Seven Days In June

As you may know, I've been working on some magazine articles about my experience with AIDS/LifeCycle. The first of these has been published and I wanted to share it here. I haven't yet picked up an actual copy of the magazine but here's my submission, prior to any editing the pub may have done. If you happen to see one when you're out & about, pick one up!

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My legs are stiff from climbing hill after hill. Three fingertips are numb from spending a week hunched over the handlebars. My right knee aches from pushing down on the pedals more than 200,000 times. And I have never felt better.


Yes, you read that right. I feel amazing. Accomplished. Strong. Because I just spent a week riding my bicycle 545 miles in AIDS/LifeCycle to raise money to support the San Francisco AIDS Foundation and the LA Gay & Lesbian Center.

Each year, more than 2,000 riders along with hundreds of volunteers trek from San Francisco to Los Angeles to take part in the world’s largest fundraiser of its kind. I’ve known about this event since its inception. Actually I’ve known about the ride since cyclists in its predecessor, the California AIDS Ride, first put foot to pedal in 1994 to raise monies for much needed HIV/AIDS programs and services. But I never made the commitment to participate. Through the years, I had all the excuses; not enough time, money, discipline, courage or experience. 

Then last summer, as I disembarked from a cruise ship after a relaxing week touring Alaska, I felt it was time for something different. For a vacation that was not only life-changing but gave back in some way. And AIDS/LifeCycle was the answer. I registered, pulled my dusty bike off its hook in the garage, cleaned it, and rode eight miles. Only eight? That’s when I realized I didn’t know what I was in for. Or how I would accomplish it. 

But I tried. And my training miles increased. As I spent more time on the road, I began to have more time to think about the reasons I chose to ride. As a young gay man in the early 1990s, I dealt with my share of loss from the disease. From the moment I registered, I knew I was riding for Paul. And Steve. And Bob, Micah, Kerry, Pedro, J.R. Shawn, Ken, Deidre, Barry and many, many others I’ve known who’ve died from AIDS. But that was just scratching the surface. I began to think about all those friends who’ve seroconverted in the years since. Friends who are still here today. Soon, words of gratitude came in from friends who are clients of SFAF and LAGLC. These are the faces behind the ride. The real people who benefit from the funds raised by the ride. These are the lives I was working to save. So I trained harder. Rode faster. And that’s when I found even more unexpected miracles on my journey.

As I rode more, I reached out and discovered a community I didn’t know existed. A seemingly impossible community of giving and support and experience. And, especially, of love. A community of cyclists, volunteers and staff ready, willing and able to make sure no rider is left behind. One that included the Positive Pedalers - a group of people with HIV who participate in AIDS rides around the country. I was welcomed into this community. Became one of them. They inspired, motivated and taught me. The community stretched far beyond the borders of California. Spanned from coast to coast. And across the oceans. London. Hong Kong. Paris. Zurich. And even if I didn't meet them until we shared the road, they were there for me. And I for them.

One way I stepped up was when a friend called to ask if I’d help lead his newly formed team and I agreed. Our team, Manning Up Allstars, was founded on the ideal that by creating active means for taking back your life, you can prove to yourself that you can accomplish not only the physically impossible but also overcome all types of adversity. As team captain, I watched this group of first year riders achieve individual greatness in every way imaginable and blow past our team goals as we dusted our expectation to raise $50,000 by finishing with a total of nearly $75,000.

Then came the ride itself. Beauty on a bike. Fog and sun and clouds and breezes. Green fields speckled with ripe strawberries and blue coasts crested by white waves. Scents of lavender and jasmine rushing past us. Townsfolk cheering us on. Neighbors ringing bells. Lunching under trees, dancing in the desert and camping under stars. But most of all, riding. And again remembering the reasons we ride. On our last night in camp we held a candlelight vigil on Ventura Beach. I looked around at the faces framed by flickering light. Men and women from all walks of life. Brought together by one common goal. I was struck most by the young faces. Those too young to have experienced the darkest days of this pandemic. Those who weren’t old enough to remember the time when HIV was taking our brothers and sisters in droves. Those who, hopefully, will never experience that kind of loss.

And it was in that moment I realized we did make a difference. Those of us on the ride this year and in previous years. Those who’ve promised to keep riding until HIV/AIDS are a thing of the past. We helped make that change. We saved lives. No, we’re not done yet. But there’s no doubt we’re getting closer to our goal.

And that was when I decided to ride again in 2014.

Ride with me.

About Life, Beauty and Love

Have you been wondering why there hasn't been a 3,000 word post describing my ride in full detail? Curious as to why I've been home for three weeks and haven't written a single word on this page? Been jonesing for some jimagery blogness in your life?

Well, the answer's quite simple. My writing time has been dedicated to some magazine articles. And they come with deadlines. And word counts. And have to by stylized in a much different way than what I write here. Unfortunately, when writing for mass consumption, I can't just shit it out and hope no one cares. And I figured I'd just share those articles with you once they're published and didn't want to duplicate my efforts here.

But today I'm taking a short break from that. I'll be returning to it later but had to write under my own terms and in my own way for a bit. Since I'm writing about the ride in broad strokes for these publications, I wanted to give you something different right now. Something about life on the road. Beauty rolling right in front of you - or sometimes passing on your left - during the ride. A love created in a community born through making a difference.

Prior to the ride - during my training & travels - I was introduced to this aspect of the event. Might have even written about it once or twice. The community that is born of AIDS/LifeCycle. Even just cycling or fitness in general. It starts simply I suppose. Like last weekend when I was riding and cyclists on the other side of the road would wave. Happened on my route on Thursday when a jogger on the sidewalk did the same. We don't often see that in our day-to-day lives. Yes, maybe we say, "Good morning," to our neighbors. But they're not total strangers. We see them regularly. Maybe even invite them over for to sit on the patio sometimes. What about strangers on the street or the bus? I find it rare that people say hello these days. Think about Starbucks. The barista says, "How are you today?" and often the reply is, "I'll take a skinny, decaf mocha."

During the ALC event, this friendliness is amplified. Something to do with working toward a common goal. Sharing a common struggle. Setting up a tent twelve inches from your neighbors. The understanding that it's up to us to watch out for each other. Here are some of my experiences and the people behind them.

Jose, Jonathan, Fabian, Erik & Matt

While waiting to board my flight in LA, I saw two guys walking up to the gate and one was carrying a bike helmet. When they passed by me, I looked up and said, "Are you riding?" They were. And we chatted. While waiting. Then again in line. Then I saved seats for them and on the plane and the conversation continued to San Francisco. Then kept going as we took BART into the city together. Although I didn't ride with them at all during the week, we'd continue our hello's whenever we'd bump into each other during the event. Turns out they did know some of my teammates though and spent plenty of time riding with them.

Loren with their two beautiful children.

Like most teams, our team didn't ride together as a whole during the event. There were a couple of mini-groups within our team that did but mostly, due to different sleep schedules and cycling paces, we integrated with the entire ALC community. For me that started on Day One since I was part of the Opening Ceremonies. Although I saw some of them in the crowd, once they released us to the starting line, there was no way I was going to find my teammates. As excited as I was, I also felt a little lost in the crowd. Here I was setting off on the biggest adventure of my life and had no one I knew beside me. Then a voice called my name and when I looked it was my friend Loren. His husband, Eric, was a Roadie and my tentmate. Loren had dropped us off for the ceremonies and stayed to watch. As luck would have it, when I took my position at the starting line I landed in a spot right next to where he was watching the cyclists ride out. He asked if he could take a picture... which he did. And when he lowered the camera from his face, I saw tears streaming down. Then I started sobbing. As we shared a long, deep hug across the barricade he wished me luck and I told him I loved him. Thank you for being there Loren.

Mel, Kerry & Ken (Chicken Lady) at the starting line.
(Take a close look at the top right corner... the day was full of emotion)

Starting to wipe away tears and still waiting to leave, I hear another call from the crowd. I turn to see my Cyclist Rep Kerry and her partner Melinda. First, let me say, these two helped me through so much these past months and we've shared so many experiences, including our Wild West Weekend trip. Whenever I reached out to one of them, they were there to help guide me in leading my team. And here they were, reaching out to me at the start. More tears. More hugs. Then Kerry said, "You did this. 14.2 million dollars." The last words I heard as I set off on my journey were how we as community achieved greatness. That gave me strength. And brought a huge smile. Then later in the day, I saw Kerry had posted a photo of me from that moment and the caption read, "My Hero." Just like you are two of mine. Thank you Kerry & Mel. For everything.

Look at that smile... just makes ya wanna hug him!

Tears were gone by the time I started rolling. And, again, as chance would have it, I wasn't meant to ride out alone. Within minutes of starting, we were stopped at a light (those first six miles were a little chaotic and, being in the city, there were plenty of stop signs & lights). That's where I found myself next to my teammate Paul. He was the only veteran rider on our team and I can't tell you how grateful we all were to have him. His Tuesday Tips kept us informed and help prepare us for the event. If we had a question, he had an answer. Even from San Francisco, he participated fully in the conversation on our team page and was always there to help us get through whatever it was we were going through. And here I was lucky enough to ride with him and chat during those first few miles of the event. My anxiety about the ride was completely gone now. I wasn't alone and knew I wouldn't be for the next seven days. Paul if I haven't told you, I appreciate you. More than you know.



Somewhere in those first miles of the ride, I got my first ALC crush. Okay, not my first since that had happened during training. But my first during the week of the event. Not exactly sure when Jorge and I were first introduced. I think it was on the road before the first water stop. At the water stop I asked if he'd take a picture of me and Eric, and he obliged. We rode together for a bit, but I broke away at some point. Then at San Gregorio Beach, I returned to the water bottle I had set down and there he was with his friends. He introduced me to his riding buddies, Keith & Jaime. Great guys all around. But of course they are... they're from Chicago. Had a great lunch chat and, throughout the week, I got to spend some quality time with them on the road, at rest stops or in camp. Even did a little skinny dipping together. That little moment... that first day at lunch... introduced me to the joys and wonders of community and friendship and little crushes that would follow me throughout the week.

Photo op with Fergus - Day 4, Rest Stop 1.
Just before the Evil Twins.

I can't write about the ride - and even the days leading up to it - without mentioning Fergus. A few months ago I received a donation from someone I didn't know. I later found he'd read an article about me and the ride and it motivated him to make a donation in my name. I sent out my thank you email and soon found he was riding as well. Yes, another rider donated to me. It happens more often than you think. And he donated to others as well, especially in those weeks leading up to the event when I was trying to help other riders reach their minimum. He stepped up then too and helped ensure no rider was left behind. I saw Fergus often during the ride. Actually met him face-to-face for the first time on Orientation Day as we were waiting in that long ass line, heh! What an inspiration. With everything that I went through in training and preparation, it was nothing compared to this guy who lives in Hong Kong. If I felt alone out here in the desert, just imagine what he felt training for the ride on the other side of an ocean. My trek from Las Vegas to San Francisco to set off on the ride pales in comparison to his journey to be a hero in the ALC community. Fergus' strength & commitment to the cause inspired me throughout this adventure. Thankfully, we'd bump into each other here or there during the week and share a Clif Bar or take a photo together. Another of the amazing people I discovered on this journey. Fergus, thank you for crossing an ocean in the fight against HIV/AIDS. And thank you for being a friend.

Speaking of crossing oceans - and of ALC crushes - there's one group that comes right to mind. Team Swiss. If there were a "Friendliest Team Award" during the ride, this group would be in the running. Met them early on - not exactly sure when - but if I saw them in my line of sight during the week I refused to pass up a chance to say hello. Never saw these guys (and girl) without smiles on their faces. They had an energy that's indescribable. Accepted everyone into their circle. Embraced the LifeCycle community in an unbelievable way. Some of my best memories during the ride were moments spent laughing and chatting with them. As for inspiration - toward the end of the ride I discovered one of them (Francesco, I think) had actually sold his car to purchase a bike for the ride. That's commitment. That's AIDS/LifeCycle. Hope to see all of you next year - and maybe then I'll tell you which one(s) I have a crush on!




While I'm on the topic of riders from overseas, I gotta give a shout out to Kirstie. Met her Day Two at Rest Stop Two. She shared the inflatable dragon float with me (our bums needed some comfort by then!). Cute girl. Smart girl. Friendly girl. Funny girl. Another who I never rode with but kept me company throughout the week. Little chats at rest stops, a Barbie photo op at the Mission. She hails from Cambridge, lived in Berkeley for her graduate studies, and even after moving back to England has continued her commitment to ALC. Love your smile, kiddo. And miss seeing you on the road.

Day 6, loading up gear with Adam & Justin (and a banana)

And, as this blog seems to be getting longer than a bill before Congress, let's wrap up the topic of ALC crushes too. On our first day in camp, as Eric and I were setting up our tent, I noticed a couple of guys doing the same across the way. Good looking guys. And obviously having a blast from what I saw of their antics. At some point I introduced myself and found that one of them, Adam, was our tent neighbor and the other, Justin, a friend of his was camping elsewhere. Didn't really see them much outside of camp. They probably left earlier than me (I was always slow to start in the mornings... I like my coffee time). But their friendliness struck me the first evening. Then on Day Two, after I rolled into camp after getting a flat a half mile before finishing, Adam overheard me telling the story to Eric. He offered some kind words - calming thoughts - and it was then I really took a liking to him. Even more than the previous night when his towel fell off to expose his cute bum. We did chance upon each other now and again during the week - but not as often as I would've liked since Eric and I began camping "off-grid" the next night. These are some of the many I wish I'd gotten to know better during the week. Just two of the 2,203 Riders and 552 Roadies I wanted to have around me for more than a week. But oh so very grateful I had even just a few moments with their bright souls.

As Erik said, wearing a red dress isn't at all emasculating.
I also learned it's not a proven method
to make you pretty either ;)

I'm realizing this blog could go on for days. I could share the story of Nora, who I met early on in the ride and who stopped to help me - even when I didn't need help - when I got that flat on Day Two. Or of Charlie & Ada who I first met on Day Two and bumped into again and again during the week. They were friends, and teammates, with Michael - another rider I donated to and was fortunate enough to meet during the week. There's Jordan, who I love and had met during training. We shared a few fun moments along the route. And Jen, a Roadie, who I first met when riding from San Francisco to Fairfax back in February. The Hooligans from San Diego. Shelley, one of my faves from Long Beach. Paul who loaned me his bike for a training ride when I was visiting San Francisco. Eric, another Cyclist Rep who hugged me during the candlelight vigil. Greg, the Director of ALC, who stopped for a chat with me a few times during the week. Troy, who I saw at Rest Stop Two day and day again, whose sexiness came through not just in his smile - but in his intellect (ok, ALC Crush #3). My team - oh man - my team - all the inspiration and motivation and faith and love and belief in the cause they gave me. Had a couple of amazing one-to-one moments with Molly. Tons of bear hugs from Dan. Riding with Randy & Jeremy. Getting silly with Paul & Erik & Jose & Duke & Derek & Jonathan in our red dresses. And can't forget my Vegas peeps - Aaron & Van & Tara - who joined me to train at moments I felt most alone. The woman who hugged me on Day Four while we were waiting in line for the porta-potties. Or Jim who took some video of me with his GoPro camera. And Eric... my friend, my tentmate, and the guy who listened to my joys & complaints at the end of each day. Team Popular. Team Unpopular. Team B-List (just popular enough). Team Mary. Team Dilly-Dally.  James McCaleb, my first Cyclist Rep. The townsfolk who greeted us around every corner. Chicken Lady. Condom Man. Anyone holding a Red Vine out to me... or a strawberry... or a cookie. Seriously, this blog couldn't handle all I could write about the people involved in this event.

And so I end this with more than fond memories. On the day I returned to the "real world" I realized it didn't have to end. AIDS/LifeCycle was a moment in time. A journey made by a few thousand people that brought us to a common understanding. One that, looking at our lives, isn't much different than our day-to-day. You see, we're all in this together. All seven billion of us. We've only got each other to look out for ourselves. This life we live is an adventure together - one to be shared and cherished and celebrated. And even a simple hello. Or a quick chat with the woman sitting next to you on the bus. A wave to say good morning, A couple minutes sharing your day with the Starbucks barista. They bring love into the world. And that love carries on to others. None of us are too busy for that. And none of us are alone.

None of us.

Make someone smile today. Bring a stranger into your life, if only for a moment. You may cross paths again. And they'll remember you fondly. Or maybe you won't ever meet again. And they'll still remember you fondly. I experienced seven days of pure bliss. Joy. Love. We call it the Love Bubble like it's something unique to ALC. But it's not. The Love Bubble is everywhere. We just need to make it happen. We live in it every day. We determine how strong - or weak - it is. It's up to each of us to keep it full and bright. So what will you do to contribute to it each and every day?

Dear Allstars

May 27, 2013 Hey Allstars, Well, we’re just a few days away from the ride of our lives. Before we set out, I wanted to take a moment to tell you how grateful I am to be riding with this amazing team. As a first-year team comprised almost entirely of newbies, it’s been inspiring to watch everyone grow as cyclists, raise more money than anyone ever expected and work together with such cohesion. But we were fortunate to have a secret weapon too and I’d be remiss in not mentioning how thankful I am we were joined by a veteran rider, Paul, who’s helped guide us through everything AIDS/LifeCycle is about. Few of us knew each other before we started this journey together. Actually, it was just a stroke of luck that brought me to Manning Up Allstars. Prior to joining the team, I had contacted another team. But that captain was away on vacation at the time. While I was waiting for a reply from them, Jeremy finalized the details for this team and I asked to join him. That’s my story and I don’t know how some of you came to become Allstars - except Molly & Paul who we pestered daily until they caved, heh! But you all did join us and when we cross that finish line on June 8, we will truly be brothers & sisters in the fight against HIV/AIDS. Some of you came to the team as friends. And others have forged connections because of the team. And a few of you will meet for the first time this Saturday. I feel like I’ve been the luckiest since I’ve not only met everyone (except one... Geovanny I’ll finally get the chance to see you on Saturday!), but I’ve had the opportunity to ride with each of you too. Our first team ride around the Los Angeles Zoo was with Derek, Duke, Randy, Jeremy and even Molly who none of us knew until that day. Not a stellar ride at only 9.5 miles but definitely memorable due to the bitter cold and Jeremy’s chain falling off every ten minutes. Shortly after that, a few Allstars - Duke, Randy, Martijn, Jeremy and I joined Paul in San Francisco for the NorCal Kickoff/Expo and our first team fundraiser. The next day Paul and I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge together on our bikes. It was the day I learned what a strong rider Paul is and also the day we found out Duke gets lost easily but has no problem creating his own little “Tour de Duke.” In March, Erik, Jonathan, Molly, Duke and I were so proud as we all finished our longest ride at the time when we completed 60 miles in the Tour de Palm Springs. I rode with Harold the first time the following day, then again when he joined us here in Vegas for Wild West Weekend. Jose nearly killed me trying to keep up with him on our first ride together before the SoCal ALC Expo. Finally, just last month, there was Day on the Ride and Allstars were represented by almost the entire team - Duke, Erik, Jonathan, Jeremy, Dan, Molly, Randy and myself. What a challenging day... but many of us completed our longest rides ever in that heat. And some learned the mechanical challenges (and frustrations) that are part of long rides. All of this will culminate next week as we come together from Los Angeles, Palm Springs, San Francisco and Las Vegas and ride as a full team for the first time. For seven days. Covering 545 miles. The week we’ve all been working toward. And wow, have you been working. I did some research and gotta say for a first year team we’ve been incredibly successful in recruitment, training and fundraising. Many first year teams are small but we topped out at twenty. Unfortunately, we’ve lost teammates for many reasons and although it will be bittersweet to ride without Martijn or Michael or Jamaal or Dominic, thirteen of us will be at Cow Palace on Saturday. And did you know our team has completed more than 13,000 miles in training. That’s an average of 1,000 miles each (although Jose gets the medal for most training miles completed, clocking in at over 2,500!). And I don’t even want to think about how much money we’ve spent collectively on gear & bikes. But all of that is just the means to an end. Raising money to benefit the LA Gay & Lesbian Center and the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. Sure some other teams have raised more money - but they’re seasoned teams and most are much larger than the Allstars. And we’re right up there with them even though this was all new to us. Being new didn’t stop us from reaching our goal two months before the ride then blowing past it by raising almost 50% more! Half of you have earned $5K jerseys... which is a major feat but after seeing how many of our fellow cyclists are still struggling to reach $3,000, the fact that our team has reached their minimums to ride is a stellar accomplishment! Proud doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel about each and every one of you. So take some time this week to treat yourself well for all the hard work you’ve completed. Splurge on that one piece of gear you don’t really need... but really, really want. Take a nap or two (it might be the last for seven days). Get a massage. Eat some ice cream. Stretch and keep those legs limber. And most importantly, don’t stress. Just take a moment to reflect on where you were... and where you are now. You’ve accomplished so much and there’s no doubt in my mind... YOU GOT THIS! Jim (a.k.a. Rider #1655)

Our First Training Ride

"Token"

NorCal AIDS/LifeCycle Kickoff & Expo

Cycling across the Golden Gate Bridge

Palm Springs Meet & Greet

Tour de Palm Springs

Palm Springs Recovery Ride

Wild West Weekend

SoCal AIDS/LifeCycle Expo

SoCal AIDS/LifeCycle Day On The Ride

Manning Up!

What's all this talk...

...about saving lives?

Y'know, I thought maybe I had one or two new blog entries I could squeeze in before the ride. I mean, hell, there are only twelve days left before we set out from San Francisco. And in just ten days, I'll be leaving my computer at home, driving to Los Angeles to get on a flight. In those ten days, I have a to-do list that would make most people shudder. Starting with vacuuming all this yarn off my living room carpet after a not-so-wise decision to buy my pups some tug ropes.

Then today, I posted a fundraising request on Facebook and, as we ALCers sometimes do, I mentioned saving lives. Through the rest of the day I thought about it. Thought about how medications are helping people with HIV live healthier lives. How we know they definitely extend our lifespan. And the times my doctors have told me that I now have a better chance of dying from old age than from AIDS-related illnesses.

So why do we ask for donations? Yes, a few (if you can call 17,000 a few) are still dying here in the U.S. But those numbers have declined since the mid-90s, right? And some of the money from the funds we raise goes toward education and condoms and needle exchanges and testing. Things that don't necessarily save lives, although they do slow the spread of HIV infection. But newly infected have access to medications and treatment through government programs like AIDS Drug Assistance Program (ADAP) and Medicare/Medicaid.

Then as I stopped by the pharmacy this evening to pickup my prescription for Atripla, I was reminded of one way these programs are directly responsible for saving lives. And I realized I'd have to squeeze this blog entry in before the ride.

I'm gonna give you a hypothetical because I don't live in California right now and my situation is different now than it was when I lived there.

When I picked up my prescription today, it was the first time I'd refilled it in more than 60 days - and it was a 30 day prescription. Remember, I switched jobs recently. And didn't have insurance until the first of May. Sure, I could have pulled out a credit card for February, March & April to pay $465 a month for COBRA to keep my insurance but there's no way I could have paid cash for that. And three months of using credit for insurance would've really put me in a bind financially in the long term. But there has to be some program available for people like me since ADAP and other government programs support those in times of need, right?

Well.... no. In 2008 during the height of the recession, I was laid off from my job. My $1200 a month in unemployment, even combined with my savings, was not going to cover a COBRA payment in the hundreds of dollars. Hell, both of those combined didn't even cover my most basic living expenses. So what's a guy with HIV to do? We go see a case manager. And apply for ADAP. And....

Get denied.

I'm not eligible for most of these programs. Even when I'm out of work and making less than $15,000 a year. It's not because I'm not sick. Or because I have a credit card that I could use to pay for my COBRA. It's because I have two mortgages in my name. Two homes. So they think I'm "well off." Hah!

Doesn't matter that neither home was worth more than thirty-cents on the dollar of my mortgage. Or that my "income" property was reporting a loss every year. Nope. On paper, I have two homes. On paper, I'm ineligible to receive life saving medications.

Like many of you, I live paycheck to paycheck. Comfortably. But the minute that paycheck is gone....

The middle class. Sucks sometimes, eh?

Fortunately at that time, I was able to access a program not dissimilar from programs like those provided by the LAGLC and the SFAF. Using donated funds, we found a way to have my COBRA paid for until I found work again (which, thankfully, was just a couple months).

Unfortunately, here in Nevada, our AIDS Service Organizations and programs have been hard hit by the recession. Remember, Las Vegas has the highest unemployment rate in the nation. Only those most in need are eligible. And even then it can be a challenge to get approval. Our largest ASO hasn't grown larger. It's had to downsize and move into ridiculously smaller office space. So when I had a gap in insurance coverage, I was unable to access the services which had benefited me in 2008.

I've said before, I'm a lucky man. I had an out-of-state friend who had an extra bottle of Atripla and he mailed it to me. We do this sometimes. It's illegal I think. But when your life's on the line, you sometimes break the rules. Due to my situation, I did go about four days without any medication. And here's where the story gets hypothetical...

Four days without treatment means there's a chance I developed resistance to one or more of the drugs in the pill I take (there are three medications total in that pill). If I develop resistance, I may have to go on what they call a "salvage regimen." Less effective medications. More difficult to manage undetectable viral loads. More side-effects. And greater chance of developing resistance.

That's why they're "salvage." It's a final option. It usually works. Most of the time. For some people.

And that's one reason people are still dying.

Maybe they started treatment early in the epidemic and developed resistance long before we knew we had to hit the virus with multiple medications in order to keep it at bay. Maybe the virus they acquired was from someone who had already developed resistance to certain classes of HIV drugs... which means they themselves were likely resistant. Maybe they have an incredibly hectic schedule and forgot to take their pills one time too many. Or maybe they just had a little blip in treatment like the one I mentioned above.

So they go on a salvage regimen. They deal with nasty side effects and a low, but still detectable, viral load. Until one day, that virus which can still replicate because it's not fully suppressed finds a way around those salvage meds and the patient develops resistance.

Another salvage plan is chosen.

Then another.

And maybe another.

Until no options are left.

Then... well, the virus does exactly what it did back in the early days before we had any medications. It runs its course.

Please remember, this is hypothetical in my case. There's a very slim chance it's happened to me based on what I've seen in more than two decades of personal lab tests. But it happens. Every. Single. Day. Seventeen thousand deaths a year in this country, remember? And that, my friends, is how your money does more than stem the spread of HIV. Or help those with AIDS live a little more comfortably.

You're donations also go to help cover the gap - those who fall through the cracks of the system. Many of which, like me, fall in the middle class. My medication costs about $2,000 a month. Even for those who donate $50 and think it's too little to make a difference, it can cover one pill for one day - and like I mentioned above, I only missed four days.

That is how you're saving lives.

And I can't thank you enough for that.

(Addendum: I realized after I published this post there's another hidden message in this story. For those who are negative... who think, "Oh, it's not that big a deal anymore," heed my words. It is. No, it's not the death sentence it was 20 years ago. But making a decision to take your healthy body and subject it to a lifetime of doctors and pills and side-effects and things we may not even know yet is, in my opinion, not the most informed decision one can make. We're human. We crave intimacy. That's how I got in this situation. But please don't take it lightly... most of us would give our right arm to be living without HIV.)

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.