Seventy-five

What am I doing up at 5AM on a Saturday? No, it's not because I stayed up all
night partying. I went to bed at 11PM knowing I would get up. It's cold.
I'm wearing shorts. The fog is still draping the lights. The streets are
wet. The cold metal of my bike is biting my calf as I wait for the bus. I am
going to Day On The Ride, a "simulation" of a day on the ride of AIDS
Lifecycle.

We meet at Chrissy Field and journey onward across the bridge to lands
unknown, at least for me. I've been across the bridge many times, but the
route today is somewhat left of my normal route along the Marin coast. Last
year the coast road to Tiburon was the normal route, with a beer on the ferry
back. Those were good days. They led me to today, but today is not about
beer on the ferry. It is about seventy-five miles through the steep back
roads of Marin. It is farther than I have ever ridden. I don't know how it
will turn out.

The bus turns the corner, stops. I put my bike on the front and climb on.
Funny how I started riding my bike because the bus sucks. Now I am taking it
to the ride. I thought I should conserve my strength. It is 75 miles after
all. The bus slowly pulls though the hills, but today I don't mind so much.
I get off at the top of Pacific Heights, clip in and sail down to the Marina.
A left on Mason and I arrive at the start. There's only six hundred people
there.

I love signing waivers. In our society of irresponsibility, they are a nice
reminder of reality; you are ultimately responsible for your safety. I
sign the waiver and get my Number, 602. I fill up on water. Stretch a bit,
and we're off. I start near the rear of the pack. At this point, I am just
concerned about finishing. The farthest I have ever gone is 50 miles, so just
chilling in the back seemed like a good idea. peddledaled thought the
crumbling green shroud of the Presidio to the bridge. The tops of the towers
hidden in the gray.

Down the Sausalito grade at 8AM only accompanied by the wind and tires hissing
on the wet pavement. The cars are still in bed. The fog collects to a
drizzle in the wind beading on my glasses. We cut lines in the wet streets in
the tourist-free harbor. We have set out for the sublime, I have no doubt we
will arrive on time.

Left, into the unknown. Away from the Bay into the steeps of green and trees.
Through the wooded neighborhoods of Mill Valley and San Anselmo we arrive at
rest stop one. Twenty miles have passed but I have barely noticed. The thing
I have noticed is that I am eager to pass everyone in front of me. It's not
that I have some ego about cycling, it's just my legs have a pace that I can't
control. I try to chill because I still have a lot of road ahead, but it's
frustrating.

Rest-stop-gatorade-powerbar-water, we head into the first hill. They say this
hill is equivalent to the "quadbuster" on the ride. I've heard so much about
it I'm intimidated before I even get to it. Then I see the wall of asphalt in
front of me, and decide my lowest gear would be a good place to start. It
looks like Mount Everest. This is a good time for a one of those movie
flashbacks that explain things to the audience.

I think I was 8 years old, I was with my dad and we were running some race,
somewhere, in some desert. We went for a little warm up out on the course,
and I saw a similar hill looming. It was probably only about 50 feet tall,
but when you're eight, fifty feet is about twenty times taller than you. It
was intimidating, but my dad had fatherly advice, "If you look up at the hill,
it seems so far, but if you keep your head down, and keep putting your feet
down, it's over before you know it." This hill was no different.

Funny the things you notice on your way up a hill. Tucked behind another
cyclist, the only thing I noticed was his calf muscles. There was a tattoo on
his right calf, a swirl of black streaks, similar to the marks that a chain
leaves when you lean your leg into it. I thought that this was the most
incredibly clever thing I had scene in a while; integrating the scars of your
passion into your flesh, what else should a tattoo be?

Before I knew it, I was over the hill, shifting up while the wind blasted the
sweat off my face. Five clicks and I was in top gear blurring green to either
side through Geronimo Valley, no pun intended. There was a golf course on the
left. The mounds of green turned to waves behind as I took a right and
started the hill towards rest stop two, and lunch.

(to be continued)