Day 1 of the Ride, San Francisco to Petaluma, CA

I've ridden backwards in time today, the first day. Wet fog covered us this morning in the parking lot of the Golden Gate Bridge for our official kick-off. The mayor/dictator of San Francisco, Willie Brown, challenged the former governor, Jerry Brown, to ride the first leg of Bike-Aid next year. John, a rider who works for Brown, snickered, telling me that Brown just climbed Half Dome in Yosemite, a mighty mighty peak.

And while the hills of West Marin County are no match for Yosemite, my legs didn't seem to know that as they pumped me from one breathtaking valley to another, protesting at every rise in the road...you know, the ones you don't even notice when you're in a car?

I didn't sleep well last night. My sinus cavity could no longer be called a cavity as every corner was filled to bursting, pushing at my temples, nose, forehead, roof of my mouth and perhaps my brain itself. No amount of late-night nose-blowing could relieve the pressure, perhaps a sign of stress, or allergies, or pent-up frustration at not getting on the road and having orientation meetings instead.

So as I passed by Lucas Valley Road, whose namesake's ranch covers these brown rolling hills, and topped a hill I could swear wasn't there the last time I drove here, I spotted the Shangra-La of my youth, and this is from where I write to you know...under a shade tree, in front of a duck-pond, surrounded by a cool breeze that fools me into forgetting how hot it is.

The Rouge et Noir Cheese Factory is one of the last vestiges of the dairy industry which once ruled this idyllic part of the world only 40 miles from San Francisco. The Cheese Factory is a destination for discerning families, fromage enthusiasts, hordes of cyclists, and lots of ducks. It was also where countless Frisbees soared between me and my mom, where I fell in love with baguettes and havarti, where Mother Goose brand thick Hawaiian Chips and I first made our lifelong commitment to one another, and where my mom would aim her little Civic on weekends whenever we needed time together away from the addictive stoopid box (TV), Pat (her lover) whom I could never get along with, or just the responsibilities of daily life for a single mom and her son.

Of course, things have changed since those halcyon days. No, the Cheese Factory still has regular tours, they still will give you tastes of those strangely veined or off-smelling varieties you've had a morbid fascination with, the ducks are still attacking the 4 year-olds who get just a little too playful...but as a vegan who believes the dairy industry is right up there with electrolosists and high-heeled shoe manufacturers vis a vis the amount of needless suffering they inflict on countless millions of trapped mammals, what I'm doing right now is practically treasonous. And of course the pond, the ducks, the buildings, the hills, and even the bags of Hawaiian chips have all shrunk by half. Don't tell me it's because I've grown...I'm having a moment here. And, I got here under my own free will...under my own power no less. Not reliant on that magic Civic, not reliant on my mom (who despite my urgings to return here with me, doesn't seem to have the same maudlin attachment that I do...though I can't be here and not think good things about her, her that I won't see until several months and many miles from now).

This is the last place that will be familiar until we get to Washington DC in 10 weeks. This is the last place I could play know-it-all for my fellow travelers, from now on, we are collectively in the dark. In a few minutes, I'm going to stand-up, stretch my sore calves, swipe the grass and dirt from my spiffy spandex bike shorts, throw down some more water, clip my bike shoes into my pedals, and walk my bike across the grass to that country road. Instead of turning right, towards home, like I've done a hundred times before, I'm going to turn left. What's that shibboleth, "And I, I chose the one less traveled by"? Well at least this once, that's which one I'm going to chose...I just wish that way wasn't up hill.

Day 2 - Petaluma to Davis, CA

Until today, I would not have believed that someone could drink 8 liters of water within a few hours and not have to pee. But now, for the betterment of science and he human condition, I have proven it beyond a doubt.

Although the distance is disputed, some maps say 95 miles, but some cyclometers put it at 10 miles less...the weatherman on the portable radio I have strapped to my bike insists that, by all measures, today was real, real hot in California's Central Valley. So specious arguments over the exact distance aside, there is no doubt that today's combination of length, heat and height (why must a valley be surrounded by hills?) were more than a match for our little troupe's enthusiasm. As I write this at 9pm on the porch of a vegan friendly restaurant, "The Death of Venus" in downtown Davis, CA (which means, as far as I can tell, that not every house on this block is a frat house, a couple have actually been reclaimed from the Greeks and converted to hip cafes) a few of the riders, including my former roommates Julie and Sally, have yet to show up.

My sun-beaten, knee-sore, back-aching body, on the other hand, schlepped its way to today's church by 2:30. I am not, as you may have assumed, boasting. This is not a race. And I fully acknowledge that I just about found my physical limit today: a good thing to know, but a scary thing to approach. I also acknowledge that I had very few of the experiences the other riders did that brightened a grueling ride. Holly and Sparkle, who were dead last today (interesting, because Holly is an aerobics instructor and Sparkle is a triathlete) got lost and taken in by a kind woman who not only showed them the way, but insisted on making them lunch at her home before sending them along. Most others stopped at least once to swim in the crystal blue mountain lakes that I was too busy pumping past to enjoy.

I did, though, discover at a roadside fruit-packer, the most truly consummate apricot that has ever existed. It was not very plump or juicy. It was not very sweet. It was not even, in fact, very ripe at all. It was, though, sitting in a bin with its fruity friends on an endless stretch of shamelessly shadeless road outside of Winters, CA (which is as poorly named a place as any, ever), and that's all it took in that moment for this fuzzy orange runt to qualify for perfection.

Day 3 - Davis to Carmichael, CA

There are five parts of the body that normally come into contact with a bicycle. Starting near the bottom are both feet; clipped or cleated to the pedal, both the top and the sole provide the push and pull. Many riders have bike shoes which have exceptionally stiff soles and special cleats which attach to "clipless" pedals. The stiff sole spreads the force of the downstroke and the weight of your body that you're supporting on your legs. The "clipless" pedals lock your legs into your bike, so that all the force of the circle motion of the pedaling is transferred to the rear wheel. To get out of the locked pedal one simply twists the foot to the side.

Moving up the legs you arrive at the ideal point of contact with your seat: your "sit bones", those terminal points that are part of the pelvic structure, but usually hidden until you sit down on a hard surface; however more often than not it's much more of your behind, perineum and genitals that are spread around. This is not the goal because those areas are all tissue which can be bruised, abraded, blood-deprived or numbed. While the "sit bones" may be hard and uncomfortable at first, with enough wearing-in of a decent, hard (so it doesn't spread around the bones onto tissue) seat, they are the best point of contact for the rider.

And finally, on each handle bar is a hand. Not just a palm: I have found five different surfaces of my hands, and each is achieved by holding onto five different parts of my bars. The hands don't just guide the bike: they, like the feet, hold a portion of your weight. Many cyclists have "bar ends" which are metal extension running off the ends of regular handle bars at a right angle, slightly higher than parallel to the ground. Bar ends provide another couple of ways for hands to be positioned on the bike, and they are also ergonomically better for the wrists, as you don't need to pronate your wrists to hold them. Another handlebar item are "aero bars". Those familiar with televised bicycle races or triathlons may be familiar with these antler-like extensions which extend straight out from the center of the bars. Aero bars serve two purposes: for the racer, they produce the maximum aerodynamic form: the cyclists upper body stretch all the way out and over at a right angle to the legs, arms in front in a wedge to produce a smooth air flow. The second purpose of aero bars is to provide a different position for long rides: one's elbows rest on pads, holding the weight of the bent over upper body, and one's back is stretched differently from the more usual positions.

So why the essay? When I was buying the bike that I'm using for this trip, my friend James Dash who sold it to me said this, "You know, Stefan, for a ride like yours, you need a good bike, one that's not going to break down a lot, one that's the right size for your body, one that can make it over the mountains. But if it was me, I would spend all the money I could NOT on the bike, but on the places where my body comes in contact with it. Good gloves, padded bike shorts, bike shoes, anything that you can do make those points of contact happier." And so, mostly, I did.

But on today's easy ride from Davis to Carmichael, through Sacramento, I discovered that none of the technology can erase the marks of yesterday's grind from my five points of contact. The five planes of my gloved hands were not enough. My stiff soled shoes seemed as flexible as a rubber band on a hot day. And my "sit bones" could not stay put. I looked the part of a dervish on wheels as I adjusted and readjusted, rode with one hand, then the other, then neither, pedaled with one foot while the other floated free...not to mention rolling my head around to stretch my neck, twisting at the hips for my lower back, spinning my arms around for my shoulders, and shaking my legs madly for my calves and thighs. I would have scared the other riders if they weren't going through their own Tourettes-like adjustments.

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The rider profile of the day (as told through two anecdotes):

As I rode into Davis yesterday on a bike path, I passed dozens of other riders, most of whom were riding briskly, but safely with a helmet, and a friendly acknowledgment of my nod or friendly "hello". But as I approached the church, a rider came on me going at least 40 miles/hour, tucked into an aero position hogging the path, and wearing no helmet. If that wasn't enough, he was the first rider not to acknowledge my greeting in any way. So as he sped past, I whispered under my exhausted breath, "f--ing, dumbf-k". When I showed up at the church, one of the riders, Brandy, asked me if I'd seen a cyclists riding past going real fast. "Yes.", Was he wearing a helmet, "No." Was he on aero bars, "Yes..." I was about to say, did that jerk almost run you off the road, too? when she squeals, "that's my boyfriend!!" and goes racing after him. Apparently he'd driven up to surprise her.

Brandy has also been quite vocal that she's not getting enough meet in her diet on this ride, and that she's been eating worse than she ever has before. Apparently she doesn't approve of the vegetables and grains that we've been eating. So when she volunteered to help buy food today at the Sacramento Natural Foods Coop, we were a bit surprised. However, when our troupe showed up there, she was no where in site. I turned to Danesh, one of the other vegans on the ride, and asked, "hey, where's Brandy?", he looks at me at says, "Maybe she got scared of tripping and accidentally eating something healthy."

Summary of Characters met on the road thus far:

Nancy, the retired plastic surgeon who now shows horses. Her ex husband runs a buffalo range outside of Elko, NV (which we'll be passing through) where thanatos-driven city guys can, for a smooth seven grand, shoot one of the woolly critters and take it home stuffed (it's quite easy, they just stand there says Nancy). Her effeminate son has recently moved there for high school ("He's a pacifist," says Wendy, "but my shrink says he's there because he's gay and he's trying to prove otherwise...and I believe it!") Nancy pledged two of our riders $50 on the spot, and then told us our destination was just a few minutes away. She neglected to say, "if you're going at light speed."

Then there's Chloe, the 7 year-old who set my head spinning at a water stop today when she walked up to me and said in perfect adult English, "so, do you come here often?"...after I picked up my dropped water bottle, I learned that her aunt owns the place and Chloe (and her dog Juniper) are the meeters and greeters.

And lastly, the 10 middle-aged cyclists I stopped to chat with who were starting a little 3 day tour of their own. Apparently I made quite an impression because riders after me who stopped to talk with them also, tell me that the group, said they already knew all about bike-Aid "from that strange character with the flamboyant bicycle." But will me and my wheels play in Peoria? Or, for that matter, Elko?

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Day 4 - Carmichael to Auburn, CA

Although I'm riding every day with 23 people, when we're spread out along a 20 mile stretch of road, it can be lonely. And yet, just when I need the inspiration to get up that 3-mile stretch of road climbing 1,000 feet in altitude in 102 degree heat with no shade and trucks spewing burnt diesel in down your gasping lungs as they gear down for the climb, someone who is experiencing EXACTLY what you are - the roasting back, the searing thighs, the cramping calves, the chapped nostrils, the failing spirits - grinds up behind you and says in staccato through a series of deep breaths, "when...I get...to DC...I'm...going to...my fav...orite bagel...place...and...sitting on...the patio...with an...iced coffee...and the...New York...Times...for 3...days straight.........What are...you going...to do?" Suddenly that hamstring you thought was going to snap at any second doesn't matter any more and you're talking, haltingly, about the Ethiopian restaurant in Adams Morgan that has ice cold African beer and the kind of portions that you really, really need right now. And as you both reach the top of the climb (knowing there are more, and much worse, to come) you feel a wave of unspoken appreciation and respect for each other's pain and spirit that flows out your mouth in a long sigh as you cruise down the other side.

I write this is a Chevy's restaurant (that's a chain of "fresh mex" places in CA) on a highway outside of Auburn, CA. We are just climbing up the foothills of the Sierra Mountains. I'm alone. I just had a vegan Rice Dream treat (and got the owner of the Health Food store to drive a ton of them back to camp as a peace offering from the vegans to everyone else...there's been a lot of tension around how to spend our food money) and now I'm chowing down on veggie fajita, fresh chips and salsa, and a watermelon margarita (no alcohol, it dehydrates you.) I've been swimming twice today, once in Folsom lake (above Folsom dam, next to Folsom state prison) and a campground pool. There was even a hot tub next to the pool that did wonders for my legs. It's good to get off on my own, find a phone when I want, email periodically, and generally feel some autonomy and solitude. I'm surprised by that because I see myself as a voraciously social person who usually prioritizes the "group" over myself. But that's changing as I look at my behaviour so far on this Ride and look back at my behaviour on previous trips; today, I HAD to get away from the group, had to have the space to write and think and unwind. I was finding the group draining and demoralizing instead of energizing as I often do.

The Most Demoralizing Act of The Day: Danesh, our vegan, radical, poetic, gorgeous triathlete, riding up on his bike into the campground this afternoon while several of us could do nothing but lounge, quietly congratulate each other on the day's success, and nurse our wounds; he jumped off his bike, leapt over a 4-foot fence, dove into the pool, swam 5 laps, jumped out and went for a 20-minute run before coming back and playing a game of pick-up basketball.

Day 5 - Auburn to Grass Valley, CA

Last night, after my entry, I came back to the camp ground to find a local bike group had come and brought chili for all the riders. We sat around in a circle and one of the club members read us a variety of short readings from poets, explorers and environmentalists. They focused on the beauty around us, the dangers of exploring with a group, the strength it takes to leave yourself open to new experience and new people...all good stuff for us as we are living it. The group of folks weren't just any cyclists. These are the vanguard of the small but vital movement countering the car culture of the Sierra foothills.

Placer County's population has doubled in the last ten years: phenomenal growth. These are refugees from LA, the Bay Area and increasingly, Sacramento. They come to the foothills looking for that incredible natural beauty that folks like John Muir popularized, but they still want to have their cars to commute, etc. So what we have is a decreasingly idyllic area that is turning into yet another sprawl. The folks who moved here to escape the urban crush, instead spend 3-5 hours a day in their cars, isolated from any real community. The motley crew of cyclists told us about the pro-growth politicians, the difficulty of organizing voters to rally around anti-growth because 50% of them are spanking new to the area and don't have the perspective on what it's done to the environment. There was much, much more...fascinating and inspiring to learn from these dedicated activists and naturalists. My gut reaction is shock at my own ignorance: city-slickers tend to forget that there is much exciting work being done beyond our urban sites to make the world better, or at least stop it from getting worse. And as I passed a mile-long strip mall this morning and learned that our beautiful campground is likely to be a Walmart this time next year, I felt gratitude for that little band of chili-bearing bikers who want to save the Sierras.

Today's ride was beautiful, rolling hills through farmland, with shade trees all the way. Grass Valley is one of the many towns that sprung up in these hills in the mid-19th century during the California Gold Rush that has since converted its economy away from bullion and towards tourists. The hardware store where the miners would stock up on dynamite, pans, tents, canteens and tin siding for their shanties now sells mass-produced period-pot-holders to the Kodak crowd. But Grass Valley also has a tradition of progressive environmentalism: whether its poets, naturalists, eco-freak activists, or painters.

Bill Smith, who last year rode the same route I'm riding, grew up in Grass Valley. Now he's an out gay man who works as a legal researcher for a non-profit disability rights law firm in Sacramento. He commutes by bicycle 25 miles each way from his home in Davis, where he is a law student. I got to talk with Bill about one of my bigger concerns: homophobic reactions to me and other riders from people in parts of the country where it isn't okay to have earrings like me, where it isn't okay to have a rainbow flag sticker on your bicycle, where it isn't okay for Wendy and Doris, the one couple on our route, to share a bed, a kiss, a hug, a look. As I was taking a shower this morning, the man in the next stall, an unemployed welder from the area whom I 'd met the night before, asked me, "how many rings you got in your ears?" "As many as I can fit" I joked, "You're not one of those are you?" he asked, "I don't think so" I said. I don't think so? What kind of an answer is that? How can I not be verbally equipped to deal effectively with that kind of comment, besides closeting myself. Do I think that I can hold my own, and come to the defense of others in the group when something more serious happens?

Bill said he came out to more than half the hosts. He said there was some uncomfortableness, but no real problems. He was reassuring, but he was also not as obviously queer as some in this group (including myself) are. In Elko, NV on Pride Day, are us queer-identifieds going to have to pretend not to notice...and if we DON'T sink in the background, what will happen, if anything?

Tomorrow morning at 6am we are setting out en masse (we usually depart at various times, but are trying a new way of ensuring that the last people to leave don't also get stuck with the clean-up) to ride the first of the two days it will take to get over the Sierra mountains. While the Sierras may be the easiest of the three major ranges we cross - Rockies are much higher and have much inclement weather, and the roads over the Appalachians go up and down and up and down with very steep grades - it is our first, and it is 7,000 feet at our chosen pass. This is a physical challenge, but more than that, it's a spiritual training ride for the mountains to come. I was scheduled to drive the SAG tomorrow, but instead one of the several sick and injured of our troupe will be driving so that I can do the ride. I want to know that I can do this. I want to know that when I look up ahead and all I see is a road rising, rising towards the sky in an infinite blur of white lines, yellow dashes and shiny asphalt, that I won't quit and wait for the SAG to pick me up, that I won't wilt in the hot sun and fall to the ground like Icarus with melted wings that he thought were so strong just hours before.

Our 16 year-olds are finally learning that they have to eat, drink and sleep on this ride. They are both sick. While this maybe a spiritual education for many of us, some of us are learning about our bodies and their needs and limits for the first time...lessons that many people never learn.

No sex or romance within the group yet. Bill Smith said a few people got together after the second week...some of us are taking bets on who that will be. People are starting to open up to one another, but slowly. There are a lot of interesting stories to be told...some exceptional paths have brought us each to this ride. Allen, the 16 year-old kid from Brooklyn actually lived with his mother and brothers in Barbados until he was 8...he and his family decided that she should move to Brooklyn with his aunt so he could get a good education. He is a high-school student in Crown Heights, and he hasn't seen his family since he left. He had an opportunity to get several hundred dollars of donated bike equipment, but he had to show up during school hours, which meant missing school. So he passed. Anthony, our other 16 year old from Albany, CA (a small town north of Berkeley), never knew his father and lives with his grandmother, an ex-WAC (women's army corps) because his mom is in prison. Tidbits of lives that I hope to round out...we'll see.

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Day 7 -Tahoe National Forest, CA to Reno, NV

Impressions of climbing and descending the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Freezing cold mountain morning, joints creak as I bend to fold tents, roll sleeping pads. Scrounge for food...bowls of cereal with rice milk, a banana, a handful of salty chips. Lots of water forced down the throat, stomach complaining it's not thirsty, mind knowing that doesn't matter. Other riders moving slowly, Allen from Brooklyn huddled in his sleeping bag, shivering. He's never been camping before and is excited. I try to calm my anxiety about the ride today. 85 miles with a 12 mile climb at the beginning. I didn't sleep as well as I should, tossing and turning with dreams of infinite uphills that I'm stuck on, never seeing my friends again. One of the last to leave because I'm one of the faster riders and we have agreed to do the morning's work so the slower riders can get a head start on this long day. Fill the water bottles, change batteries in my stereo - climbing is better with music and company.

Onto the bike. Familiarity and familiar pains. Down the dirt campground road and east onto highway 49, fingers of sun poking at you through the pines. The cyclometer on Abby's bike says we're riding at 6 miles an hour. Not a bad speed for uphill...faster than walking. That's two hours to get to the pass. Within minutes my right ilio tibial band (a leg tendon) is too tight. Both knees are sending shooting pains up my legs, the first time this has happened. Worried that I have to stop and get a ride. Worried if I can't make it over the Sierras, I can't make it over the Rockies. Or the Appalachians. Or the dozens of other unknown, unnamed ascents in between. Stomach in a knot, slowly loosening as my knees warm to the ride. By the waterfall we stop to take pictures, it's halfway and my knees are still half-frozen. Don't stop moving my legs except for the instant the shutter snaps. 6 miles to go.

We pass the slow riders who left an hour before we did. We pass the Yuba River as it dwindles to a mountain stream. Pushing, pushing, false summits around every turn make you think its over, but at least they're a short term goal. Terrain is changing: more meadows, less undergrowth, crisper air, brighter sun. Road flattening out and suddenly a scream up ahead: Go Bike Aid! It's the summit and we've got company waiting for us. The truck down-gear sign - icon of ecstasy - and the much anticipated and dreamt about "Yuba Pass, elev. 6700 feet". Riding up to a group of startled bird-watchers, beaming "I just rode my bike to the top of the Sierras!" weak smiles and muttered congratulations. We take the necessary pictures, check our brakes, put on windbreakers so we don't freeze in the sweaty T's we rode up in, one last cheer - we did it! - and we're off.

Riding down into the Sierra Valley is like sky-diving: the wind rushing so hard in your ears, tearing up your eyes, the slightest lean left or right is enough to turn you around the curves, and then pulling the rip cord to slow you down for the vista point...there is no hurry to get to the bottom, it'll come too soon as it is. Pictures of the valley, surrounded by the mountains (we speculate whether we'll have to climb them to get out) talking with the tourists who got to drive up the mountains (lucky) but not ride down (their loss). Coasting with the clouds and watching as the green green valley floor rises to great you with a great big Moo from the cows. Stopping at Nita's Corner Cafe in Sierraville, recommended by last year's riders in their route book...homefries and veggies just like I always have on Sundays, a taste of home. Around the entire valley on the road...others complaining how indirect it is, I'm loving this Tolkeinesque fantasy land... "Where are the Elves?" I ask out loud.

Riding hard with the wind against my back, seeing Abby a half mile ahead, making catching her my goal for the 20 minutes it takes; it's good to have a goal on the open road. Alone again, and I see that their is a pass through the other side of the Sierras, we don't have to go up and over at all. Relief and a beautiful, smooth, straight, steep, mile-long downhill out of the pass...the fastest I've ridden so far, probably 50 miles an hour...the road so new and smooth that it's like skating, the wind so hard in my ears that I can't hear the cars whoosh past in the opposite lane, eyes tearing leaving salty streaks straight back to my temples, tires spinning so fast that the reflector on my front wheel is a blur. There are few moments like this when your loss of ego and your oneness with the world are so complete.

The highway to Reno, 25 miles left. Onto the ramp, three-trailer trucks are legal in Nevada...they whoosh past pulling you along in their wake. Taking pictures at the Nevada border, running across the four divided lanes to photograph the California sign, too. Riding with Kathy from Georgia who tells me about her neighborhood...her mirror fell off earlier so at the on-ramps and off-ramps I look for exiting or entering cars and when it's safe I shout, "CLEAR!" and we scoot across the lane to the shoulder. 15 more miles to go and we stop for water, it's hot and dry and a man walks up the ramp after us and says he just walked back from Reno. "Why?" "I wanted some lunch," he replies flat faced.

One more hill on the highway, Kathy's fatigue makes me feel okay about mine. Looking for a sign on the road because we don't know where to go today, since the arrangements weren't set at the time we left. We miss the sign that says "bikes must exit". but I see the chalk happy-face and arrow on the road directing us off the highway. Lying on the grass outside the Sheriff's office learning that the highway patrol is out looking for Anthony, one of the 16 year olds, who missed the exit. Calling my mom from the Sheriff's office and saying, "I'm calling from jail!": when you're dehydrated and tired, the jokes come easy. My first shower in a week at the YWCA. Vegan foccacia donated for dinner. Drifting off to sleep outside under the stars after a head massage from Abby...knees swollen, skin burnt, mind empty.

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