Journeys home

So many things about this ride have been about journeys. Some people rode away leaving from their SF home and took a dive into a very different reality than the one they know from their everyday; some people travelled back towards their LA home, everyday seeing their surroundings taking shapes ever more familiar; some people travelled to California first from far away to be then transported through beautiful and foreign landscapes, yet feeling somewhat at home every step of the way. Everybody would also complete a different, more private kind of journey. I decided to participate in the ALC primarily for the purpose of challenging myself. I had just met a new friend, extraordinarily prone to taking on difficult physical challenges, training for them and accomplishing his goals. His resolve and the experiences he shared with me made me feel like that would have been something that I'd have cherished as well. So I decided to do this ride. I had heard about it and sort of knew some people that had done it but that was about the limit of my knowledge of what ALC is about, along with the awareness that it was for a good cause for which I had spent time and effort volunteering and getting involved before. I signed up for training, bought a bike, trained as hard as work, time and patience would allow me. I met some people in the process but for the most part I thought of them as "along for the ride" (no pun intended here). I found myself quite untouched - or at least uninvolved, pretend that this is a real word - by the displays of commitment, involvement, and passion that would transpire at training gatherings or through the discussion list. Throughout the training period, HIV and AIDS remained labels that were attached to the cause, to the money raising effort. This has changed a lot along the way.

It all changed during the ride.

The evening of Day 6 is the night when this amazing community of 2000+ people takes a break from the loud, alive and hyperactive life of the week almost behind them and takes the time to reflect, to grief, to let it all out, or to bury it deeper within, to reach out for support or to prove to themselves and to the world that they still stand strong in the face of the adversities encountered. It's all in a little flame and the swooshing sound of the waves, a candle light vigil on the beach, fighting with the wind that tried to send us back to camp before we felt ready to, readily helping each other to relight the extinguishing flames. I found it peculiar, confusing almost, that the organizers had decided (to their credit they had done this time and again) to let this event construct itself with no guidance or structure but letting people flow with whatever motivated and guided them. I remember walking out initially on my own, running into Mike along the path. We exchanged a hug and briefly reminisced on the day just ending, when in the rush of biking we hadn't even run into each other. Matt was supposedly right behind me but I lost him quickly in the large herd of people preoccupied with the well being of their flames. Mike and I got candles and walked out to the beach. A large number of flimsy lights were already arranged as a big circle on the shore. I moved across the beach, walking the 200 yds stretch along the diameter, drawn to the closest area to the breaking waves. Silence around us.

Mike and I didn't really stay silent for long. We shared our thoughts and some stories. I figure many were doing the same as small groups would form along the way: hugging each other, crying, looking at each other in the flimsy light of their candles. It's really hard to describe what the feeling was like for me: empathy for all those whose lives had been affected by the disease, many of whom I could sense or see grieving around me, sense of being littled by the weight of a set of human stories, emotions and grief that I can hardly comprehend fully, a sense of shame even for the knowledge that I was feeling a lighter burden - a privilege, you would call it - than many others around me, and for the complete cluelessness of how to best help anyone carry that burden. It was what I wished for the most at that very time, find the way and the right moment to help anyone share in that load. I sort of felt it to be almost a duty as a member of that group, a duty that I felt I was failing. I felt very close to all of my fellow ALCers right then though. I was glad Mike was there with me to share that moment, that I was not by myself. I don't know what he thought or felt, maybe he had different expectations from it. We walked around, sat on the sand for a little, continued talking for a little. Then we blew out the candles and walked back to camp. We were among the last ones to return. We hadn't shared much in terms of thoughts or stories, yet some words said there were powerful and gave me time and chance to reflect, change and grow.

That's the most peculiar thing about this week. You don't come out of it the same person you were when you went in. I have very different reasons to go back next year, now: make a bigger difference in the fight against HIV both with fundraising (i will have a much higher fund raising goal) and with reaching out to people around me; see again the amazing people that shared this experience with me; help create for others the same kind of first time experience that this was for me; remind myself that it is way too easy to become complacent and focus on our own lives, when each one of us can make a world of difference to somebody else, to help, share, live, laugh, dance and cry together, sharing a bond with new and extraordinary people. Or as others have better put it, ordinary people doing something extraordinary.

I made a journey from SF to LA, I demonstrated to myself that I could commit and work successfully toward that goal. Along the path I met incredible individuals of whose personal struggle and resolve I'm in awe. It changed me and I grew.

I am missing all those people already...