The Hourglass On The Table

In the fall of 1995, I held my first training as the newly hired Speakers Bureau Manager for a new group of HIV-positive speakers at Cascade AIDS Project. Eight hours a day, for four days, over the course of two weekends. A training not unlike the one I myself had gone through when I joined the Speakers Bureau as a volunteer in January of 1992.

This group of new volunteers was large and diverse. I was proud that our recruitment efforts had succeeded in bringing in a group representing youth, elders, newly infected, long-term survivors, men, women, gay, straight, bi, black, white, Native American, Asian, Hispanic. There was a young married couple, Eric & Amy - serodiscordant (ah, you don't know that word, do you? As mom used to say, "Look it up in the dictionary."). Julie, a twenty-something Native American from Eastern Oregon. Robbie - a lively, spit-fire of a woman who took that energy and knew how to channel it to become a very effective speaker. We lost Robbie this past December. Another reminder that AIDS still takes those we love.

And there was Paul. Paul didn't add to the diversity of the group. He was what everyone expected a person with AIDS to be.... thirty-five years old. Gay. Thin & wasting a bit. Even had a mustache like so many gay men who came of age in the late-seventies/early-eighties. Holding onto that lip-hair like a vestige of his youth.

Spending all that time with this amazing group of people, it was inevitable that I'd come to know them well. Part of the training was about vulnerability.... they'd be asked to share some of their most intimate stories in front of audiences young and old. They'd be asked questions none of us would dare to ask in polite conversation. And we prepared them for that. In doing so, a bond grew among us.

But there was something about Paul... although he didn't stand out in the group. Wasn't the most powerful speaker. Didn't have a story that was shocking or captivating. He was the underdog though. And I've always rooted for the underdog. And in the coming months, his story became mine to tell.

As I came to know Paul, I learned his partner of many years had just left him. Couldn't handle his illness or face the pain of watching him fade away into the darkness of death. Didn't want to be the healthy one forced into becoming a caregiver for his sick lover. So he took the coward's way out. And left Paul alone. And I mean truly alone. As many people do during illness, Paul had become reclusive and shied away from his circle of friends - wrapped his whole life up in with the one person he felt he could count on. The one person he wasn't afraid to be vulnerable in front of. And when that person left there was no one. His family hadn't spoken to him in 17 years - not since the day he told them he was gay. His friends had given up trying to contact him... probably thinking he'd already passed away. Yep, when his partner left, it was just Paul and his dog, alone in that condo.

I couldn't bear to see someone so alone in this world and would often reach out to Paul just so he would have someone to talk to... so his phone would ring. I would invite him to a movie or to dinner to get him out of the house for something other than a doctor's appointment or a speaking engagement. Sometimes I would just go to his place and he'd cook me dinner and we'd lounge on the couch by the fire and put a movie in the VCR, curled up under an afghan. Over time, I began to join him on his visits to his doctor or his case manager and came to know them... and came to know the truth of his illness. Paul, as strong as proud as he tried to be, was dying. Quickly. He wouldn't show it. Not to me or to them. But blood tests and lab results don't lie. And no matter how much he avoided the topic with me, his medical team would tell me the real story. And somehow, I became his emergency contact. He had no one else. So I accepted it... I had no other choice.

I was only 25 years old and in many ways still a kid. But I'd seen sickness and death already. Far too much for anyone. But that's what we faced back then. I'd been part of a team of caregivers during the last days of someones life. Did all those things that we do when someone can't do for themselves. But this was different... I was the caregiver. I had no idea what I was doing. So I leaned on someone else to help support me help guide me through this. Tom hardly knew Paul... they'd gone on a date or two about a decade earlier. But he was a good friend of mine. And he was older; had more experience in these things. And compassionate. A former priest, he brought a sense of making sense to all of this.

One day, early spring, the four of us got together without Paul... his doctor, his case manager, Tom and myself. I wanted to share with them the things they couldn't see in the blood tests or lab work. And the things Paul wasn't telling them. He was sleeping 18 hours a day. His mind wasn't always there... he was forgetful... disoriented... couldn't keep track of his medication schedules or doctor appointments. He'd fail to show up for speaking engagements no matter how I tried to set reminders for him. His home, which in the past always shined brightly, had become a shambles. Lawn overgrown. Dishes piled in the sink. I'd stop by just to make sure his dog was fed. And that he was too. Paul refused to believe he was dying and kept telling me he had ten years left. So we decided to meet with him and confront him with the truth.

Telling a man who refuses to believe he's dying that he doesn't have long to live is painful. For yourself and for him. We scheduled it during my lunch hour and the four of us sat with him to ask him to begin the process of preparing for the end. He fought us. It was a very long hour and for the first time ever I heard a doctor say to someone, "You have six months left... if you're lucky." There were no tears. But there were some raised voices. Some fighting back. In the end, we got him to sign two papers which started the process and prepared us all for the inevitable. He signed the Medical Power of Attorney designating me to make decisions on his health care should he be unable to. And he signed a Power of Attorney designating Tom to make decisions on his estate and financial affairs. We'd also asked him to think about changing his Will because his ex-partner was listed as the beneficiary and we all knew he didn't want him to get everything. But he said he'd do that later. Maybe it gave him a little hope to think he had something left to do... one decision not yet made. Maybe he just felt there was no one else to list as a beneficiary. Or maybe he did still love him.

After our meeting, I returned to work. But during those hours ticking away that afternoon, I could think of nothing except Paul sitting at home alone having just been blindsided by the truth of his illness. As soon as the clock struck 5, I hopped in the car and went straight to his house to just... well, just to be there for him so he'd know he wasn't alone.

As I turned onto his street, I saw an ambulance parked in front of his house. As I was parking, I watched as they wheeled Paul out on a stretcher, oxygen mask on, eyes barely open. I picked up his puppy and held him close as I asked the EMT what happened, where were they taking him. They knew little. Just that he called 911 because he couldn't breathe. I wrapped up things at his house, called Tom, took Paul's dog to my house, and we met at the hospital.

At the hospital:
Tuesday:
Paul's lying in a single room with a respirator on. Doc's say he has PCP (pneumocystis carinii pneumonia). They're treating him with Pentamidine and his prognosis is good. He's sleeping. We sit. Waiting.

The sun sets. Paul doesn't wake up. We leave.

Wednesday:
We return after work. Paul is groggy but awake. He's still on a respirator. He talks a bit. Still having trouble breathing.

I stay until visiting hours are over and head home.

Thursday:
Again, back to the hospital after work. Paul looks good. He's sitting up. Eating. We talk lightheartedly but also revisit our lunchtime conversation from a couple days prior. Tom and I mention we'd like to bring his lawyer in the next day to look at his Will. Paul agrees to a meeting. I tell him he needs a shave and put a mirror in front of him. We all get a good laugh at how frightened his dog will be if he comes home looking like that.

Friday:
The lawyer joins us on our evening visit. Paul skirts the issue and, in the end, decides he wants more time to think about what revisions he'd like to make to his Will. The lawyer leaves.

The doctors say Paul could go home today but they'd like to wait 24 hours while they use the time in the hospital to treat him for a bad case of esophageal thrush. We all agree. I shave Paul's face before leaving for the night. My little way of getting him ready for his return home the next day.

Saturday:
There's a voice mail when I wake in the morning. The hospital called in the middle of the night. Paul had a reaction to the treatment. He's in a coma. I don't know who gets to the hospital first... me or Tom. When we're all there, we talk with the doctor and Paul's case manager. Yes, he may come out of the coma and improve. But chances are slim he'll be out of the hospital long if he gets out at all. They listed off a number of infections he was fighting and his complete lack of an immune system. They recommend stopping all treatment. Letting the diseases run their course. I had medical power of attorney. He was in a coma. It was a decision for me to make. I said I wanted to think about it.

I stayed the night. In a chair next to his bed. I didn't sleep much. If at all.

Sunday:
Paul is still in a coma. After Tom and the doctor arrive, I consult with them. I sign the papers to suspend all treatment and only provide pain management. They remove all the antibiotics and other IV's. Place a bag of morphine in their place.

Ten hours later, Paul wakes up in horrific pain. The nurses increase his morphine drip. His body is being attacked. Viruses. Bacteria. His lungs are filling with fluid from the PCP. His brain is being taken over by the Toxoplasmosis. The yeast is growing, unabated, throughout his intestinal tract.

I stay the night again.

Monday:
I call into work. Paul's no longer in a coma but the nurses say he's got enough morphine running through him to numb an elephant. That's the analogy they used. An elephant.

Tom and I talk about what to do about his family and his ex-partner. He hasn't spoken to his family since they disowned him 17 years before when he came out to them. They don't deserve to see him. I don't have the right to keep them. We decide we have to call. Have to let them make the decision.

It's mid-afternoon. We call his ex. He had moved up to Washington. He will be down as soon as he can. We found his mother in his phone book. He kept her number there... don't know why. I call and discover it's her work number. I explain who I am and tell her I'm at the hospital with her son. He's dying. Would she like to come say goodbye? She says, "Well, I'm busy with work this week. The soonest I could be up is Friday night." He doesn't have 'til Friday night. She says, "There's nothing I can do. I'm just too busy." I leaver her with the name & number of the hospital and the room number. I say goodbye and hang up.

Two hours later she calls the room. She states she was able to move some things around and she booked a flight for the next evening. "Do you need someone to pick you up from the airport," I ask. No, she says. She's bringing a friend and they're renting a car. His father isn't coming.

Around midnight, Paul sits up. It looks like he's pantomiming. He seems distant but alert. I ask him what he's doing. He replies, "Eating a ham & cheese sandwich." He's hallucinating. The morphine has taken over.

My third night sleeping in this chair. It's uncomfortable. I leave for awhile and go to the visitors lounge. There's a loveseat there and I sleep for and hour and a half. Maybe two hours. Middle of the night, I'm back in the chair, watching Paul sleep... if that's what you can call it. I write in my journal. I don't have it anymore. But it was something about pain. And love. And how it's love that makes you want it to end. The pain. Knowing there's only one reason it will.

I doze a little in the chair.

Tuesday:
Paul hasn't eaten in nearly four days. Well, nothing except that imaginary ham sandwich. His already emaciated body is... beyond life. Skin on bones. Nothing more. But he's breathing. And his hearts beating. His scent. It's... different. I notice it as I swab his teeth with a tooth sponge. Close up. His breath in my face. It's almost sterile. Like the smell of hospitals. Is that scent sterile? Or is it....

Tom relieves me for a short minute while I go home and shower. Stop by work to check on a few things. Make sure my roommates are taking good care of Paul's pup. I'm gone for two hours. Maybe.

The sun sets. The room is dark. Tom and I are playing cards. Chatting. He's sharing the story of how he met Paul and of the date they went on a decade ago. Neither of us know how we wound up sitting in these seats. How no one else has come by to visit. The room is dim. Just that small fluorescent reading light above Paul's bed. A sliver of light through the crack in the door. Until it opens... letting in light. And a silhouette. A middle-aged woman... broad. No step-classes for this one. Permed. Her ratty curls backlit. I can't see her face but I hear her when she says, "Oh, my poor baby!"

What the hell? Did I just arrive on the set of a soap opera? How melodramatic can you be woman? She rushes to his bed... doesn't touch him... just stands over him, looking down for a moment but only a moment. Then turns to us and asks how his dog is doing... who's taking care of him.

I say he's fine. He's at my house and my roommates are watching him. She says, "I always liked Buster."

I inform her that Buster passed away twelve years ago.

Tom could see the anger surfacing in my face. He stepped in and said he & I were going to leave her alone for awhile with her son. We went to get dinner. Somewhere away from the hospital.

When we returned, she was sitting in the chair reading a book. She stood and said she was tired and should go. Asked if I could give her directions and a key to Paul's place so she could stay the night. We'd prepared for this... figured one of the only reasons she came was to see what she may inherit from him. Tom and I told her no, we weren't comfortable with her staying there without anyone so she should get a hotel. She wasn't happy.

That night, I dozed in the chair again. Until the shouts woke me. Paul had ripped out his catheter. Was climbing out of bed. His IV torn out, bleeding everywhere. No need to push the nurses call button. They'd heard. They were there in an instant. We all talked him down. Helped him back in bed. They did their nurse things with IVs and catheters. They upped his morphine. Enough to kill a man. That's what they said. There was no higher they could go.

Wednesday:
I'm tired. I sponge Paul off a bit. Run some water through his hair. Swab his mouth again. Feed him ice chips but they're no help. His lips... cracked, dry, peeling. His eyes, half closed, vacant. Head tilted. New nurses come in. I chat with them since I hadn't met them yet. The one leading the show is ex-military. I can tell. He changes the sheets in a regimented fashion. No care or worry that there was a living person on top of them. No, he did no harm. Didn't hurt Paul. Hell, Paul couldn't feel anything anyway. No, it was just a routine for the nurse. Flip this, pull that, hold this, roll that. Like a worker on an assembly line. I missed the nurses from the previous shift.

Around nine, visiting hours started. Paul's mom arrives with her friend. We have the smallest of small talk and she brings up Paul's house again. Wants to go see it. It's her son, she has every right to... blah  blah blah. The doctor and the case manager are there. Tom is too. Someone recommends we all go out in the hallway to discuss. So we do. But they're adults. I feel nothing but anger. So I go back in the room and leave the four of them outside the door to figure out all that crap.

I look at Paul and talk to him. Tell him I'm sorry I invited her. I hope he understood why I felt I had to. I held his hand. Watched him breathing. Nearly lifeless. But still breathing...

Wait. Yes, still breathing. But.... less. A pause has developed between breaths. At first almost impossible to notice. Then hard not to. I started counting. Chest up. Chest down. 1-2-3. Chest up. Chest down. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. Chest up. Chest down. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17. Chest....

I stood up, opened the door, interrupted the little debate in the hallway and to this day i remember exactly what I said..

"It's happening."

A hush came over everyone as they walked back into the room.

Chest up. Chest down.
1-2-3-4-5.........32, 33, 34, 35...
Chest up. Chest down....1, 2, 3.......47, 48, 49..
Chest up. Chest down....1, 2.......112, 113, 114....
Chest up. Chest down.... 1, 2, 3.............

The doctor moved toward the bed. Made the declaration. The room was silent. Numb. I looked around and asked if I could read something. So I lifted a candle I'd kept lit for Paul these past few nights and I read that poem I wrote in my journal. Then, I blew out the candle. Set it aside. Looked at him. Relaxed. Finally. The pain really was gone. There was almost relief on his face. Or comfort. Yeah, that's what it was. Comfort. And I crawled into bed next to him. Hugging him in the softest, strongest way I knew how. I laid there for ten minutes, just snuggled up against him. Tom had started crying when I read from my journal. Paul's mother... well, she had a mist in her eye. That's something I guess. Then, I stood up and the doctor left the room and said we could have as much time as we'd like.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Paul's mom looked at us and said, "Well, I guess it's time to start talking about the Will."

I was infuriated. I looked at Tom, then said I needed to go for a walk. He was the adult. He handled the details. And I... walked. Walked outside. Fresh air. People. Moving. Landscapers mowing. Highways bustling. Babies, newborn, being carried out. Legs. Casted. Wheeled to their cars. Life. Carrying on.

It was that moment I realized that death is a part of life. I was only 25 but I'd seen it before. But not in this way. Taking that step away from Paul for that moment made me realize that the world keeps turning. Someone's passing is just as normal as someone stubbing their toe. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But much more significant than a toe-stubbing. For I came to realize something else. The second most important moment you can ever be there for someone is the moment they move on... they transition out of this life. The first of course being the moment they come into the world. And here I was. There for Paul. When no one else was. No one else would be. And, although I'm sure there are a few who sometimes think about him... wonder where he is or recall a memory of him... none had the experience I had to hold his hand on that day.

Paul, I may not be much... but 'til the day I die I'll always be holding you close. And never closer than that week I ride. If I ride for anyone, I ride for you. And when I arrive in your hometown of Santa Cruz on Sunday night, maybe... just maybe... I'll see that broad woman with that bad perm out there holding a sign begging for forgiveness.

Every Rose....

We all know the saying and our lives are full of thorny parts. My friend Sally and I came up with a name for them... high-class problems. You know, the ones like the new puppy peeing on the carpet you just had installed or the dishwasher breaking down or dropping your cell phone in the ocean when you're trying to take a picture from your cruise ship balcony. High-class problems never took off - it stayed a personal joke between us - but a variation arose a couple years ago... First-world problems. We all have them. Those moments we focus on the water leak or reaching our credit card limit or the car breaking down. Those moments when we forget how fortunate we are for owning our home or credit cards or automobiles which come with the responsibility (and challenges) of all of the above. Yep, those are what I'm talking about when I say high-class problems.

But today, things feel a little different. Yes, these things I'm feeling can be associated with high-class problems. If I didn't live in this technological age, this prosperous country, wasn't gainfully employed, able to access decent healthcare, and have the opportunity to use a portion of my income at my complete discretion, I wouldn't be feeling what I'm feeling today. If my friends and family didn't have the ability to support my ride, or send me a Facebook message or email or text to help keep me motivated, my emotions today may be completely different. These really are first-world problems. They're attributed to more than survival... the type of survival so much of the world, so many humans, have no choice but to focus on. This stuff I'm feeling, it's all extraneous. It's not the most basic needs required to just make it to the next day... those needs that many struggle for constantly. I mean, look at this chart.... Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. The most basic of basics for survival (both psychological and physical) include breathing, food, water, sleep, sex, homeostasis & excretion. I've got those down. But that's a first-world thing. Drought regions in Africa? No food. Rural areas in India? No potable water. Sweatshops throughout the world? Little sleep.

Heck, even level two, Safety, I've got today. Sure, I could lose any of them tomorrow but we're not talking tomorrow... it's today that I'm feeling this feeling. Shit, looking at this chart, I'm at the top of the pyramid. Maybe I'm not often creative and maybe a prejudice still pops up occasionally and maybe I experience periods without sexual intimacy.... but I have access to them all and they're all attainable with just a little change of direction, reworking of thoughts, shift in focus, right?

But this feeling today... this high-class problem... it's just from being overextended. From taking on something bigger than me. From putting my heart out there to help others survive and opening my mind to memories of struggle, and illness, and pain, and fear and death. It's from doing what I can to help others stay motivated. From watching those with the most dedication & commitment get derailed by some of that simple stuff in the pyramid we all take for granted. Before AIDS/LifeCycle, my life was pretty "normal." I worked. I spent time with friends. I had responsibilities like a mortgage and pets and bills and preparations for travel and supporting friends in need and swearing I'll clean out the closet next weekend...and...and...and...

When I signed up for ALC, I was anxious and nervous. If you've been following my journey or my blog or my Facebook or we chatted when I first started this little adventure, you knew that (right Jeremy C!). You've probably watched me re-learn how to ride a bike and turn into a real cyclist (yes, I consider myself a cyclist now). You've seen just a few miles turn into dozens... recreational rides turn into, "OMG, how did he do that?" You've seen the first cycling shorts & jersey I purchased and then saw them evolve into a closet full of gear. You saw - and are responsible for - fundraising progress starting at zero and reaching close to $12,000. Viewed photo albums of rides through Red Rock Canyon, River Mountain Loop, Hoover Dam, Palm Springs, Los Angeles, Long Beach, across the Golden Gate Bridge, - through the desert... along the beach. From here to there and back. But y'know what, even in the ALC world, I'm one of the lucky ones... I'm one of the ones with the high-class problems. One who can cut the thorns from the stem of the rose. One of the things I've learned on this path is this isn't easy. Maybe you've seen that. But I've never really noticed it. Not until recently. And here's why...

Longevity:

When I first registered, my thought was I'll give it a shot, ride a bike a little, raise a little money, and spend a week immersed in the experience. How wrong I was. This journey starts the moment you register. Many of us can't comprehend riding 545 miles in seven days. For those of us who've registered and trained, it starts to come into focus. Holy f***! This is much, much more than riding a bike for seven days. Just this week, a couple friends bought bikes to go on some recreational rides... y'know, doing something in the off hours to stay fit. Knowing I'm a cyclist, they immediately reported back to me about their experience. One, who's about my age, said she rode a couple miles and her first thought was, "When is this going to feel good?" I ache everywhere!" The second, a very fit, young woman, told me today, "I went on a twelve mile ride this weekend and I was like "OMG, I hurt here, here and here!" She's a former gymnast. Women probably envy her body and fitness level. But she can't ride a bike a dozen miles without it feeling like torture. That's the life of endurance sports I guess. We take time to build up to 20, 40, 50, 80 miles. But we experience all those same things. Wobbly legs after a long weekend of riding. Dehydration no matter how much water we consume on a ride. Applications of sunblock and lip balm over and over and over and over that still leave us with the most unattractive tan lines and sunburns. Aches here. Pains there. Discomfort all over. And to this day... even if you've been following me... the most mileage I've completed in a weekend is 118. On Day Two of the ride, I have to complete 109. Yes, there's preparation for the ride... but we won't ever know if we can really do it until we do it. That's where some of the anxiety comes in. I will say, after many talks with experienced riders, I know with the training I've done that I'm ready. That puts the nervous thoughts to the back of my mind... but they're still there. In the end, we're committing to more than riding for a week... we're committing to a total lifestyle change from the day we register to the day we cross the finish line. This ride isn't about a week along the coast of California... it's about living, breathing and training ALC for months.

And that's where life and the unexpected come into play...

Yep, this is about longevity. It's a three or six or nine month journey. And none of us can plan for changes in our lives or the unexpected challenges during that time. And here's what I've seen in these months...

Teammates and other participants I've come to know who've had major life changes. Dominic got a new job which took him to a different state and cut his ALC dreams short. Sure, he's following another dream but will have to wait to see this one come to fruition. Another teammate got into a relationship and due to the addition, and focus, of another person in his life, had to drop out of the ride. Molly and her wife started fostering their nephew... and they're still participating but it's been obvious their focus has shifted because that little boy has to be the priority and they've found less time for training and fundraising. And the unexpected... well, it's unexpected. Suzi, a new ALC friend, is probably more committed to the cause than anyone I know. And last week she took a tumble on her bike, the injury formed a blood clot, and now she's unable to ride. But she's still raising funds and joining us as a Roadie on the ride. Martijn was told by his docs he can't do an endurance event like this due to recurring back problems... but he's sticking with us by becoming a Virtual Cyclist. Others have had old injuries flare up, deaths in the family, work responsibilities... and just plain life... get in the way of their dreams of completing the ride. No matter our dedication or commitment, we have to focus on ourselves even while we're helping others. And when our needs become greater than theirs, well, we have to shift gears.

Economics & Budgets:

I haven't tallied the total cost of the ride for myself but I can tell you it reaches in the thousands... and that's not including the new bike. Here's a short list - definitely not all inclusive - of what a first time rider has to buy, beg, or borrow for the event:

• Basic Cycling Wear: Bibs, shorts, jerseys, socks, arm warmers, leg warmers, gloves, helmet
• Required Cycling Gear: Bike tool, pumps, tubes, saddle bags, water bottles & cages, patch kits
• Optional But Recommended/Preferred Cycling Gear: cycling shoes, clipless/cage pedals, chamois cream, eye wear
• Required Camping Gear: sleeping bag, camping pad, duffle bag/suitcase
• Optional but Recommended Gear: quick dry chamois towel, camp pillow, headlamp, flashlight, solar power chargers, batteries, plastic tarps, shower caps, non-battery operated alarm clocks, electrolyte mixes, energy shots/chews, trail mix/protein bars, hydration packs
• Miscellany: Ziploc bags, laundry detergent, sweat bands/bandana/skull caps, backpack, spare tires, an outfit for Red Dress Day
• Fundraising: monies we've contributed to our own funds, costs of fundraising events, flyers, promotions
• Logistics: Airfare & hotels for San Francisco & Los Angeles. Bike disassembly, shipping and assembly. Shuttles & taxis and BART fares.

That list is basic... doesn't include registration fees for things like supported events for training rides like I've been on.... Tour de Palm Springs, Day on the Ride, Tour de Cure. Doesn't include travel or hotels to cities to participate in longer rides to get experience with support while completing these 60, 80 and 100 mile rides... something that's very difficult to do outside of an organized event. Doesn't include the tubes we have to replace during training or the tune-ups & fittings we should probably get during our training or before the actual event. My costs, without the bike, without airfare, without gas, mileage, and time off work have exceeded $3,000. And me... well, that's a high-class problem for me. I shift things around. Not all items are required... not all costs are necessary... but I have the ability so I do it. And I go without this to buy that or make a concession to cover a cost. For those just as committed and focused as me, they may not have these luxuries. And that's what they are... luxuries, extras, concessions... all in the name of helping others. And, well, to see their dreams diminished... yeah, well, it's not pleasant and we as the ALC community do our best to help & support all participants where and if we can.

Fundraising:
First, I have to say I must be one of the luckiest guys in the world. Not only do I have a fully supportive community, but I've lived in a dozen states and have stayed friends with many throughout the years. This has given me a huge community to reach out to for support of my ride. I also have many, many years working in the field of HIV/AIDS which has connected me to those who've had a lifetime commitment toward this particular cause. I'm a little older... which means my friends are a little older... and we generally have the means to donate a little more than the friends of a college student might. I have larger, stronger, more solid networks. A 26 year old might not have that. Or someone who doesn't have friends across the globe like I do. You all have been amazing in every way in your support of this event. But I've seen others give up because they just can't meet their minimum. It's difficult for me to see someone dive in feet-first only to give up on the ride - lose the dream of doing it this year - because they can't reach their minimum to ride. That's where we as a community again bind together... and I've seen it over and over again. We promote our friends and fellow ALCers requesting donations for them or giving them donations ourselves because, in the end, it doesn't matter who the money is donated to... all the funds go to support the cause we all believe in.

The Head Effect:

For me, this may have been the biggest challenge. Not something everyone participating in the ride has had to deal with. But, as a first year rider, and someone who has decades of experience with HIV, it's been a tough one. In reminding myself why I'm riding... in sharing my story with my community... I've opened doors to memories that have been sitting back in dusty rooms. Wonderful memories of friendships and loves and working for a cause. And emotional memories of illness and fear and discrimination and loss. Opening that door of twenty years of memories and allowing them all to come out at the same time - well, that's the Head Effect. It's a double-edged sword. It reminds me why I'm doing this... keeps me committed and motivated. But it has, at times, also overwhelmed me with emotion and memories of the dark periods of this pandemic. The most difficult times were meeting up with old friends, sharing wonderful stories, and then finding out that a friend of ours I had lost touch with had lost his battle to AIDS almost a decade ago. Or hearing one of the volunteers who worked with my education program was in hospice and seeing her last moments in life posted on Facebook. Again... double-edged sword. It reminds me AIDS is still a thing and is the reason I'm riding. And it hurts at the same time.

Time:
How much spare time do you feel you have in a week? If you're like me - and I know many of my friends are - spare time is sparse. We work. We have side jobs. We have pets or children to care for. Homes to clean. Shrubs to trim. Bills to pay, dinners to cook, shopping to do, garages to organize, family to visit, birthdays to attend. We're busy. Now add ALC to that mix. At this stage in the game, many cyclists are spending 5-8 hours on Saturday out on the road getting some mileage in. Oh, and we do it again on Sunday. And it's not just about the time we spend in the saddle. The night before a ride I spend 30-60 minutes airing tires, packing saddle bags, charging external batteries, mixing electrolyte drink, safety checking my bike, checking the weather forecast and choosing the right cycling gear. I've spent an evening putting new tires on my bike. Or mornings checking the ALC packing list and searching online for the right gear that I can afford. Late evenings spent mapping routes, locating water/bathroom checkpoints, planning rides. Reading online cycling blogs to learn how to fix a flat or shift properly.

But that's just training. All the riding we do doesn't fulfill the most important part of this journey... raising funds for the LA Gay & Lesbian Center and the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. Emails, Facebook posts, planning fundraisers, sending thank you's, coordinating raffles, following up, providing incentives for donors.

For me, there's even more. I'm a team captain. I try to spend time supporting and helping my teammates. More emails, phone calls, Facebook posts, text messages, researching things on the ALC site so I have the answers they might need. I live in Vegas so I've chosen to travel in order to participate in ALC training rides. I've been to LA, Palm Springs & San Francisco. I've worked with Brendan to organize a great event for ALC out here in Vegas. From the day I signed up, I've tried my best to be all-in.

So yeah, a couple hours ago it caught up with me. I felt worn out and overwhelmed. I had a rough day at work, maybe that had something to do with it. Or maybe the last couple weeks of terrorists and fertilizer plant explosions and North Korea bombing threats is taking its toll. Maybe it's just exhaustion in trying to find time to complete the simple tasks like doing the dishes after a long day at the office or remembering what day it is so I know whether or not to put the garbage on the curb for pickup.

But you know what, after writing this all down it seems so much smaller. Not feeling overwhelmed right now. Not feeling worn out. Nope. I'm reminded I'm not doing this alone. That I have 2,500 Riders, a thousand Roadies, and amazing ALC Staff right here beside me. I've got the most amazing team of Allstars who I know are there for me the minute I reach out. Then there are all of you... my friends, family, colleagues... who've been alongside me from day one. I'm remembering there's only 39 days until we ride out of San Francisco and I can get through 39 days of just about anything... even if it means putting off cleaning that closet until after I return on June 9th.

When I signed up for this, I signed up for the experience of a lifetime. And we all know those types of experiences don't come easily. But yeah... it's all worthwhile. For my personal goals. For the community around me. And, most importantly, for the people we're all helping and the cause we're all fighting for in this endeavor.

Yep. This rose has some thorns but I know one thing... it's one damn beautiful flower. No, it's not one. It's an entire field of the grandest roses ever cultivated.

I got this. And I got this because of you.

Thank you.

J-

Shifting Gears

When I set out on this journey, I knew very little about cycling aside from an occasional ride to and from work when I lived in San Francisco and Chicago. Or maybe hopping on the bike on a sunny Saturday afternoon but never completing more than a few miles. Just last year, if I'd pass someone cycling to work I'd be awestruck as I watched how much dedication & determination it must take to do something like that every day. As for road cyclists, awestruck wasn't even on my mind... they were so beyond anything I could comprehend that I didn't think much about them at all if I saw them in the bike lane next to my car.

I did say I knew very little, right? I mean, I've had a few friends who were cyclists so I've heard a handful of keywords through the years. Things like saddle & chamois & drafting & cadence. For some reason, the one I always remembered the most was cadence - the number of revolutions of the crank per minute... y'know, the rate at which you pedal. Being a math-minded person, I realized during one of these conversations that shifting gears was an integral part to keeping a steady cadence. When faced with a challenge (climbing hills or facing headwinds), you shift to a lower gear so you pedal at the same rpm even if you're going slower. Just as you shift to a higher gear going downhill to keep your cadence even if you're going faster.

Early on, I began practicing my cadence. Not having a bike computer, it's really hit or miss for me but I do try to focus on shifting gears so my pedal stroke stays somewhat consistent. The more I bike, the more I've learned how shifting really is the key to riding these long distances we're training for. Too low a gear on a flat path and you're pedaling your butt off but getting no speed. Too high a gear on a climb and you're overexerting your leg muscles and wearing yourself out far too soon.

But the one thing it took me awhile to learn was how shifting gears metaphorically is also an integral part to preparing for an endurance event like AIDS/LifeCycle.

Few of us newbies really have any idea what we're getting ourselves into. No amount of reading, Googling or listening can really prepare us for a cycling event like this. Or for the experience of AIDS/LifeCycle. I've tried to share some of that experience with you through this blog, or sharing videos and photos from past years on ALC, but... no... there's literally no way to really express this experience.... it's all about doing it. And doing it means shifting gears in your training. In your fundraising. In your day-to-day life to accommodate all the time needed to prepare. In your budget as you purchase things like chamois butt'r which you'd never heard of before. And in your goals.

For me those shifts have included raising my fundraising goal because you all helped me hit the first goal so quickly. Or revising my training schedules due to unexpected health or life events. Some of my shifting has been learning that I need to buy this before I buy that. Or that Gatorade isn't my electrolyte drink of choice. I've tested out methods and equipment and GPS apps and cycling paths only to switch gears 'til I found what works best for me. With only eight weeks left until the big event, I'm sure I'll be shifting gears a few more times too.

I know I will. Because, all this talk about shifting is leading up to something (okay, you know me and you know reticence isn't my thing... this really is all very contextual but has nothing to do with cadence or pedaling, heh!).

Over the past few months, I've come to know one of the most important aspects of the AIDS/LifeCycle experience. Community. The sense of support, strength, commitment to others, belief in teamwork, focus on a common goal. There's a name for it... it's called the "Love Bubble." But you'll never fully understand it until you've felt it. I've benefited from that goodness in so many ways. Whether it was tips on cycling, recommendations on gear, creative ideas for fundraising, or even learning I was wearing my leg warmers backwards, I've become a better cyclist because the ALC community cares enough to make sure no rider is left behind. Or left in uncomfortable backward leg warmers. I've even had a few fellow participants donate to my ALC fund. Which is crazy because they could just put the money toward their own goals, right? But that's not the point. The point is, we're all in this together.

And I want us to continue to all be in this together. Every single amazing, giving, beautiful soul I've met during this crazy adventure. Each cyclist that's said, "Good morning," as she passed me on a hill. Or the guy on sweep that waits patiently with Clif bars and gel shots until the last rider passes after a tough climb. For every participant that's putting in their everything to training, and fundraising, and saving lives while still trying to juggle the demands of their job, and their kids and the needs of their partners and the struggle to find balance between work and life and chores and bills and dogs and family and car troubles and house guests.

From June 2nd through June 8th, I don't want to leave a single one of these folks behind. So I'm shifting gears.
$22,000. Y'know, we could probably get there. Heck, we've done the unimaginable already and passed the halfway mark. So many of you to thank for that. We're working together to save so many lives. Prevent so many HIV infections. Provide support to the daughter whose father has AIDS. Or the mother who has to bury her son.We are making a difference.

And the 2,500 riders... 800 roadies... and handful of staff who combine forces to become AIDS/LifeCycle, all need to be present in June. For those of us riding, that means raising a minimum of $3,000 in order to participate in the event. Some haven't been as fortunate as me. Maybe they work three jobs. Have two kids at home. Their community doesn't have resources like mine. They're in college without a full-time job. Or succeeding in their recovery from drugs & alcohol. Sometimes things need to take priority over training & fundraising. (Hell, I've let vacuuming slide to allow room for training & fundraising!). But whatever their priorities, these things don't make them any less willing... no... any less wanting to make a difference in the lives of those affected  by HIV & AIDS.

So, $22,000... yeah, we might still get there. But that's not my focus anymore. Nope. Even with all that comes with it. The recognition. The gratitude. The Top 100 List. Or that awesome Top 50 Superstar Cycling Jersey. Nope. Have that. Keep it. Give it to someone else. I'm shifting gears. For me, it's not even icing on the cake. I want my icing to be simple. I want every single person who's committed to participating in this event to pass me at least once during those seven days and say, "Hello." I want them all to reach their $3,000 minimum.... and ride with me.

With eight weeks left until I board a plane for San Francisco to participate in the event, I will no longer ask for direct donations. I'll still have a few fundraisers but only because they're already in the works. Things like the raffle for the Cannondale Road Bike. You'll still be able to receive one entry for every $10 contributed to my ride (and, yes, it's a schweeeeet bike!). Or the garage sale I have planned for later this month... I'm still taking donations for that so clean out your closets and garages! I've got my candy bucket at work which is helping to raise funds and there are a couple other big fundraisers I'm participating in. But please, if you don't want a raffle ticket for a bike or a gently used entertainment center from a garage sale, or even a peppermint patty from the candy bucket... then support me by supporting my friends.

First, let me start with my team... the ALCers I know the best and am the most proud of...

If you visit our team list, you'll see close to twenty of us but, unfortunately, a few have been sidelined due to life changes.... new jobs, family illness, and even personal injury. There are still many who are as committed as I am but need just a little more help to reach that minimum to ride. The first is...

Jeremy: This guy started it all. The founder of Manning Up. Created our team. He's the man behind the $50,000 we've raised together. He's focused his efforts on marketing & jerseys & partnerships & logistics to the point that he's found little time to raise funds. But he's dedicated. And worthy. So think about donating to him here:
Jeremy Manning's ALC Page










Jose: You want to know his story, ask him. It'll blow you away. And to see the man he's become through the challenges he's faced is inspirational. And to keep up with him on a ride to and from Santa Monica is a bitch! This guy's gotta be on the ride... gotta be in front of me to push me harder, faster, further than I'd push myself. His donation page is here:
Jose Garcia's ALC Page

Geovanny: The one teammate I have yet to meet but have heard so much about. He's an entrepreneur, small business owner, a mover and a shaker. Strong, talented, smart and determined. I've gotta meet him even if I have to wait 'til June 2 to do it... I need the motivation and energy he provides (plus I'm wearing his underwear right now!):
Geovanny Landaverde's ALC Page

Randy: You think I've got dedication? Randy beats me by a mile. He's been at every ALC or team event I've attended. Flown to San Francisco for the NorCal Expo and Midnight Sun Fundraiser. Joined us in Long Beach for a training ride with Team Long Beach. And brings his partner Rick along who's become our unofficial Manning Up photographer! Can't imagine the ride without Randy so consider helping him reach $3K:
Randy Miyashiro's ALC Page

Jonathan: There's something about Jonathan. Commitment is an understatement. This guy was the magic behind the madness of Legendary Bingo that helped our team raise over $1,500 in one night. He pushes me when we ride together. He's amazing company on long boring routes. And I swear, if he lived in Vegas... or I lived in LA... I'd be sharing one of those cheesy BFF heart shaped locket thingies with him. I can't ride without him so help make sure I don't:
Jonathan Piccirillo's ALC Page

Dan: The funny guy (no, seriously, he's a real, live comedian). I had the pleasure of meeting him at the SoCal ALC Expo... and have chatted with him on the phone in our long-distance Captain/Teammate kind of way. More than anyone on our team, Dan wants to ride. And I want to ride by his side since I haven't yet had the opportunity. Make it happen here:
Dan Wentzel's ALC Page




Those are my teammates who haven't yet reached their minimum and my days on the ride will be a little cloudy if I can't share a meal, tell a tale, or listen to their stories. But over the course of my training, I've met many others who inspire, motivate & support me... and the adventure just wouldn't be the same if I didn't have a few memories made with them...

Alvin: When I visited SF for the NorCal Expo, I participated in an ALC training ride from The Presidio to Fairfax... and back. About a quarter way in, Alvin pulled up beside me at one of the many, many (MANY!) stop signs Marin County offers. He stuck by my side to Fairfax and all the way back to San Francisco. Wonderful company and, as a seventh year rider, he brings the experience I need on the ride:
Alvin Paez's ALC Page








Deyon: This beautiful woman was a Training Ride Leader on that Fairfax ride. And you know what she did when we got to the top of a hill and I said I had to pee? She rode with me back down to the base of that hill and waited for me while I asked the guys at the Fire Station if I could use their restroom. Then she climbed that hill with me again. She helped keep me from getting lost between Fairfax & San Francisco and provided incredibly helpful tips on the ride and cycling in general. Wanna make sure I can thank her in June...
Deyon Jonson's ALC Page



Susan: Okay, so Roadie's don't have a minimum but the funds raised still go to help those we're supporting. Susan's a fourth year participant who loves her tutus! I met this burst of energy on the recovery ride the day after the Tour de Palm Springs. She provided pointers, tips and even a binder clip to hold my route map (I still owe you a binder clip, beautiful!). I want to see her again on the ride... if only to try on her tutu (y'know I haven't chosen my Red Dress Day outfit yet!):
Susan Fish's ALC Page

Tim: A first year rider like me, I was lucky to meet him at the SoCal ALC Expo. He's got an energy that just revs your engines (or turns your pedals in our situation!). He's close to his minimum and I'm sure he'll pass me in Santa Cruz... and the Valley... and everywhere in between. But he's still just a little shy of that Magic 3 Mark so throw in a few bucks so he can help me change my next flat tire....
Tim Breck's ALC Page

Aaron: Finally, I met another local ALC participant! I've got someone who's experienced the event time & time again to help guide me through all the little nuances (okay, pains) required in preparing and finishing a 545 mile bike ride! He's one cool cat who's going to be a huge support during the next two months. Which is why he's gotta be alongside me in June...
Aaron Otte's ALC Page

Van: Another local! Woohooo! Wild West Weekend helped introduce me to another ALC participant who's newer to cycling but not to endurance events. Van's a marathoner and there's plenty to learn from a guy who can run 26.2 miles. But he's taken up cycling on the side. And he's just as strong in the saddle as he is pounding the pavement. You'll see plenty of him during my training rides in the coming weeks just like I'll hope you'll see plenty of him on the ride:
Van Vaughn's ALC Page

Tammy: It might be hard to get this one to smile but when she does it's infectious! If I remember correctly, she's a veteran ALC rider and doing it again because she believes in this cause more than anyone. During Wild West Weekend, we had the chance to ride, eat and tip a glass together so I'm hoping to spend a little more time with her during the ride because I, of anyone, know how still waters run deep and this one's got a lot to offer:
Tammy Daugherty's ALC Page

Joselyn: A virgin like me. Well, an ALC virgin. Jos and I met during Wild West Weekend and can I say... I LOVE HER! No disrespect to your husband Joselyn. This girl's a strong rider and completed her first century a full month before I'll complete my own (you do know you're a decade younger than me, right???). She's leaving her son and husband at home for a week to join us on the ride... and her smile needs to light up our ride on those cloudy days and dark nights...
Joselyn Samaniego's ALC Page

Ricky: Saving the best for last. Ricky came out with his crew from San Diego to get away from the beach and ride through the desert for Wild West Weekend. And broke the seal at Karaoke in the Saloon! This will be his second year with ALC. Last year he rode in memory of his friend Ricardo. This year, he's riding for so many reasons after discovering what AIDS/LifeCycle is all about. While in Vegas, he was the first to finish our sixty mile ride and I want to follow his pace during our long ride in June... let's make sure he's riding next to me and the rest of the Hooligans this summer!
Ricardo Vasquez Guy's ALC Page

I know you still want to support me on this journey. And I'm serious when I say the best way to support me is to make sure these folks are there with me on the ride. These beautiful souls and all others who have committed to riding along the coast of California to help support this cause. You don't like these peeps? Well, first I'd call ya crazy then I'd say please go find another rider who hasn't yet met their minimum but is committed to the cause. Yes, if you want an entry into the bike raffle or think buying a pair of my old jeans at the garage sale is what suits you best, please support me that way. But if you were thinking about donating to the cause through me... if you just wanted to show me you care, and didn't want anything in return except to make sure I had a successful ride.... then please work to make sure these folks and all others are with me on the road. In camp. At breakfast. Watching the sunrise. Eating Clif bars. Listening to me snore. Refilling water bottles. Chatting after lights out. Hugging me when I cry. Lighting a candle when I'm remembering. Pushing me up a hill. Raising their arms in triumph as I cross that finish line on June 8.

$22,000? Yes, I still want to raise it. But not under my name. I want it for the reason I've always wanted it... to help those who benefit from the money raised. That might sound somewhat altruistic. But not really. Because deep down, like all of us, I'm a little selfish. In the end I want all of those listed above... and all of those who've promised to ride... to be there by my side. Sure, I'd somehow be able to complete this journey if they weren't there. But without them... just like without you... it wouldn't be AIDS/LifeCycle. It would just be another bike ride.

J-

Remember When...

Yes, me & my first glacier!

On June 4, 2012, I arrived home after an amazing cruise experience. I visited Alaska for the first time, bringing me to a total of like 46 states visited. Or maybe more. I lost count. The group I traveled with was one I have come to know over the past few years and we did what we do best... we got together and we made memories. I caught up with friends I've been sailing with for years. And I met some new folks in the group. Even met some Alaskans and got to see a bit of their world from a local's perspective. These cruises are more like reunions for me as it's often the only time I get to see my cruise friends and, let me tell you, they're one great group of people to have in your life.

Before I even unpacked (and you know it takes me two weeks to unpack and do all that laundry) I realized I had no future travel plans on my calendar. That's not like me at all and I had to do something about it. So I started to look at what my next adventure would be. During that week, I decided I wanted to do something life changing. Unique. Ballsy. My first thought was that I could finally attend Burning Man. I had tickets once but I had to sell them when I accepted a job offer in Nevada and moved out-of-state just weeks before the event. I've always heard it was the experience of a lifetime. Community. Passion. Love. Commitment. Art. Brother (and Sister) Hood.

But timing's everything, isn't it?



During the week I was trying to pin a date to my travel calendar, I saw that many were finishing up their own experience of a lifetime. The week of June 3-9, 2012 was the week cyclists from around the world set off from San Francisco and trekked along the length of California for AIDS/LifeCycle. I ran across news articles and Facebook posts and emails from friends to whom I'd donated. It started to sink in...

You see, I've known about the AIDS Ride and AIDS/LifeCycle for years... almost decades. My work in the field of HIV & AIDS on the west coast introduced me to the AIDS Ride in the mid-90's. It was always inspiring. Something I wanted to do. But, y'know, next year. I'm not ready. Cardio isn't my thing. I could never cycle 545 miles. The cost. The time. The commitment.



The fear of failing.

Somehow last year, during all this thought of vacations and travel, some switch inside of me flipped. And on June 9, I registered for the 2013 ride. I didn't think about it much. Might have even thought, "What the hell, it's only a small registration fee... even if I don't do it I'm not really out much money." Actually, that's exactly what I thought. But I knew I would at least try. Do you remember when I went out and paid my first visit to a bike store? The smirks I got from the staff when I told them I hadn't been on a bicycle in years and had just signed up for a seven day ride? My complete lack of knowledge on cycling, gear, training, or what I'd just gotten myself into?

Yeah. We all start somewhere. To quote my friend Jeremy, "Starting over starts now." With every change we make. Every mountain we climb. Every challenge we face. For me, this was an unknown that I wasn't sure if I'd ever know. But I threw some money out there and bought my first jersey and bib set along with a helmet. I had no idea. The sales staff could have told me this was the only thing that would get me 500 miles and I would have said, "Here's my credit card." And that spandex... wow, I was so embarrassed to take a pic in them that I cropped my head out of the photo.
After buying some gear, I realized I would have to get on a bike. Do you recall the day I took my first "training" ride? Pulling my old mountain bike off a hook in garage and trying to learn how to ride a bike again? The tires were dry-rotted. I had no idea what the condition of the tubes inside the tires were. I dusted it off but barely ventured outside of walking distance from my house for fear I'd get stuck with a flat I didn't know how to change or go to far and not find my way back.

Slowly, over time, I acquired a few more shorts & jerseys. A saddle bag and some clipless pedals. I built up some endurance on that old Gary Fisher. So much so that my rides were getting far too long to take that 40 pound beast up another hill. I went bike shopping. Found a CAAD-y but hated the color. Searched and searched and searched until I found the ride that would not only be "mine" - but, as I've come to learn, would almost become a part of me. You may not know this but we cyclists have a relationship with our bikes. It's almost like they're an appendage... a part of us. The saddle conforms to our shape. We have the neck & seat post adjusted especially for our bodies. We spend time... hours... each week touching nothing but that handlebar tap, grabbing the brakes or tapping those shifters.

So, yeah, do you remember when I first started out? I do. Kind of. But it's a distant memory. These past few weeks, I've come to realize so much. Y'know, when I set out for a 30 mile ride a few months ago, if I wore out at 20 miles or if the headwinds were too strong, I'd just turn around and go home. If I didn't feel like riding that day, I'd just pour another cup of coffee and turn on some bad TV. Do you remember the days when I got excited when my training passed 100 miles? Or when I was ecstatic that I'd raised $500? My journey toward completing 545 miles in my training to match the mileage I'd have to hit in just seven days?

I gotta laugh a little when I think of that me back then. Five hundred forty five miles? Still a stretch. A huge challenge. But, when I first started, I was lucky to get 80 miles a month. Did you know that in March I completed over 400 miles? And that it's been almost two months since I set out on a ride with a mileage goal and turned around before I completed it? And I know you have no idea that when I finish a 50 mile ride, I want to keep going for another twenty.

But I do.

Looking at myself now compared to where I was on June 9, 2012, I realize I am a better man. AIDS/LifeCycle has helped me achieve that. Seven mile rides have turned into seventy. Five hundred dollar milestones have turned into $10,000. It's an uphill climb (often literally) but I'm getting there. Little by little. That ideal of Burning Man - community, passion, love, commitment, art, brother (and sister) hood...

Yeah, I've got that.

Just like I've got this.

I've become a kinder man. I've become more giving. I've worked hard for those who may be less fortunate who will never be able to thank me in person. I've shed the fear of stigma around my HIV status and once again been an out & proud man with AIDS. I've relived negative memories I'd buried for years and found the light in my past. I've become stronger. Found a new passion. Committed to the impossible. And come to know many brothers & sisters on the journey.

In less than nine weeks, I set off from San Francisco and make my way to Los Angeles. Honestly, if it happened tomorrow, I know I could do it. Yeah... I still have a few old habits left... and a few more goals to accomplish. And there's definitely one or two I'll need you to help me get.... but I know I'll get there with you.

You see, I can finally stand the man in the mirror I see. 'Cuz I ain't as good as I'm gonna get.

But there's no doubt that this journey with AIDS/LifeCycle has made me better than I used to be. And I'm joined by you on that journey. Whether you're an ALC staffer. A roadie. A teammate. A fellow cyclist. A sponsor. Or just someone who says, you got this. You've all helped to uncover the diamond under all this dust.

We can all be better. We just have to take the first step. Or the first pedal. We may not know where it leads us. But we're not going to get anywhere if we don't try.

J-