Day One: San Francisco to Santa Cruz

Today was on of those amazing, incredible, once-in-a-lifetime days, from the moment I woke up, to this very minute, and counting every second in between.

Much like having a baby, despite what others told me I couldn't quite comprehend what the actual experience would be like until I faced the labor. And this, the first day of the AIDS/Lifecycle Ride, was filled with labor by more people than I can possibly count.

We rose at 3:45 a.m. to ready ourselves and taxi over to the Cow Palace for Opening Day Ceremonies by 5. There, 1,840 riders met, stretched, panicked, carbo-loaded and after much pep-talking, headed out into the balmy (for San Francisco) 60 degree weather and began the fifth annual ride.

It was a breathtaking sight: hundreds and hundreds of riders, enthused beyond words, wound our through the streets of San Francisco, taking up an entire lane of traffic.

Despite the craziness of the hour, the road was periodically lined with onlookers, cheerleaders, family members, sign holders, police officers, roadies-- all of them supporters.

The day was like a dream. One minute, we were winding our way through city streets, the next, suburbans neighborhoods. We followed foggy, tree-lined highways, only to find ourselves facing sunshine and breathtaking ocean views around a different bend. We labored up hills we thought would never end, only to be surprised by the speed and distance we covered in a matter of seconds heading downhill. There were stands of Eucalyptus trees, and stretches of strawberry fields, grassy meadows, and the expansive Pacific.

Only, this wasn't a dream, and I could feel every mile I pedaled. I knew the moment I stopped watching the road or the cyclists around me would be the moment I would lose all control of the bike. It was hazy and comfortable like a dream, but the reality of danger was intense.

One rider was seriously injured when an impatient motorist turned directly into his cycling path in order to make left-hand turn. Two others received roadrash for momentary lapses of concentration - either their's, or others. Bloody noses, scraped faces, chins and knees - abrasions on this first day that will serve as stinging reminders in the days ahead to always be mindful.

There were cheerleaders. Actual shouting, happy cheerleaders banging drums and singing out praises. There were dancers - older retirees blasting tunes from their car, energetic women in their 40s rocking our to ABBA's "Dancing Queen" and then an actual dancing queen, as in of Sheba, an undulating belly dancer who appeared out of a hazy mist in the distance.

There were the riders of the Monty Python-esque tall bikes and the low, long recumbant bikes, rolling past, and then suddenly, with the ocean crashing on my right, sloping hills to my left, a table filled with pies lay before me. Pumpkin pies. Delicious, free, perfect, totally out-of-season pumpkin pies.

I would say I was in a Slvador Dali painting if not for the lack of melting clocks - though time passed in the same, lolling fashion.

And just as suddnely as the magically appearing pie stand, the ride ended. Passing cheering people, rainbows wigs, and yet more signs, we entered a purple tent city in a park in Santa Cruz where we will spend the night.

And dream. Strange, cycling-filled dreams.