We started packing stuff up and realized the foot of our tent was in a little gully, and our sleeping bags were soaked around our feet.  I don’t know why that didn’t wake us up earlier — we must have been curling into smaller and smaller fetal balls as the drenching progressed.  As if that weren’t bad enough, we’d followed the official AIDS LifeCycle advice and put our riding clothes for the day inside our sleeping bags to keep them warm, and they were sopping.  (The LifeCycle also advises you to put those clothes in a plastic bag first — but again, intelligence required.)

I farted around packing up because I didn’t really want to go outside, but after I put on a miraculous pair of dry socks and moments later landed my feet in a puddle in the middle of the tent, I realized I’d be dryer out in the rain.  So I got my stuff together and headed outside wearing my green rain parka purchased at Target and saw most everyone else in their snazzy, clear, lightweight cycling rainwear.  (I’ve already established my cycling dorkiness, right?)  But I didn’t care because the rain was letting up.

After breakfast I was thrilled to find myself second in line at the Butt Clinic.  By now I was giving advice to Dr. Allyson on how to apply the DuoDerm.  “If you put one strip at the top of the thigh and a second, different strip right above it on the base of the cheek, then maybe it won’t pull as much.”  At this point, there was no self-consciousness about showing my naked ass to a lovely woman; I was just a rider discussing another piece of cycling gear with a skilled mechanic. Dr. Allyson added her own touch, a third strip linking the two main strips like a hinge.  When she finished she said (I kid you not): “This is a work of art”  (the DuoDerm, not my butt).  I offered to let her take a pic for her scrapbook, but she declined.

I took my gear to the gear truck, found my bike, and headed to the road.  I’d seen the route map the day before, and I knew there’d be a 15-mile climb followed by an extremely steep, technical descent (lots of sudden turns, and limited forward visibility).  I’m not good with downhills, and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to doing this one on a slick road, but when people say the LifeCycle builds confidence and esteem, they mean you get used to the mindset of pushing forward even when things look tough, scary, or new.  That’s not exactly my everyday outlook at home, so it’s a great experience for me.

Just as I was in queue to head out, the staff said the California Highway Patrol wouldn’t let anyone else start due to severe mountain rains (about 500 hundred cyclists had already begun the trip to Rest Stop 1).

When you’re about to get on your bike for an all-day ride for the sixth day in a row, you’ve developed a mental habit of psyching yourself up without even realizing it, drawing up an abundance of energy that you don’t even notice because you’re about to make heavy demands on it.  And it’s disorienting on all levels to suddenly hear, “STOP!”  Especially when the weather in camp is clearing up and you can see patches of blue on the horizon.

So we waited.  At first it was to be 15 minutes.  That flew by and the day kept getting sunnier but no news came.  Finally the staff gathered us in groups and announced there had been a serious car accident in a tricky section of road — not involving any of our riders or support staff — and the California Highway Patrol  didn’t want 2100 cyclists biking through.  The day was cancelled.  The 500 hundred or so riders who’d made it to Rest Stop 1 were being sent down the hill back to camp, and we were all of us going to be bused to that night’s camp in Ventura.   (Well, not all of us.  Some of the fancier riders decided to hire limos and make the trip in vodka-fueled parties of 8).   I just hung out with the rest of the regular folk and waited while the LifeCycle staff put the call out for coaches and school buses.  I made it into Ventura about 3:30.

I could detail the rest of the day, but it wasn’t very interesting.  Ventura was sunny and I was able to dry out the crucial gear for the night and the next (last) day of the ride, leaving the rest to mildew until my loving, sweet, caring, delightful, delicious boyfriend did my laundry when I got home.  (“Honey, you just rest,” he said.  “Okay,” I whimpered.)

The real story here is the AIDS Lifecycle staff and crew of roadies.  They were the heroes for the day.  Every morning they have dismantle a small city, move it 80-some miles, and set it up again in time for the first insanely fast riders who get there at 1pm.  Only on this day they had to do all that and transport 2100 bicycles as well, pulling it off without extra gear, trucks, or manpower.

People who have done the ride get all misty about the roadies.  We see them as the heroes of the ride.  They certainly work harder than we do.  As my tribute to them, I’ll give you a rundown of my day, and highlight in red every item or service that seems to appear miraculously out of nowhere.

Early in the morning I stumble out of my tent and hit the Port-a-Potties. Then I get in line for breakfast: oatmeal, fruit, some sort of meat (bacon, sausage, ham, etc., depending on the day), some sort of heavy carb (pancake, biscuit, fritters, etc., depending on the day), eggs, bagel, milk, juice, and cereal.

After breakfast I go to the coffee/tea station where I a mix one packet of hot chocolate into two cups of coffee. I head to the Butt Clinic where a doctor reviews the previous day’s damage and patches me without hurrying through it.

I head back to the john again.

I pack up my gear and take down the tent (my tentmate has already taken off, so taking down the tent is my job).  I lug it all to my assigned gear truck — one of about 15 — dump it there for the roadies to deal with.

I go back to the spot on the camp grid where our tent was, pick up my helmet, gloves, water bottles, etc. and cross the camp to bike parking where I get the day’s route map, refill my water bottles, and find a pump to check the air in my tires.  Then I head to the exit where cheerful roadies (who have been up since before dawn) make sure 2100 cyclists get sent on the road with a smile and without crashing into each other.

I bicycle.  I don’t really need the route map because at every key intersection a member of the motorcycle/traffic crew is standing in the hot sun all day letting us know which way to go, and sometimes directing traffic so we can (with police approval) get waved through the stop signs.

I arrive at Rest Stop 1 and get safely waved in off the street and told where to park my bike.  More Port-a-Potties.  Plus water, PowerAde, orange slices, banana halves, trail mix, Pop Tarts, bagels with peanut butter, snack bars, cookies, and chips.  Plus the item that turned out to cyclist crack for the week: graham cracker sandwiches with peanut butter and jelly.  All of this delivered by smiling roadies in costume or drag based on the theme for the day.  Did I mention the medical tent?  Or the sports medicine tent (not the same thing)? Did I mention the cycling mechanics?  When I’m replenished I retrieve my bike and I don’t have to wonder where to go because upbeat and encouraging roadies are directing us safely back on to the road.  There are usually four rest stops a day, each with its own complete crew, each with its own new theme.

I bike some more.  I’m continually passed by safety vehicles, support vehicles, and gear vehicles. We also have a staff ambulance that travels the route all day. Once, I passed the ambulance parked by the side of the road using its loudspeaker to call “BAAA!” to grazing sheep.  I was grateful they were bored.  They aren’t always.

Then I make it to lunch, guided in once again by smiling roadies.  This is like a super-rest-stop, with all the services I’ve already mentioned.

I keep cycling, but even if I really want to get to camp, I always check in at Rest Stop 4, where they really bring the performance aspect. You don’t know whether you’ll be steered in by a prison guard barking, “Keep it moving, no talking, no touching!” or a buff guy in flight attendant drag sweetly directly you to the in-flight entertainment.

I bike some more, and this is the last stretch to camp. Once again, I’m directed in and shown where to park my bike for the night. I gather up my water bottles and a couple personal items from my bike and go to the tent field where I find the marker (“G34″) for my tent pounded into the ground. Actually, by this time, my fast tentmate has already gotten to camp and retrieved the tent and my gear from the gear truck, so everything’s waiting for me.

I strip down to my cycling shorts and flip flops, retrieve my toiletries, towel, and a clean pair of shorts, and follow the signs to the shower trucks–the same trucks firefighters use on the line. After a wonderful hot shower I head back to the tent and finish dressing.  If I have time I hang out there for a bit.  Otherwise…

It’s off to dinner.  The food tent has five buffet lines (one is vegetarian) with about 10 people manning each line. You can go through as often as you want.  I refill my water bottles at the beverage station and eat in one of the mess tents. I throw away or recycle the waste in cans that never overflow.

At 7:30 the show begins.  There’s a podium, a sound system, and larger-than-life video projection on the side of the tent.  The head of the LifeCycle talks about what happened that day on the right (injuries, hospitalizations, safety reports from cops, dehydration incidents, etc.).  We hear from the head of the San Francisco AIDS Foundation (who is also a rider this year), and Lori Jean, the head of the LA Gay and Lesbian Center.  She’s been excoriated by the grassroots marriage equality movment, but to be honest, she embodies the heart and soul of the ride.  She’s not riding this time, but every day she collects stories from riders–some heartwarming, some bawdy–and shares them with the crowd.  The 10 or 15 minutes she speaks every evening is what really pulls this gang of 2100 riders and 500 crew members into a genuine community with a shared emotional experience.  She’ll make you laugh and, yeah, she’ll make you cry, and by the end of the week she’s one of the most beloved members of LifeCycleVille.

We also hear a live or videotaped message from a person or organization that benefits from the fundraising.  Maybe a clean-cut former rider who lost his job in the downturn and now depends on the SF AIDS Foundation for help, maybe a recovering crystal meth addict transsexual who managed to get off the streets and now runs an outreach program for runaway youth and the homeless.

Finally, we get a funny, smart-ass rundown of the next day’s route and what to expect.

Then it’s Port-a-Potty time again, and after that–sleep.  (I was going to write “bed” but that’s only for the people who made hotel reservations for every night of the ride, a tradition known as the “Princess Tour.”  For the rest of us it’s tents and sleeping bags.)

You can see how much of each day depends on roadies and volunteers.  And there’s so much I’ve left out: chiropractors, massage therapists, entertainers, and  much more.  They all bust their asses.  It’s humbling to realize when you’re biking 80 miles a day that you and the other riders aren’t the hardest working people in the event.

It was a tough day for us as individual riders, but an amazing day for the nomadic community that develops over the week.

I’ll write more on this and on tomorrow’s closing ceremonies on Sunday or Monday. For now, it’s been a long day, I’m exhausted, and I have to conserve battwey power so I can communicate with tomorrow when he’s looking for me at closing ceremonies.