Home.

Day 7:
61.5 miles

So. This is it.

I’ve been taking my time on the Day 7 post. Honestly, I took no notes on Day 7 – so this will be what I can remember of the moments and I suppose some pretty heavy reflection.

I remember wanting to be home.

I specifically remember not wanting to ever ride my bike ever again.

I remember planning out how to sell my bike and pay off the debt I incurred from taking on this little project (which all said and done cost me just over $2000.)

I remember my knees hurting and dreading every hill I could see in the distance.

Oh, and I remember that I had to pee so bad between ride out and the Rest Stop 1 that I SRSLY considered pissing myself. I mean, bad. And when you have to pee there is literally ONE position you can ride in that doesn’t make you want to cry. And it’s upright. So if you want to get low and use the power of your (now disastrously sexy) ass to go fast, you have to pee a little to do it. It was a debate that lasted two hours.

At this point, say mile 500 or so, I’d given up on unicorns and looking sexy.

I’ve given up on being witty.

I’ve given up on making friends.

I’ve given up on trying to think positive.

I’ve given up on just about everything except one little rule.

Keep pedaling.

Keep.

Pedaling.

Just.

Keep.

Pedaling.

And thus, with absolutely nothing left, no mental toughness, no energy, and no strength, I am proud to report that I was able to give up on absolutely everything except the one thing that mattered: succeeding.

I am even more proud to report that I did not consume one single milligram of Advil on the entire trip.

Yeah.

Okay, I digress.

Once I was able to relive myself at Rest Stop 1 I was only 40 miles from home. This feeling, which I will ironically describe as indescribable, was largely indescribable. I don’t even think I had energy to feel at this point. So the only thought is, “40 miles? Pshaw. That’s absolutely nothing.”

What a difference a week makes I guess.

And just like that, I was riding along PCH in familiar territory.

At Rest Stop 2 I took a decent stretch break to try and fix my knees.

I also met a Roadie who plays the accordion and, after riding two years ago on this ride, sold her house in Texas, quit her corporate job, and moved to Nor Cal to work part time at a winery and as she put it “live the dream.”

Noted.

Here I am at the rest stop.

Not too long thereafter, I was in Malibu on the bluffs overlooking a beautiful ocean, eating my last bagged lunch. My view from lunch.

And here is where I got brilliant. I ate next to the sports med tent and decided to sign up for some help stretching.
Enter – Tiny Russian lady who made everything okay by throwing herself in between my legs and doing things to open up my hips that I did not know were humanly possible. Oh. Yes. I’ve never moaned so hard in my whole life. Why did I wait for this experience? Never mind – whatever magic the physical therapist fairy had worked wonders and I road out of lunch feeling better than I’d felt in days.

Not before my last butt butter though.

Okay, and here’s the thing about the last day . . . supplies are starting to run low . . . not as much butter to go around . . . everyone had to cut back. And here’s the thing about being brilliant . . . I packed a whole damn tube of it so I had a little zip lock of extra supply in my bike bag for this very situation. I was BUTTERED or I was DAMNED.

HOLD THE PHONE. I totally forgot to mention on the DAY 6 post that I brought a little ultimate theory to the ride. My ultimate life got SO MUCH better when I started playing in two pairs of socks. Socks rub on socks and not skin and all of a sudden, no more blisters. So why not apply this theory to shorts too? Shorts rub on shorts and wa-la . . . less friction on the old open ass sores. So, Day 6 and 7 I wore under armour shorts under my bike shorts and I am not kidding you . . . this was the best idea I have ever had ever. Even better than the idea I had to run from the cops when they caught me skinny dipping in an open construction zone when I was 16 . . . Plus, two pairs of dirty shorts are way better than one when you’re trying to look sexy. OKAY PUT DOWN THE PHONE NOW.

I promise I’m getting to the point and not just going to take you aimlessly along my stream of conscious memory slide . . .

Somewhere, winding through a neighborhood in Southern California . . . we passed a row of cars parked at an angle along the side of the road. Simple California houses to the right. Kids playing in yards. Normal Saturday traffic. Summer smells . . . sprinklers, flowers, barbeques, et cetera.
Nestled in between two average Japanese vehicles was a green pickup truck with some miles on it. Sitting in the bed of a truck was a man. I would call him a man’s man. Wearing a t-shirt full of holes and jeans that were dirty and torn. Surrounded by well loved power tools, coolers, fishing rods and other man stuff. Very quietly and calmly just hanging out on his truck bed, feed hanging over the edge, hands folded in his lap.

You keep your eyes in front of you so as not to wreck so I noticed him probably ten seconds before I actually got to him. And the instinct is to veer left to avoid coming too close to his legs . . . so I was doing that as I approached.

As I passed, without saying a word, without any grand gesture or cheering, this man simply unfolded his hands – enough motion to catch my eye. In his hands was a well loved worn out picture of a handsome young man.

And that was that. I was beyond him, on my way to LA and he was there.

I don’t know any more of this man or his story, but somehow I made myself believe very fully that this man gay but not out. He had a lover sometime in the 70s and 80s. And that lover died of AIDS. And this man has lived all alone with that secret and that pain. And this ride is his chance to be who he really is and to live in the memory of his lover. The people on this ride are the only people on the planet who know his secret.

Regardless, the back story is irrelevant. It could be any story and the impact is the same.

This was a very simple and quite moment and yet, this is the moment I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I have crossed paths with thousands and thousands of strangers in my life and I have never felt the human experience quite as strongly as I did in this one moment.
This man, without saying a word, said to me “What you’re doing means something.” And I, without saying a word, just by riding my bicycle past him, said to him, “I care.”

And we can live forever in that place where people who suffer do not have to suffer alone. We can live in our little Utopian society of riders, roadies and roadside supporters free from the absolutely absurd and useless hate and fear and prejudice that comes from people who have not yet discovered in themselves the capacity to love human beings.

We can live in this moment where souls are free to connect and love and flow freely without any pretense, expectations or selfishness.

So. Guy out there. Thank you.

And, to all of you out there who donated to ALC 9 and the LAGLC on my behalf, thank you. For whatever it is worth, your donation is going directly into the hands of the most kind and loving people I have ever met in my entire life. And when you make these donations, helping to raise over 10 million dollars this year alone, you are not just saving someone’s life. You are sending a message of love and acceptance that means more to people than being alive does.

I have now, officially, had that the moment that everyone told me I would have at some point on the ride . . . I am now officially changed – irreversibly – from someone who was unaware of the impact I could have on the world to someone who was well aware of the impact I was having on the world.

I can’t cure AIDS and I can’t end human suffering.

But I have in my heart the capacity to love human beings and I hold in my hand the ability to look people in the eye and love them for who they are and what they have been through.
I don’t have to ask myself who I am or wonder if what I am doing with my life is the “right thing” . . . I don’t have to lament for hours over how much I dislike my job or if I chose the right path for myself or why I didn’t stick with this or learn to do that. I can sleep at night, in peace, knowing that no matter what I do or where I do it, I’m going to naturally find good, loving people to surround myself with. And at the end of my days on this planet, regardless of the path that gets me there, I’m going to die happy and proud of the life I have lived.

SHA. ZAM!

And just like that, I was 10 miles out of the VA Center and our final destination, riding alongside San Vincente Blvd with the Bean, trying not to have a complete and total emotional breakdown.

And just like that, I was off my bike, standing next to Sunny.

And just like that, I was on the phone with my father who was filling me in on the USC sanctions (which I had NO idea about, note the USC Jersey in the pic).

And just like that, I was sitting on the side of the road sobbing – unable to take in any more.

And just like that, I was home.