on ahead to get out of the madness and away from 1-1-1 guy.

Giant cut-outs of people somewhere near Salinas. These "people" must have been 20 feet high. I have no idea what they were there for.

Soon we were back on Highway 1, which goes clear around the Monterey Bay in a section called The Safety Corridor. They call it the Safety Corridor because it's not very safe. There's only about 1 lane of traffic going in each direction, and it's pretty much the only way to get from one place to another in those parts. The shoulder is narrow and people drive like jerks and there were semis everywhere, and I just wanted to get out of there. I didn't even know you COULD ride your bike on this street. The inland side of the highway is all strawberry farms, and brussels sprouts farms, and spinach farms worked by illegal immigrant workers. I couldn't believe the number of people who stopped their bikes to take a picture of the poor people at work. I waited for Shane at a farm stand where a lot of riders stopped to buy fried artichokes, and he was far behind. His knees were really feeling bad, so I rode on ahead.

After the not-so-safe Safety Corridor

Right before the next rest stop we had to ride for a few miles on a bike trail with gratuitous stop signs. I rode up behind a girl in a jersey that said something about riding across Alaska. "Alaska! Cool!" I said as I passed her.
"You're supposed to put your foot down at the stop signs," she sneered back. I'd come to a complete stop, but clipping out is such a pain in the ass.
"Thanks, next time I will!" I said, trying to hit the tone of voice right so that she would think I was serious, without while I would still know I was being sarcastic. Damned good thing, too. Apparently the "Safety Vehicle" was right across the street at the next stop sign writing down rider numbers for people who didn't put their foot down. I did just to make a point to stupid Alaska girl, but Lorraine's friend Trish wasn't so lucky and found a ticket on her bike the next morning. I assume the tickets work like warnings, 2 or 3 strikes and you're out.

I got into the rest stop just as Lorraine and her crew were leaving. "Nooooo! That's not faaiiir!" I whined, so Lorraine stayed back while I refilled my water bottles. I was surprised when we pulled back out again that I kept pulling away from her. I'd only ridden with her once 3 years ago, but I'd had to pull over for a breather on an uphill, and she'd dropped my sorry ass on a steep, technical downhill. I'd assumed she'd always be faster than me. I've talked about Lorraine here before. She's the ultrarunner who is older than my parents, a faster runner than I am, and (I always assumed) a better cyclist. Pretty soon we caught up with her crew and rode with them all the way to lunch.
"You guys are going slooooooow!" I whined. "Is that because you're old?" This is something that Lorraine and I can joke about. I just assumed that that kind of joking would be okay with the rest.

From left to right: Trish (mother of 3), Power Lesbian Shannon, One-Liner Nerine, Lesbian Alisa, Lorraine, Me, Shane

We all pulled in to lunch together, and Shane and Narine (another member of Lorraine's party) pulled in a few minutes later. Let me take this opportunity to introduce you to the cast of characters:
Me: Well, you already know me.
Shane: Who you know pretty well by now. He was one of my best friends from late college and thereafter. Our lives just seem to follow similar paths, and somehow we still manage to see each other at least once a year, no matter where we are living at the time.
Lorraine: Who alternates between role model, mom, and friend. She lives her life in reverse. She was serious when she was young, so now that she has all life's mistakes behind her, she's being young and having fun. She spends all her time running on trails, mountain biking, road riding, and racing in really beautiful places. I often channel my inner Lorraine to make important life decisions.
Alisa: Who you've met: the outspoken lesbian.
Narine: The master of one-liners. She was the slowest rider in the "Old Ladies'" group, but she was ubiquitous. I saw her everywhere. "Stop following me!" she said each time. I never got to know too much about her personal life. I DO know that she does Crossfit.
Trish: Trish was a mother of three and sweet as anything. She's one of those people that just seems so nice that I'm afraid to hang out with them because I'm just going to look like a jerk.
Shannon: I don't know how Shannon knew Lorraine's crew, but she knew Shane because Shane knows ALL the "power lesbians" in Santa Cruz. "Power lesbians" is a term that Meg (who you WILL meet soon) coined to talk about the L-Word clique of hot lesbians in Santa Cruz who all lead dramatically cool lives and have all slept with each other at one point or another. I recognized Shannon when we were introduced. She didn't recognize me. "Did you ever you never go to the Dakota?" she asked. Dakota is the dyke bar in Santa Cruz.
"I was there almost every weekend," I said. "It's okay, a lot of people didn't notice me there. I have hair."

At lunch I was pretty excited about being the fastest one in the group. I was genuinely surprised that I was faster than Lorraine and Shane, and enjoying feeling like I was competent at something. I did a lot of outright bragging, thinking that everyone knew I was kidding. I have a problem with that a lot, especially in California. I assume everyone knows I'm kidding, and everyone else thinks I'm serious and sits there stewing thinking, "What the hell is WRONG with this girl?!" I later found out that that's exactly what Alisa was thinking about me at that very moment.
"If she were really all that, she wouldn't need to brag about it," Lorraine muttered to Shane.
Meanwhile, I was off somewhere saying, "And I'm faster than YOU, and I'm faster than YOU, and YOU, and YOU..." When I heard Lorraine's comment I knew I'd laid it on too thick, but that wasn't for another day or so. I quit bragging right then and there, but I had to point it out after another day because no one had noticed. I guess they'd already decided I was a jerk.
We were already almost half way to LA when Lorraine said to Alisa, "Have you noticed that Claire stopped bragging. She wanted everyone to know that." After that people were nicer to me.

But for the moment I still thought I was the shit. We were riding through dry, dusty fields and there was a tremendous tailwind. As we were pulling back out onto the road I asked the Old Ladies, "Do you want to play my game? It goes like this..." and I reached out and poked Alisa in the ass. "Now you gotta catch me!" I called over my shoulder and sprinted off. I'd been playing that game with Lorraine and Shane every time I passed them in the last couple of days.
"There she goes," said Alisa. No one sprinted after me. High on life I let the tailwind carry me through the fields at speeds in the mid-20's. Between rest stops volunteers were holding out Red Vines and I grabbed them. It was a piece of cake! I was going to do those bottle grabs like a pro at Vineman this summer.

Do I have shit in my teeth? Noooooooo, because I just FLOSSED!

The next rest stop was at a vineyard. I was slightly disappointed that I didn't have to wait ages and ages for everyone to show up. As we parked our bikes Lorraine said something and smiled. "You have shit in your teeth," I said. I would want someone to tell me if I had something in my teeth too.
"So do you," she said.
"Really?" I said, curling my lips around my teeth. "Where?"
"Eeeeeeeverywhere," said Shane, waving his hand around his entire face to show that I had Red Vines stuck in my teeth up to my eyeballs.
"Well what do I do?!" I asked. "I can't swish with Power Ade, it's red!"
"I have dental floss," offered Power Lesbian Shannon.
"What? Like ON your bike?!"
"Yeah," she said, like it was perfectly normal and reached into her seat pouch and pulled out some mint floss. Talk about random...

Shannon convinced us that we HAD to stop at the next rest stop at a mission a few miles away. The mission offered free post cards and there was a banner for people to sign, but Shannon was most excited about the Otter Pops. "Two years ago when I did this I tried to ride with my Otter Pop in my mouth. Not a good idea. I fell off my bike going like 20 mph and got all cut up. So finish you Otter Pop before you get back on the bike!"

When we got to the Mission we laid our bikes down in the dusty lot and Shannon went to get an Otter Pop, while Lorraine danced with some bears in skirts. I followed Alisa, Trish and Narine into the Mission where we signed the banner and wrote some postcards in the cool shade.

Lorraine dancing like a crazy lady with some bears. Look how hard the wind is blowing!

Back out on the road I started to pull ahead again and was surprised to see that Shannon was keeping up. Shane I could understand because he's doping, but Shannon? She was right, you're stronger if you finish your Otter Pop before you get back on the bike. I slowed down a bit to talk to her and she told me that the next stop would be skinny dipping. I was ambivalent. "I don't know, I've been single for a long time, and there are just certain things you let go when you've been single for that long..." I said.

Then we turned a corner, and the wind that had been at our back was now blowing us off the road. It was crazy! It must have been over 20mph, and it kept grabbing our bikes and throwing us at the field next the road. I'd never ridden in a crosswind so strong. I almost lost Shannon for a little while, but then she caught up at the swimming hole. When we got to the skinny dipping river, it was down a steep gorge with a bridge over it. A roadie stopped us and made us wait before crossing the bridge. In a minute a school bus crossed, and then another one. The kids on one side of the bus were smiling and waving at us, but the kids on the other side were still trying to see over the edge of the gorge and giggling. They'd seen something in the gorge that was WAY more entertaining than a bunch of bike riders. I would hate to be the principal of that school the next day when all the angry phone calls start coming in!

Lorraine was waiting on the other side of the bridge (I forget how she'd gotten in front of us), and we decided that the water was definitely not deep enough to be worth it. There was some doubt about whether it would even cover our tits if we were to sit down in the deepest part, and climbing down that steep grade in bike shoes didn't sound like much fun. So we rode off together through the final 10 miles that were like a roller coster, a whole series of quick downhills that pushed you all the way up the next uphill. "I see you slowed down," Lorraine said to me, in the sarcastic tone I expected for all my bragging.
"Well, I got lonely," I said. "And Shannon was kind enough to keep up with me."
"You've slowed down now, but I almost puked trying to keep up with you before," she said.
"You did not!" I said. I was pleased. Someone had almost puked trying to keep up with me! Someone had clearly thought that I was worth almost puking to keep up with!

Worth noting was Rest Stop 4. The guys who had been dressed as badminton players the day before were now dressed as beauty queens. They were all in wigs and prom dresses. One had stuffed her belly and her sash said MISSed MY PERIOD. Another was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and a mullet wig and was holding handcuffs. Her sash said MISS 20-40.

We got back to camp so late that day that by the time we'd pitched the tent, showered, and eaten, it was almost bed time. I sat up for awhile talking to Lorraine, while Alisa went off to find the 12-step meeting that someone had arranged in camp each night. How cool is that?! Alisa and Trish knew each other from AA. Alisa never wound up making it to her meeting, but that's a story for tomorrow...

Total Distance: 105.4 miles
Total Time: roughly 5:51 in the saddle (I don't know for sure since my Garmin ran out of batteries)
Average Speed: roughly 18 mph

Map:In real life we rode all the way to King City. My Garmin didn't make it that far.

Elevation Profile:
Splits:
Related posts:
Dykes and Bikes
A ride down Memory Lane

A trip down Memory Lane (ALC Chapter 2)

Day 1: San Francisco to Santa Cruz

We woke up at 4:00 in order to be in the Cow Palace by 5:30. I had slept badly and insisted we stop for coffee on the way. It was early, but Shane insisted that Starbucks would be open. We were in one of the cultural centers of the United States, after all, and where there's culture, there's coffee. Of course Starbucks would be open. When we got to Starbucks there was a man sitting at a table out front, there were baristas inside, and I waltzed up to the door which was... LOCKED! "They're not open yet," the man grumbled. "I'ont know why not. Says right there on the sign they open at 5:00."
I looked at the sign. "It says they open at 5:30." I said, trying not to be rude.
"They're supposed to open at 5:00!" he insisted.
"It says right there, that they open at 5:30," I said. Maybe he hadn't seen the sign. People in San Francisco are crazy, especially the type that sit outside a Starbucks at 5:15 in the morning on a Sunday. Maybe he hadn't checked.
"No it doesn't. It says right there, Monday-Friday 5:00 a.m-10:00 p.m."
"Yeah," I said. "But it's Sunday." He looked stupefied. "Congratulations, you have the day off!" I said as I ducked into the car and out of his reach. He didn't seem to be rejoicing that he still had one weekend day left.
"Well, they'll have coffee for sure when we get there," I said. "They wouldn't have people show up somewhere at 5:30 and not give them coffee." Would they?

We picked up Shane's friend Lidia (who was there to take Shane's car home in exchange for getting to keep it for herself all week), and since my bike box was taking up the whole back seat, I sat in a complete stranger's lap the whole way to the Cow Palace. I hoped I didn't smell bad. I was wearing an old jersey, I knew that smelled bad.

When we got into the Cow Palace Shane and I dropped off our stuff at the gear trucks and went inside. They were serving breakfast, but NO COFFEE! I couldn't believe it! I asked one of the volunteers how in the world an event like this could have us show up at 5:30 in the morning, serve breakfast, and not serve coffee?! "I guess they just don't want people having to... GO... in a big hurry," he offered as an explanation. I grumbled as I walked away with my banana bread, but every time we saw someone with a Starbucks cup I would conspire with Shane to mug them (no pun intended).

They kicked everyone out of the bike racks at 6:00 for the opening ceremonies and herded us into the stadium (which still smelled like cow dung). Someone made a speech about those who had been lost to AIDS. I wanted to soak it up, but most of the speech seemed so trite, and he must have used the term "exhausted and elated" two dozen times, so I tuned it out and started watching the people around me, making up stories for some of them. There was an older couple right in front of me who hugged and cried during the moment of silence. I imagined that they had lost a son to AIDS. All around us there were people in "Positive Pedalers" jerseys with phrases on them like "eliminating stigma through positive public example", and "we all have AIDS if one does". These men (because they were almost all men) didn't look sick. I liked to imagine that I was in a way responsible for this because maybe they got their treatment through the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. As they started playing a song that I didn't recognize about loss and people proceeded through the center of the arena with banners with messages from riders to friends who had died of AIDS, it really, really dawned on me how lucky I am. I think that AIDS treatment and prevention is a great cause, but I've never been close to someone HIV+, or someone who died of AIDS. The number one reason why I did this ride was for the challenge. I'd seen the banners and markers lain out on a table at orientation yesterday. "Do you know anyone to write something to?" he asked. I shook my head. "Me neither," he said. So we walked on. Now I looked at all the people around me, many of them were men who were about a generation older than me. Most of them were gay. They were survivors from a time when they probably HAD lost not a few friends, but many of them. Some of the older ones might have known people who died totally alone, when people still didn't understand how it spread and treatment was virtually nonexistant. A lot of them had probably sat through the time when people were screaming that this was God's retribution on homosexuals, back before enough straight people were infected to be noticed, back before it was cool to be gay. I got misty-eyed and tried not to let Shane see that I was crying when he handed me the sunscreen.

When the ceremonies ended I sniffed back my snot and tears so I wouldn't get caught and Shane and I made a bee-line in our clipity-clopity shoes to bike parking. We were lucky. We were among the first let into the racks, and our rack was close to the exit. We only had a couple of hundred people in front of us, and so were able to ride out in about 15 minutes, but the people in the back must have taken hours to get out the door.

Just out the door, waiting for the hundreds of people in front of us to get through the traffic light at the exit.

This is not actually the rout we took, but it'll have to do. My GPS won't show me a map of the rout for some reason.

Slowing... Stopping...Rolling... Slooooooooowing... Stopping... Rol-Slowing!

We didn't hear much other than that for the first hour or so. I've never ridden with a group of cyclists so obsessed with yelling out a narration of their every movement. There were tons of traffic lights and tons of slow people, and we had to at least look like we were trying to stay single file. It took us about an hour to go the first 6 miles.

And there were people of all different abilities (mostly, not very good) all mixed together. It made passing dangerous. Not 2 miles into the ride as Shane and I were passing a group a woman came up on a pothole and swerved to miss it, crashing right into Shane and taking him out. She stayed upright and rode off. Shane was able to clip out but his bike went down and it took him a couple of minutes to get rolling again. "Is everything okay?" I asked when we were able to pull back into the road.
"Yeah. I don't think I've ever clipped out so fast in my life!" he said. I felt validated. I keep my clips as loose as possible for just such an occasion.
After another mile we crested a hill, and there in front of us was a woman lying in the road, holding her arm and crying. She must have just fallen. The men around her were holding their arms crossed above their heads, signaling to aid vehicles that it was a medical emergency. "Let's get out of here!" I said to Shane, and we started hauling ass to get to the front of the pack.

We hit a hill and the crowd slowed to an impossible crawl. It was a wonder they didn't tip over. "On your left!" Shane and I called out every once in awhile as we passed a steady stream of people. We couldn't be expected to call out for every single one of them, could we?!
"Call it out, please!" someone would say every once in awhile, so we started calling out more.
"You're not supposed to pass on the freeway/on a hill/on the road/on a day that ends in Y!" some of the more disagreeable riders called after us. I wanted to tell them to learn to ride their frigging bikes before they told me how to ride mine, but they were ancient history anyway.

Shane remembers that drinking water is important.

Gargle, gargle, gargle.

After the first aid station where we hit the porta-potties, the food, and then the exit, we started climbing Skyline Drive. It was a long climb, lasting several hours, and Shane and I weren't fooling around. I can go slow on the flats, I can brake behind someone on a descent, but it is so hard to go someone else's pace on an uphill. Go too slow and you lose momentum and it gets harder than climbing more quickly. So we started passing people like crazy again. I was breathing hard, but I still managed to call out "On your left!" several times to every group. Shane kept dropping back. I would wait for him when it flattened out and he would show up again heaving and wheezing. "I smoked for so long, I forgot I have asthma!" he gasped. That excuse didn't make much sense to me, but whatever, I could hear he was having trouble breathing. I didn't mind slowing down a few times every hour to let him catch up.

Finally we crested the hill and started going down. Before we picked up much speed I passed a couple of guys riding two abrest and chatting. "On your left!" I called. I wasn't a yell, but it was loud enough. When we talked about it later, Shane said that he could hear me, and he was riding behind me.
When I passed them the guy on the outside yelled, "Call out, or I'm going to hit you and it's not going to be pretty!"
"I did! You should listen to what's going on around you rather than flirting with your little boyfriend," I yelled back. Okay, the boyfriend part was in my head, but I was seething. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but settled for making him look like a tool. I'm a good descender by American standards, and I sped away so fast that he would see that I was a serious cyclist and I meant business. I hope this made him feel like a tool.

The scenery was beautiful. At the bottom I took this:
... and this:
... and this:
The lunch stop was on Highway 1 (what is called the Pacific Coast Highway in southern California). Just because it is the coast, though, doesn't mean that it was flat. The climbs aren't long, but some of them can be pretty steep.

Sometimes Hwy 1 is flat.
But sometimes you see this to your left, and to your right is a 300' cliff down to the ocean. Sorry about the quality of the pictures. The majority of the road shots were taken at 20mph.

Lunch was right before one of these steep hills... at the bottom... meaning it would be the first thing we rode when we got back on our bikes.

See it there in the background? Maybe it doesn't look like much, but let me tell you, on cold legs after eating a huge sandwich, it's A LOT!

We got to lunch early enough that there were still picnic tables avialable, but by the time we left people were everywhere, all over the ground, picnic tables, and the beach. It sure was chilly when you stopped moving, so once we'd finished our meals, Shane and I hopped right back on the road. That hill SUCKED, and I tasted my sandwich more than once muscling up it, and the next one too. For the next half hour or so, my stomach just ached. I slowed down a bunch of times to let Shane catch up, but he never showed. I figured I'd wait for him at the next aid station, which was about 20 miles from camp. I was waiting for what seemed like forever on the road outside the aid station. I saw dozens of riders ride by, and whether they went into the aid station or kept on pedaling, the volunteer at the entrance clicked a little counter for each of them. I guess this is how they make sure no one goes missing.

Shane finally rolled up, and he was not a happy camper. "Where have you been?!" I asked.
"That hill... upset my stomach," he said. "I gotta go to the porta potty." He made a sour face. At least the porta potties were pretty fresh. We were near the front of the pack now. As we were getting ready to leave, Shane's friend Shannon pulled in. She was having stomach issues too. Stupid hill.

I thought Shane would be able to keep up once he'd 'unloaded', but when we started rolling again he dropped off right away, so I was riding alone. I went to UC Santa Cruz, so this rout had been part of my regular training rides. I knew the road very well, and was surprised at how much better I felt riding it now than I did 3 years ago. I passed the big pothole that had once torn a huge gash in my tire, and I'd had to call Lorraine to drive 30 miles to pick me up. I didn't even know Lorraine at the time, she just happened to be the one at work that day when I called desperate for help, and she just happened to have a bike rack on her car. I wished I'd known where the heck she was in this crowd to point it out to her. Later, coming into Santa Cruz, I passed the spot where I hit a nail during the Big Kahuna and got a flat... which subsequently lead to me switching bikes with a spectator... which made me feel horrible the whole race, because I was borrowing Lorraine's beautiful carbon fiber bike. Where WAS Lorraine anyway? And where was Shane?

I stopped again at the entrance to Rest Stop 4 (they always have the best rest stop) where there was a whole group of pretty boys with badminton rackets, red spanky shorts, and tank tops and headbands in a brilliant Tennis White. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally Shane turned up. "I'm going to ride up to campus just to see our drinkin' spot," I told Shane. "Do you want to come?" The UCSC campus is at the top of a pretty serious 2-mile, 700-foot hill.
"My knees are hurting me. I might just go ahead to camp," he said.
"Okay," I said. "See you there."

A few miles down the road I turned off to go up to campus. Just as I was afraid would happen, some idiot followed me. "This isn't the right way!" I said. He was still there. "I'm not going right to camp, you should go back that way!" I called over my shoulder. He didn't go away. I slowed down and turned to yell it in his ear if need be. "YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG... SHANE! What are you doing here?"
"Well, camp doesn't open for another half an hour or so anyway, so I figured I'd come along," he said. When we started climbing I pulled ahead. We both knew what trying to climb at someone else's pace is like. I hit the first red light and turned around. Where was he? Next light: still not there. I figured he must have gotten tired and gone ahead to camp. I rode the rest of the way up and stopped to take some pictures.
Our senior year Shane and I spent way too much time up here in our cars drinking and talking. It looks out over all of Santa Cruz and the Monterey Bay, and at night the whole town is lit up and you can see the stars. We used to come up alone, too. One day I bought a 6-pack and brought some reading for a class up here planning to have some nice, quiet Claire time. When I pulled in there was only one other car there. It was Shane's car, which is pretty hard to miss– it's lime green. When I went to knock on his window he had a 6-pack on his passenger's seat and he was reading a European history reader. I wished he were up here with me. It would be so cool to be back here, both of us together, on our bikes rather than in our cars (he took up riding after I left), now that we'd both quit drinking and smoking and didn't have nearly as much angst to talk through. I finished taking my pictures and was getting ready to mount my bike again when who comes rolling up the hill with some UCSC student on a mountain bike, but Shane! "Dude! My seat's fucked up!" he said as soon as I was within earshot. "I didn't tighten the bolts enough and it's been sliding all day long! No wonder my knees are so fucked up!" Sheesh, he should have known better! When we put my bike back together, we didn't tighten the handlebar bolts enough, and I wound up riding with the handlebars practically upside-down the last few miles back to his house.

So I got my picture of us back together in our drinkin' spot. I love how you can see the reflection of my arms holding the camera out in his sunglasses.
It turns out that Shane's knees were royally fucked up, though. They would be bothering him for the rest of the week. We showered and hung around camp for a little while waiting for other people to come in. Shane got his knees checked out and I wrote for a little while. We eventually tracked Lorraine down, but everyone we knew on the ride, including her, still lived in Santa Cruz and went home to sleep. Shane and I walked into town where all the crazies and hippies hang out and talked about old times. I also tracked down my old friend, Chris, who was the only person I managed to see in Santa Cruz that was NOT affiliated with the ride.

I was glad there wasn't much night life in the camp. As soon as everyone had eaten dinner and the sun went down, pretty much everyone just went to sleep. Shane and I put in ear plugs and turned our headlamps off around 9 o'clock. Right before we went to bed I held up a piece of paper. "I HOPE THEY HAVE JUICE AT BREAKFAST TOMORROW!" it said.

Total distance: About 84 miles (as I mentioned, my GPS wasn't working quite right)
Roughly 4:40 in the saddle
Average speed (for recorded time) 18 mph (including all that b-s in San Francisco)

Related Posts:
Prologue: Dykes and Bikes