AIDS/Lifecycle 2012

In 1997 my roommate and best fried, Joey Meyer, died suddenly from AIDS-related complications.

You would think that with that horrible loss in my history I would be first in line to sign up for the AIDS/Lifecycle. But I have to be brutally honest – when my friend died, I felt like I gave at the office. Joey was gone, I couldn’t help him any more, so that was that. These feelings lasted for over a decade. It was never something I said out loud, or dwelled on too deeply, because I knew, deep down, that that excuse was bullshit. But it was my excuse and I stuck to it.

Then my husband signed up for AIDS/Lifecycle 2012. I thought about signing up for half a second, did one training ride (horrible), and retreated to my previous position on the matter. But as the months passed, and Matt rode deeper and deeper into training and the event itself, my interest in participating grew. I secretly called up my friend, ALC Associate Director James Ray, and had him sign me up as a roadie.

Now my reason for signing up to roadie was to surprise my husband, support him and get my Husband of the Year Award. I was excited to be there, looking forward to the work, happy to be part of the process, but still not completely invested in the emotional part of the ride. James helped me cover my tracks until Day Zero in San Francisco. Surprise!

At Day Zero Orientation, on a table were banners with words like “Courage” “Strength”, etc., embroidered along the sides, and dozens of magic markers. People had been signing the banners, and I wrote, “I’m am roadie-ing for Joey Meyer, who died in 1997. I still miss him.” The connection between the ride and me started to change…

During the Day One Opening Ceremonies, in the auditorium where all 3,000 participants were gathered, the banners were carried into the auditorium by the Pos Pedalers alongside the Riderless Bike. I was close enough to actually see my signature on the banner, and a feeling I can’t describe washed over me. Sadness? Mixed with what, exactly? I wasn’t sure, but crying in front of a crowd of strangers just wasn’t my bag. But inside, more cracks in the armor….

Day One was our easy day (“Enjoy it! Don’t get used to it!” my team captains, Ron and Colleen, advised/warned us.), so I wandered around camp, watched my husband ride in, eat dinner and hit the sack.

Day Two began at 12:01 A.M. for me. My tentmate had sleep apnea, which he neglected to warn me about, and didn’t bring his C-PAP because it was “too heavy.” So I lay in our tent, awake, from 10 P.M. Day One until I finally got up at 4 A.M. Day Two. I hadn’t slept from Day Zero to Day One, either, as I had to be at a shuttle bus to load luggage at 3:15 A.M. Math isn’t my strong suit, but at some point on Day Two I’d been up for 48 hours.

And then the rain began.

Now, not all roadie teams have as hard a job as Pack Up. In fact, Pack Up might have the hardest job of all the teams. Our day begins at 4:30 A.M. pulling garbage from the dining tent. After breakfast (around 7 AM) we start loading the hundreds of chairs and tables into trucks; then gathering hundreds of full, heavy trash bags from all over camp and tossing them into the dumpsters; then scouring the entire camp picking up random garbage (yes, even cigarette butts), ALC garbage cans, and snagging everything left behind by all the other departments; and finally getting the park ranger to sign off on the clean up. We leave camp anywhere between 11 A.M. (early) and 2 P.M. (way late). We drive to the next camp, help unload the tables and chairs; set out the garbage cans and hand sanitizers at all the Porta-Potties and all over camp; then get our bags and set up our tents. We have a brief break, then garbage duty for dinner starts at 5 PM and lasts (in shifts) until 9 P.M. Then bed. I was exhausted all day, every day. There were days on the ride I genuinely didn’t know how I’d be able to keep working. And yet I did.

Rain killed the ride for most of the riders on Day Two, but the roadies still had to work. I got to know my team as we ran around in the rain – straight and gay, men and women, all ages (Our oldest in their 60’s, our youngest early 20’s), white collar upper management types to blue collar labor types, some had kids (with one riding), some were married (their spouse riding). Some had been affected by AIDS directly, either personally or via a close friend or family member; some just wanted to contribute what they could toward a cure. A genuine cross section of society in our team of 24, and everyone had a reason to be invested in the cause. When we finally left the Day One camp on Day Two, I realized that no one was complaining about the work. Yes, we complained about the rain and the cold and the exhaustion, but no one complained about picking up garbage. My first impressions of many of our team were revealed to be wildly inaccurate.

When I was finally able to catch my breath in my tent later that day (convinced it would blow away in the gale force winds that followed the rain and us to the Day Two camp), I was so exhausted, I started crying. But I wasn’t sad. Far from it. I realized I was having an incredible time. We moved a city that day, in the rain, so thousands of riders could participate in the largest AIDS fundraising event in the country. And when one of my rider friends told me how disappointed he was that he didn’t get to ride the entire route because of the rain, I listened, sympathized and tried to make him feel better about it. As Lorri Jean, CEO of the L.A. Gay and Lesbian center would say during the evening announcements every night, “You (I) made a difference today.”

Although I wish Joey were still alive, I realize that had he not died, I may not have been as receptive to the emotional aspect of the ride as I ultimately was. Maybe I would have signed up for the ride, but without that personal connection maybe I would have felt more tired, less invested, over it after that first day of rain.

On Day Zero (Orientation) and Day One, every time I met someone new, either with my husband or just randomly while I was working, I’d tell them, “I’m a roadie!” It was just something that came out of my mouth, a verbal nametag. Again, excited to be there, but more in the context of someone waiting in line for a ride at Disneyland.

But on Day Two, as I lay in my tent, exhausted, soaked from the rain, thinking about what we’d done that day, and Joey, the answer to the question “What are you doing on the ride?” changed from “I’m a roadie,” to “I am a roadie.” It’s not my job. It’s who I am.

My heart broke open at that moment, and was filled every day after with all the ride had to offer. I realized I could turn to any one next to me anywhere – in line for meals, gear and tent pick up, the shower truck – and ask “Why are you on the ride?” And they would just start talking. Everyone on the ride had a reason to be there, and they all wanted to talk about it. Crying in front of strangers was now on the menu, and I did it almost three times a day.

This is not hyperbole – I worked harder on ALC 2012 than I’ve ever worked in my life. And I had an amazing time.

I made a difference every day for seven days. I am a roadie. And I belong here.

And I’m going back next year.