Riding Solo

I stuffed myself, my carry-on, and my “personal item” (which certainly stretched the meaning of the term) into a bathroom stall. Once I made it past the door, I realized I actually couldn’t turn around. My bags pressed tight against my body and I realized that unless I had magically learned to pee standing up, I was facing the wrong direction. Determined not to be bested by this airport bathroom, I dropped one shoulder, slid my carry-on down my arm, and turned quickly. Yeah. I’m pretty sure I would make an awesome ninja. As I hung my personal item (a giant bag that I use for farmer’s markets and as a very large purse) on a hook, I smiled to myself.

I squeezed out of the stall and fumbled toward the sink. Washing my hands, I glanced at the women who were unencumbered with luggage. Some were accompanied by friends, partners, or sisters who held their bags just inside the bathroom. On my way out, I spotted the other accomplices—husbands and fathers, arms crossed leaning against piles of luggage. Instead of feeling jealous of their companions, I felt relieved to be alone. Solo travel means for me constant adventure from mundane challenges (like my bathroom dance) to time on trains to think and write.

As I sit on the train en route to Cambridge for the first day of my internship, I can’t help but feel that I love this. Some part of my heart misses my friends and family and I can barely stand to be away from Ace (though some puppy companions here have eased the pain). But that aching doesn’t change the fact that I am already happy here. I know that doesn’t mean I always will be or that this is a permanent move I should make. I’m aware that there will be days where this is no longer fun and that if this were my “forever” it would likely become tedious and mundane.

For now, though, I am enjoying this ride alone on a train in England. The countryside is unfolding as we leave London and I can’t help but feel happy. Maybe one day I will get to share this place with one of you or someone special, but for now it’s mine and I don’t mind keeping it that way.

No place is a good place.

The sun beat down, reflecting off two thousand bicycle helmets. After seven days filled with rain warnings, clouds, and fog, I tried to relish in the warmth. My legs ached and my skin was sticky with sunblock. Somehow, though, this was heaven. My little sister Melissa on my left, my aunt and uncle behind me, thousands of riders, roadies and supporters surrounding all of us--I felt like I belonged there. My heart swelled with pride. I had ridden 545 miles of hills, flats, coastline, city streets, and highway in seven days. I had fallen down and gotten back up. I had been helped with flats and encouraged to get back on the bike even when every cell in my body begged for a break.

Everything melted away in that moment and what remained were my tears. I cried from exhaustion. I cried in remembrance of those we've lost to AIDS. I cried because I knew how lucky I was to ride alongside my uncle. I cried because my family and friends were there to watch me. I cried because my grandfather was not. I cried because I had accomplished something amazing. And, I cried because my utopia was fading.

Six days later and I am still searching for the right words to describe the AIDS/Lifecycle ride. It was only seven days, but it felt like longer. It felt almost like a lifetime, not only because it was challenging, but also because it was its own little world. I could tell you a minute account of each day and what we ate, where we stopped, who I met and what was most memorable from that day, but from climbing hills to coasting on flats, you still would not see the big picture.

This was a place where when I didn't know if I could ride any longer because my legs felt like they would fall off, I could hear the echoes of "Ow," "Oh God," and "We can do it!" reverberating through camp. I've never felt so encouraged in my life. I kept thinking that I just had to keep going, but the truly astonishing thing was that I didn't. I could "sag" at any moment and a bus would take me the rest of the way to camp. Everyday I had a good excuse to. My bike slipped its chain. I felt dehydrated. My Achilles tendons were inflamed. And everyday, I met those challenges. I took my bike to get fixed. I drank an extra bottle of water and forced myself to drink even more on the road. A wonderful Sports Medicine staff member wrapped my feet and gave me tips for stretching. The resources were there for me and I rose to meet each day.

While the ride certainly meant a great deal to me for what I accomplished, it meant (and means) even more for the fact that it was ultimately not about me. I felt that for once, I was doing something truly unselfish. I've been around the world and am on my way to finishing my second degree, but for a few months of training and fundraising and one week of heaven, it was not about me. So, when I found myself grumpy or tired or asking my uncle too many questions, I was able to take a step back and breathe. It simply wasn't about me. This was about fighting back against this pandemic. This was about encouraging all those living with HIV/AIDS and preventing the spread of the infection. I am a better person for having completed the ride, but it is good to know that that's not why I did it. I got on the bike for one reason: love. I love my uncle and I committed to being there with him. I stayed on the bike for so many more: pride, fun, joy, mourning, faith, and the Utopian community that evolved before my eyes.

When I studied Greek in college,  my professor once explained the term utopia. "Topos means place, but the u is tricky. It could be the u for eu, which means good. Or it could be the u for ou--no place." Now, Greek was certainly not my strong suit. In fact, I often reflect on that course as the single worst decision I made in undergrad. But I'd like to argue that utopia can be a place that is at once good and non-existent, or even good because it is in some sense non-existent. For me, the ride was utopia because it was a temporary place, both from day to day (since camp constantly moved down the coast) and in the sense that as I sit here in San Francisco, I cannot locate "the ride." I cannot go there. I cannot send a letter to someone there. For utopia to exist for even a moment, it must necessarily be in a state of disappearing, slipping away from and evading the constraints of our world.

The ride lives now in photos, memories and the thirteen million dollars we raised to end AIDS.
 It lives in us now, hopefully bringing to our lives the strength that comes from knowing we can face the challenges that come our way, the commitment to ending this pandemic, and the faith that together we can make this world a better place. A place free of AIDS--a place where our temporary utopia can be a place of celebration. Until then, I can't help but believe that "no place" is good place. A very good place indeed.

At the top of the evil twins (two tall hills we climbed) and halfway to LA!