The one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention how sweet I looked in those sunglasses?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two for the price of one

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

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

So I'm packing.

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

Same great post, two great places to find it.

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

Three little monkeys jumping on the bed…

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

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

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

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

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

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