The First Boston - New York AIDS Ride

Bob Nelson

We leave Friday morning the 15th, 1995, about 7:30 a.m., some 3,500 of us riding out of Boston's World Trade Center into the cool September light and the lens of the CBS "This Morning" program, which carries our departure live.

I'm wearing my yellow/white/purple Boston to New York AIDS Ride cycling jersey over a simple purple polypro top, with an inadvertently matching purple and yellow helmet. I'm wearing my pearls; my "Go Homos!" button is prominently displayed, along with a pink triangle, on my saddlebag, and I've pasted little rainbow flags all over the bike and the helmet. And I'm blowing kisses to the cameras.

I'm also carrying photographs of four wonderful guys who died of AIDS: Guy Zelenak, much-missed secretary of Front Runners New York; Richard Steinberg of Team New York Aquatics, hugging me at his Pines share; Jonathan Berg, also of the swim team, selling "Go Homos" buttons at a pride march; and Steve Peduto, my activist friend who in May 1993 told his graduating class at New York Law School that he had AIDS, to audible gasps. There's also a photo of me and my boyfriend, Michael Norman, since it's about celebrating the living, I decide, as well as honoring the dead. Bostonians, primed by several months of AIDS Ride banners along their boulevards, are wearing sweatshirts and carrying cups of coffee to see us pass. We don't see large numbers of spectators outside of Boston, but the exceptions are notable. There's the occasional mom with baby who's come out to wave. In one town, a child care worker has brought her six preschool charges out on the front steps. In Milford, Mass., a town I will not soon forget, the entire high school has been let out to watch us pass, and they scream at us with a fervor I can imagine only for a sighting of John Lennon or maybe Elvis. I learn later that one witty rider has stopped to teach the young cheerleaders a simple slogan, which they scream with ebullience: "YOU GO, GIRL!"

The AIDS Ride crew, mostly volunteers, is extraordinarily supportive at the pit stops, which happen every 15 miles. I decide to stop at every other one and so miss lunch, though I later hear that the crew waited so long for sandwiches to show up that most riders skip the stop anyway. One reward for skipping lunch is that I catch fast Rebecca Uss and fast Dave King, New York riders, at a pit stop. They admire the pearls. A woman rider comments: "This isn't a formal ride, you know." My response: "These aren't formal pearls."

Up a short hill, I discover riders waiting and, uh-oh, an ambulance and two police cars. We're near Woodstock, Conn., and riders have been joking about hanging out at Yasgur's Farm, even though that Woodstock is in the next state. Walking my bike past the ambulance, I see a compact splotch of coagulated blood on the road, right next to the rider, who is strapped into a stretcher. He has no visible injury, and I don't know what's happened, but I later learn that he's headed for surgery for a broken jaw. A ride representative assures me he'll be O.K. I later hear of several other accidents, all of them minor cuts and bruises, mainly from cyclists riding into each other.

Finding bananas on this ride is like finding gold. No electrolyte replacement drinks are offered, either, so I'm glad I brought my canister of powdered Cytomax. At the last rest stop Friday, I find an old acquaintance from Frontrunners Boston, Gary. And Gary is in charge of cutting up bananas. At my request, he slips me a whole one. I feel like I've just purchased cocaine from an undercover cop.

I meet Harold Levine, another member of the Front Runners New York cycling crowd, and we do the last ten or so miles together, chatting away. We encounter a really well-done Jackie O. clone in the

coral-suit-and-bobbed-hair phase, and I take Harold's picture with her. Who needs road movies with drag when we're living a road movie with drag? She wants the pearls, but I fend her off.

We get to camp, an extension campus of the University of Connecticut near Storrs, just after 3 p.m., 100 miles in 7-1/2 hours. Expecting some kind of big welcome, we hold hands going in, but there are a dozen volunteers cheering, that's it. We go to the bike security area and Harold counts the bikes there before us; we're the 92nd and 93rd riders in. I have a cyclist's high.

I find our tent site, marked off by color (purple) and number (213). Two fast boys have already set up a couple of doors - well, flaps - down. Both have cellular phones, and they are both using them. Gerry Valentine, my tentmate, and I debate whether this means they are straight or gay, and decide either is possible but they're probably straight. Saturday morning, I arise at 5:30 a.m. and find lines for the washstands and for breakfast, though thankfully not for the portapotties, which have little mirrors inside the doors, no doubt for those of us who apply a foundation every morning. I bring Gerry a cup of coffee and report that half the camp is already up and about. Quoth he: "Haven't these people heard of brunch?" What with packing up the tent and making adjustments to the bikes, we're not on the road till 8:10 a.m. We're greeted by bright sun, cold air (there's been a frost!) and hill after hill after steep Connecticut hill. "Can't you people flatten this state out a little?" I wonder. One rider sings "The Lady is a Tramp" with mangled lyrics: "Hate Storrs Connecticut, it's cold and it's damp/That's why the lady is a tramp!" and the refrain bumbles through my brain all morning. After seven or eight consecutive killer hills, I relent and walk up one.

With the late start, the first pit stop is crawling with riders. My strategy is to ride as far in front of the main pack as possible, not for competitive reasons but so I don't have to wait on line for portapotties and water bottle refills. Nevertheless, I stop at a convenience store to telephone Michael, knowing lines to the phones at camp will be hours long by the time he's home tonight. It's great to hear his voice, even though he'd dropped me off in Boston only two days before. We arrange to meet at my apartment off 207th Street in Manhattan on the next day, Sunday.

Today, there's a real lunch - turkey sandwiches - and I catch up with Art Rawding, my Boston host, and his sister, Carol, who pose for a photo. Some riders are sprawled asleep in the grass and it's clear to me they'll be taking the sag bus in. I meet my old swimming nemesis from Philadelphia, Merrill Hilf, who chides me for not staying in touch. "Just because you have a boyfriend doesn't mean you can do a lesbian thing, Bob! Call me!"

Finally, by early afternoon, we're riding through swamp grasses near Guilford, and I point out the ocean (well, Long Island Sound) to another rider. It's flat, and we make time. I hear from other riders that our Storrs tent city has made the front page of the New Haven Register, and, sure enough, I see the issue in an honor box. A goateed young rider in cutoffs tells me he's picking up faint signals from New York FM stations on his Walkman, and I am encouraged.

My strategy of spending as little time at pit stops as possible seems to work; at the last one, there's no portapotty line. We're in Stratford, and I later hear that several teen-agers will throw bottles and rocks at riders later that afternoon, calling out "Faggots, go home!" The AIDS Ride crew will stop the ride at 5:30 p.m. and bus the remaining 1,000 riders into camp in Bridgeport. There will be unhappy riders, because many won't make it to camp until 8:30 p.m. or later.

I'm in just before 5 p.m. Bridgeport is a city of lights, of sorts; it seems we've stopped at 20 or 30 traffic lights through a pretty grungy neighborhood. Our second hundred miles finishes on the ocean, at Seaside Pak, which has an amphitheater, one of those concerts-on-the-lawn setups. We pitch tents in the lawn part.

Sunday at about 3 a.m., I arise for a portapotty trip to discover a light drizzle falling. We eat breakfast under the shelter of the coffee urn tent. There's thunder and lightning, and the rain becomes torrential. We are not encouraged, and are even less encouraged when we find that security crews aren't letting riders have their bikes until added security can be mobilized for the route through Bridgeport. We leave by 8:40 a.m. I realize there's nothing to do but take a perverse pleasure in the rain, so I do.

From previous rides, I know the route west from Greenwich, Conn. I've ridden on Route 1 as far east as Greenwich from New York, and know things will go faster once I'm on familiar turf, so I'm pedal-to-the-metal. The other major motivating factor is Michael, who's at the other end of this ride, waiting in a warm apartment off West 207th Street, a block off the ride's route.

We cross into New York City shortly after noon, and I announce this major event to the riders around me. We pass Orchard Beach, site of the Gay Games biathlon, and my homing magnets are pulling me full speed ahead. "I can just taste that New York City grit!" I say exuberantly to a somewhat mystified Boston rider. On the Pelham Bay Parkway bike path, I pass a cop, who tells me he's seen about 75 riders already, folks who I'm sure are also headed for hotel rooms and apartments.

My route home differs slightly from the AIDS Ride route, and I pay no attention now to the yellow arrows on the pavement that have marked our way for more than 250 miles. I'm going home! Down East Fordham Road, I hit the University Heights Bridge into Manhattan and there's a marching band - in my mind, of course - playing the Marseillaise. Everything looks smaller and duller than before, even the giant Pathmark on West 207th. Minutes later, Michael is at the door, and then in my arms. I shower, take a nap. Michael and I ride the last ten miles down Riverside Drive and Eleventh Avenue to the Village. There are some crowds, but not what I'd expected, especially in Chelsea; a few Front Runners are out and we exchange high-fives. Riders are absolutely in outer space, however, and their mood carries the day. The sun has deigned to appear. Our ride has raised money for AIDS programs at the Lesbian and Gay Community Services Center and the Community Health Project, both in New York, and the Fenway Community Health Center in Boston. But the ride's connection to AIDS still isn't concrete for me until I'm waiting with Michael in the pre-staging area, three blocks of Gansevoort Street in the West Village. There, among the spectators, is Steven Yee, an old friend from Team New York Aquatics who I haven't seen since he lost his partner in June. Jonathan Berg, wonderful, witty Jonathan, gone. Steven and I hug for a long time.

I find the photo of Jonathan and show it to Steven, who stares wordlessly back at me. The loss is still too close, too personal. We part. Ten minutes later, the tears come as I think of Jonathan, and Michael holds me. Later, it comes to me that perhaps Jonathan's death, and the deaths of thousands of others, hasn't been quite so senseless as I've believed, if their deaths have brought us together in this battle. Riders have told stories of how the AIDS Ride has changed them, and I have hope. Michael and I ride across the West Side Highway, near the end of the pack, into the bright sunlight of the closing ceremonies. I see a couple of people I know, take pictures, but we don't tarry. We're going home.