Hi Friends/Family/Countrymen…
Just a quick hello from the land of the employed! I’m back at work and, wow, does it take stamina to stand up for 50 hours a week! And Amoeba is an amazing, energetic, vortex of all things San Franciscan —a spot where hippies who never left the Park after the Be In, punks with pit bulls, yuppies, hipsters, seniors and teens come to feed their souls and keep themselves humming. A place where my first customer was a man head to toe in fluorescent orange with a hot pink bike asking if he could lick me. (??!!) After six months of unemployment stress and inertia, the change in lifestyle/pace is taking some getting used to. I don’t think I’ve seen any of my friends since I started. Fugee has, however, beenenjoying long naps with me on my days off.
So what’s the logical choice when you’re exhausted?
Start running again! Yup, this Gemini on a deadline does much better to make himself get out of the exhaustion of too little time and energy, and to run. Weird how expending energy gives so much more.
I wanted to take this time to just reflect on a strong emotional flood of memories, sorrow, compassion, and hope that I went through earlier this evening. It’s AIDS/LifeCyle 4 Eve—the ride starts tomorrow morning at 6 am and continues seven days and 575 miles down to LA—a journey I’ve pedaled three times, and worked as a staff member for twice.
I’ve had quite a journey with the rides. From a concerned person who didn’t really know anyone with HIV but wanted to help others affected by catastrophic illness, to a person who started losing friends and acquaintances, to a person who found out that they were living with AIDS at the Southern California beneficiary of the rides. As a Positive Pedaler, regaining my personal power, hope and health by redefining the possible. As an example of living with intention and integrity, without shame, compromise or apologies, facing fear and accepting each day as a wonderful present/Present.
I am alive because of these rides. And there are thousands more like me, so fortunate to have been given the gift of unconditional love and compassion by those willing to do something so wonderful, painful, crazy, difficult as riding a bike so far and raising so much money.
I wish I could thank the 10,000+ people involved in the rides I participated in, rides which saved so many lives. And all those who continue to ride and fundraise when AIDS is no longer a fashionable cause, where religion still tries to attach stigma to an illness, where complacency is more the norm.
Thank you Alex, Ricci, Michelle, Diane, Beth, Cal, Redge, Michael, Jane, Susan, Cal, Lisa, Renata who continue the fight to end the pandemic and human suffering caused by HIV. You are heroes.
What prompted all this nostalgia?
Seeing good friends excited to be leaving on a ride again, some nervous about their first ride and a journey of unknown endurance/fatigue/hope/celebration, to friends who’ve been riding since the early 90’s and still pedal on.
Feeling deep nostalgia and a touch of regret at not being on my bike with them this year.
And the emails from friends. I’m attaching my friend Ricci’s email. It made me cry. A lot. Haven’t done that in a while. But not from sorrow. From beauty. What a wonderful world.
I ask you to send wishes for safe riding, warm tailwinds, and good karma/vibes the way of the extraordinary folks participating in AIDS/LifeCycle 4 tomorrow.
Thank you, AIDS/LifeCycle friends. Thank you, friends and family.
You are the beauty which is our world.
Peace.
Craig
Below, an email received from Ricci Treffer, a woman I was so fortunate to have worked with at California AIDSRide, and to have ridden with in the Canada/US AIDS Vaccine Ride. You'll sense her enormity of spirit and enduiring commitment by reading her beautiful words.
Aloha friends,
This time next week we will touch down in San Francisco to once again begin our amazing journey to fight AIDS. I've been out of commission for the last couple of days, fighting a pesky cold, and was forced to slow down and reflect on why I'm doing the Ride again this year. We've had a whirlwind of a year so far with work, training, fundraising, moving etc. and it can get a bit overwhelming, and I guess it's no wonder I sometimes lose sight of why we do this ride. You're the lucky ones on the receiving end of this somewhat lengthy message, so bear with me.
To all of you, who have helped out, with donations, encouragement, moral support and more - THANK YOU! We couldn't do this without you all!
The first time I rode was in 1999. I had seen the ride go by the year before - an endless string of people on bikes. People from all walks of life, all ages, all sizes, all colors. I saw Love and Hope on wheels. I had never considered myself an athlete and dabbling around on my $300 hybrid bike was what I considered a workout. 585 miles is an unimaginably long way-especially on a 25+ pound hybrid bike. Especially when the furthest I had ever ridden was 15 miles, which had just about killed me. But I was ready for a challenge, and I was ready to break out of my world of self-pity and heartbreak and focus my energy on something that wasn't about me. I wanted to do something extraordinary. I wanted to give back to the community and this seemed like a significant way to do that.
I didn't know-or, I should say, I wasn't aware that I knew-anyone who was HIV-positive or living with AIDS. I knew it was an epidemic, an incurable and fatal disease, but it hadn't yet touched my life directly.
My training began in December, and for the next seven months I was either at the gym or on my bike 5-6 days a week. The motto "Eat, Sleep, Ride" became my mantra. Or rather, "Eat, Sleep, Panic, Ride, Fundraise, Panic"-that was probably more like it, especially as the ride drew closer. But I knew I was only going to do this once, and that when I reached L.A. at the end of the ride I could go back to my quiet, self-centered life.
What I didn't know was how deeply the ride would affect me, and what a different person I would be at the end of it.
During that week I experienced a sense of community unlike any other. Everyone was so open and so kind to one another. Even when I wasn't with my friends, I never felt alone, or lonely. Strangers cheered for me, encouraged me, smiled and told jokes and sang songs. I felt safe and I felt like we all belonged-and how often does one feel that in out in the "real world"? For hundreds of people to be so kind of their own volition (and for an entire week) was something I had never experienced. Love and Hope travelling in tight quarters.
It enabled me to let my guard down. Not only was I able to laugh freely with strangers, I was also able to cry. So as I pedaled along those endless roads, through farmlands and cities, over foggy hills and through hot, dusty valleys, I started looking at all the symbols of loss people carried with them. The red ribbons, the photographs, and the names. So many names. I remember one banner that extended so far behind the rider-so long to make room for so many names. There must have been at least 20 names on that banner. I couldn't imagine the pain of losing so many friends. This was no longer about statistics-this was about people's friends and spouses, people's brothers, fathers, sisters, uncles, mothers, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews.
It was also no longer about me. For what were my complaints in the midst of all this loss? So I got dumped-so what? So my butt hurt-so what? So my bike weighed 10 pounds more than everyone else's-so what? So there was a knot between my shoulders that felt like a small boulder-so what? These were all temporary pains, insignificant among so much grief.
But alongside this sadness, there was also a sense of profound happiness and gratitude. Gratitude for being alive and healthy. Gratitude that the simple act of riding a bicycle could make such a profound impact. And pride in everyone around me-the fact that 1,999 other individuals also chose to act, and not simply stand by hoping somebody else would do something.
On the final day, as we rode through Malibu, we saw a woman standing at the side of the road holding a single balloon. She was cheering all of the riders, and when we stopped to wait for the light to change she asked if we would carry this balloon with us. "It's for my son." she said. My friend took the balloon from her, giving her a big hug, and carried it with him the rest of the way.
To this day, whenever someone asks what the ride means to me, that woman comes to mind. It's as if that simple request, and the act of carrying that balloon, defines what the ride is for me. It's about caring for others. It's about not forgetting. It's about giving hope to someone's mother. And doing all that we can because we can. Hope and love is truly what the ride is about for me.
Six years later, I'm picking up the Maui Newspaper. The headline reads 'Maui Highschool will show gay film'. A video to teach the importance of tolerance and respect for diversity. The article mentions how students will be required to have a permission slip to watch it and how a number of parents excluded their children from watching it. I feel sadness and anger and mostly frustration. And I know that I have an opportunity to raise awareness and educate. 1,500 riders of all walks of life, all colors, all shapes and all sizes will travel in harmony, in peace, in understanding, in unity. For one week, this event will be what the world should be at all times. And maybe, just maybe, there will be a group of elementary school kids selling cookies or cheering us on. And maybe, just maybe, one less young adult will become an HIV infection statistic and one less kid will be bullied for being different and unique. Hope and Love.
So we will keep riding. Thank you for joining our team. While we're getting ready to box our bikes, pack our bag, get a housesitter, and finally, finally, make the first pedal stroke of countless to come, please follow along by visiting our websites at:
www.aidslifecylce.org/5282 for Ricci, www.aidslifecycle.org/5281 for Michelle, or www.aidslifecycle.org/539 for Team Maui Mana
Thank you again for all your kindness and support. It's going to be an amazing journey.
Warmest Aloha,
Ricci
Cyclist # 5282
Team Maui Mana
'Powered by Aloha'
'Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world - indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.' - Margaret Mead
Just a quick hello from the land of the employed! I’m back at work and, wow, does it take stamina to stand up for 50 hours a week! And Amoeba is an amazing, energetic, vortex of all things San Franciscan —a spot where hippies who never left the Park after the Be In, punks with pit bulls, yuppies, hipsters, seniors and teens come to feed their souls and keep themselves humming. A place where my first customer was a man head to toe in fluorescent orange with a hot pink bike asking if he could lick me. (??!!) After six months of unemployment stress and inertia, the change in lifestyle/pace is taking some getting used to. I don’t think I’ve seen any of my friends since I started. Fugee has, however, beenenjoying long naps with me on my days off.
So what’s the logical choice when you’re exhausted?
Start running again! Yup, this Gemini on a deadline does much better to make himself get out of the exhaustion of too little time and energy, and to run. Weird how expending energy gives so much more.
I wanted to take this time to just reflect on a strong emotional flood of memories, sorrow, compassion, and hope that I went through earlier this evening. It’s AIDS/LifeCyle 4 Eve—the ride starts tomorrow morning at 6 am and continues seven days and 575 miles down to LA—a journey I’ve pedaled three times, and worked as a staff member for twice.
I’ve had quite a journey with the rides. From a concerned person who didn’t really know anyone with HIV but wanted to help others affected by catastrophic illness, to a person who started losing friends and acquaintances, to a person who found out that they were living with AIDS at the Southern California beneficiary of the rides. As a Positive Pedaler, regaining my personal power, hope and health by redefining the possible. As an example of living with intention and integrity, without shame, compromise or apologies, facing fear and accepting each day as a wonderful present/Present.
I am alive because of these rides. And there are thousands more like me, so fortunate to have been given the gift of unconditional love and compassion by those willing to do something so wonderful, painful, crazy, difficult as riding a bike so far and raising so much money.
I wish I could thank the 10,000+ people involved in the rides I participated in, rides which saved so many lives. And all those who continue to ride and fundraise when AIDS is no longer a fashionable cause, where religion still tries to attach stigma to an illness, where complacency is more the norm.
Thank you Alex, Ricci, Michelle, Diane, Beth, Cal, Redge, Michael, Jane, Susan, Cal, Lisa, Renata who continue the fight to end the pandemic and human suffering caused by HIV. You are heroes.
What prompted all this nostalgia?
Seeing good friends excited to be leaving on a ride again, some nervous about their first ride and a journey of unknown endurance/fatigue/hope/celebration, to friends who’ve been riding since the early 90’s and still pedal on.
Feeling deep nostalgia and a touch of regret at not being on my bike with them this year.
And the emails from friends. I’m attaching my friend Ricci’s email. It made me cry. A lot. Haven’t done that in a while. But not from sorrow. From beauty. What a wonderful world.
I ask you to send wishes for safe riding, warm tailwinds, and good karma/vibes the way of the extraordinary folks participating in AIDS/LifeCycle 4 tomorrow.
Thank you, AIDS/LifeCycle friends. Thank you, friends and family.
You are the beauty which is our world.
Peace.
Craig
Below, an email received from Ricci Treffer, a woman I was so fortunate to have worked with at California AIDSRide, and to have ridden with in the Canada/US AIDS Vaccine Ride. You'll sense her enormity of spirit and enduiring commitment by reading her beautiful words.
Aloha friends,
This time next week we will touch down in San Francisco to once again begin our amazing journey to fight AIDS. I've been out of commission for the last couple of days, fighting a pesky cold, and was forced to slow down and reflect on why I'm doing the Ride again this year. We've had a whirlwind of a year so far with work, training, fundraising, moving etc. and it can get a bit overwhelming, and I guess it's no wonder I sometimes lose sight of why we do this ride. You're the lucky ones on the receiving end of this somewhat lengthy message, so bear with me.
To all of you, who have helped out, with donations, encouragement, moral support and more - THANK YOU! We couldn't do this without you all!
The first time I rode was in 1999. I had seen the ride go by the year before - an endless string of people on bikes. People from all walks of life, all ages, all sizes, all colors. I saw Love and Hope on wheels. I had never considered myself an athlete and dabbling around on my $300 hybrid bike was what I considered a workout. 585 miles is an unimaginably long way-especially on a 25+ pound hybrid bike. Especially when the furthest I had ever ridden was 15 miles, which had just about killed me. But I was ready for a challenge, and I was ready to break out of my world of self-pity and heartbreak and focus my energy on something that wasn't about me. I wanted to do something extraordinary. I wanted to give back to the community and this seemed like a significant way to do that.
I didn't know-or, I should say, I wasn't aware that I knew-anyone who was HIV-positive or living with AIDS. I knew it was an epidemic, an incurable and fatal disease, but it hadn't yet touched my life directly.
My training began in December, and for the next seven months I was either at the gym or on my bike 5-6 days a week. The motto "Eat, Sleep, Ride" became my mantra. Or rather, "Eat, Sleep, Panic, Ride, Fundraise, Panic"-that was probably more like it, especially as the ride drew closer. But I knew I was only going to do this once, and that when I reached L.A. at the end of the ride I could go back to my quiet, self-centered life.
What I didn't know was how deeply the ride would affect me, and what a different person I would be at the end of it.
During that week I experienced a sense of community unlike any other. Everyone was so open and so kind to one another. Even when I wasn't with my friends, I never felt alone, or lonely. Strangers cheered for me, encouraged me, smiled and told jokes and sang songs. I felt safe and I felt like we all belonged-and how often does one feel that in out in the "real world"? For hundreds of people to be so kind of their own volition (and for an entire week) was something I had never experienced. Love and Hope travelling in tight quarters.
It enabled me to let my guard down. Not only was I able to laugh freely with strangers, I was also able to cry. So as I pedaled along those endless roads, through farmlands and cities, over foggy hills and through hot, dusty valleys, I started looking at all the symbols of loss people carried with them. The red ribbons, the photographs, and the names. So many names. I remember one banner that extended so far behind the rider-so long to make room for so many names. There must have been at least 20 names on that banner. I couldn't imagine the pain of losing so many friends. This was no longer about statistics-this was about people's friends and spouses, people's brothers, fathers, sisters, uncles, mothers, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews.
It was also no longer about me. For what were my complaints in the midst of all this loss? So I got dumped-so what? So my butt hurt-so what? So my bike weighed 10 pounds more than everyone else's-so what? So there was a knot between my shoulders that felt like a small boulder-so what? These were all temporary pains, insignificant among so much grief.
But alongside this sadness, there was also a sense of profound happiness and gratitude. Gratitude for being alive and healthy. Gratitude that the simple act of riding a bicycle could make such a profound impact. And pride in everyone around me-the fact that 1,999 other individuals also chose to act, and not simply stand by hoping somebody else would do something.
On the final day, as we rode through Malibu, we saw a woman standing at the side of the road holding a single balloon. She was cheering all of the riders, and when we stopped to wait for the light to change she asked if we would carry this balloon with us. "It's for my son." she said. My friend took the balloon from her, giving her a big hug, and carried it with him the rest of the way.
To this day, whenever someone asks what the ride means to me, that woman comes to mind. It's as if that simple request, and the act of carrying that balloon, defines what the ride is for me. It's about caring for others. It's about not forgetting. It's about giving hope to someone's mother. And doing all that we can because we can. Hope and love is truly what the ride is about for me.
Six years later, I'm picking up the Maui Newspaper. The headline reads 'Maui Highschool will show gay film'. A video to teach the importance of tolerance and respect for diversity. The article mentions how students will be required to have a permission slip to watch it and how a number of parents excluded their children from watching it. I feel sadness and anger and mostly frustration. And I know that I have an opportunity to raise awareness and educate. 1,500 riders of all walks of life, all colors, all shapes and all sizes will travel in harmony, in peace, in understanding, in unity. For one week, this event will be what the world should be at all times. And maybe, just maybe, there will be a group of elementary school kids selling cookies or cheering us on. And maybe, just maybe, one less young adult will become an HIV infection statistic and one less kid will be bullied for being different and unique. Hope and Love.
So we will keep riding. Thank you for joining our team. While we're getting ready to box our bikes, pack our bag, get a housesitter, and finally, finally, make the first pedal stroke of countless to come, please follow along by visiting our websites at:
www.aidslifecylce.org/5282 for Ricci, www.aidslifecycle.org/5281 for Michelle, or www.aidslifecycle.org/539 for Team Maui Mana
Thank you again for all your kindness and support. It's going to be an amazing journey.
Warmest Aloha,
Ricci
Cyclist # 5282
Team Maui Mana
'Powered by Aloha'
'Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world - indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.' - Margaret Mead
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