As anyone who has made it this far in the blog knows, Kathy and I rode the AIDS/LifeCycle on a tandem from June 2 to 8, 2024. We didn’t just survive it; we rode it successfully. Which is to say we hit all of our benchmarks, and as much as possible under the circumstances, enjoyed the better part of a grueling experience. Most importantly, perhaps, is that despite daily differences of opinion—which on a couple of occasions devolved to visceral anger between us—we remain lifelong friends. I might even say we’re better for it.
Kathy kept her Facebook page updated with daily reports, and those posts have been incorporated into this blog (starting here). I did not, though I occasionally posted something fun from the ride on my Instagram feed.
I will try over the next few posts to chronicle the ride from my perspective. I am not sure how it will turn out, but I want to apologize up front for two reasons. First, I’m sorry I didn’t keep a running daily account of the ride as I did on my Pony Express ride. Second, I don’t imagine my recap of this ride will be as detailed as my recollection of the 2009 Gold Rush Randonnee. I rode both of those long rides solo. Doing so gave me a lot of time to think. I developed a habit of constantly recreating events of each day’s ride in my mind so when it came time to put the thoughts into words I would have a mental draft already prepared.
The 2024 ALC was a very different type of beast. For one—obviously—I wasn’t alone. And if there’s one thing Kathy and I do well together, it’s talk. That didn’t leave much space for introspection. For another thing, I was, in a sense, thinking for two. Every decision I made piloting the tandem had to take account of how it would affect Kathy as well as me: If I wanted us to shift down or up, would the cadence be comfortable for her?; When we approached a red light or stop sign, would we have to come to a complete stop, or could we slow enough for me to tap the ground with one foot and roll through it?; If we stopped, would she have to put a foot down (which took its toll on her back every time) or could she keep her feet on the pedals (which saved her back pain, but made her feel more precarious); How close could we ride to another bike before she became nervous?; How fast or slow should we descend this or that hill? It was a constant stream of evaluating visual and audible stimuli . . . not to mention a constant monitoring of her state of being to determine whether we needed a break, for instance, without being able to turn around and face her.
As a result, I was unable to keep any kind of mental record of each day’s events. And with the details of camp life to attend to every afternoon (picking up gear, pitching a tent, showering, eating, and more, all over long distances in each campsite) I had less time, energy, or inclination to write. I wish I could have memorized the hilarious little exchanges we had with other cyclists as we passed them, or they us. I wish I could remember all of the funny license plate nicknames along with so many other details. Alas, I cannot. But I hope the recap will be interesting to read nonetheless.
