Muscle, Lots of Heart Propel AIDS Ride

They came pumping and panting into San Buenaventura State Beach on Friday afternoon--2,476 cyclists on a 575-mile trek from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Young and old. Male and female. Slim and pudgy. Gay and straight. Clad in Lycra bike shorts, they rode side by side.

And that, say riders and organizers, is what makes this ride so incredible.

“For this one week, even though we are so different, we create a community like nothing I have ever seen in my life,” said 37-year-old Daniel Moeshing, who has ridden in all four California AIDS rides. He has been HIV-positive for 15 years, and the rides have changed his life. “No matter what you hear about it, or what you see on television, you have to live the AIDS ride to see what it is.”

The ride began six days ago in San Francisco. Each day the cyclists ride 80 to 90 miles. At night they camp together in a city of tents.

Friday night in Ventura was the final night. Today, barring leg cramps or heat exhaustion, they will coast to the finish in Century City.

Started four years ago as a way to raise money for and awareness about AIDS, the California AIDS ride has grown to become the largest AIDS fund-raiser in the world.

This year, riders will raise about $9.4 million. The vast majority of that will go to serving patients with acquired immune deficiency syndrome, rather than to research.

Over time, the ride has expanded. Now there are five rides nationwide: one in California, one in Florida, one in the Washington, D.C., area, one from Minneapolis to Chicago, and one from New York to Boston.

Many of the riders are gay. Many are straight. This year more than 135 HIV-positive riders participated, calling themselves the Positive Pedalers, and affixing red flags to their bikes.

Lorri L. Jean, executive director of the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center, which has been involved in organizing the event since its inception, calls the grueling ride a metaphor for the fight against AIDS.

“People working together, striving to beat something they never thought they could,” Jean said. “It is going to take that to beat this disease.”

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At the final pit stop for the day, along the Rincon, there was a flurry of activity. Under a tent by the sea, mechanics fixed flat tires and sticky gears, while volunteer masseurs kneaded the tired bodies of some of the riders. Others pounded down energy drinks and pretzels before beginning the last leg of the day’s journey.

“I pulled out of camp at 7 a.m. this morning,” Jim Muglia of San Diego said between gulps of water. “I have been on the road for exactly five hours, 24 minutes and four seconds.”

People ride for different reasons. Some have lost a sibling, lover, friend or child to AIDS.

Muglia said a friend made him do it.

“I figured this was a life-changing event. Every single person said that. And it is. I don’t want to go back to work. I want to stay on this bike seat,” he said.

Larry Lemos is doing it in memory of his brother, David, who died of AIDS in 1995. So is his brother, Michael. A third brother is working as a masseur for the ride. And his parents will both be volunteering at the finish line in Los Angeles tomorrow.

“Before January, I didn’t even own a bike,” he said. “It’s been difficult at times. But then I remember I am doing it for the memory of my brother. And then I sing to myself. I curse to myself. Anything to keep riding.”

He said he will try to get the rest of the nine children in his family to take part next year.

It was not just the riders who were giving it their all. Cheerleaders along the way were shouting themselves hoarse.

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John Burciaga, a.k.a. “Iceman,” loaded ice into backpacks and water bottles, keeping up a nonstop banter. “Come on and have some ice, cutie. There you go, you sexy thing.”

A few miles down the road, near Solimar, Scott Callaway stood alone on a straw mat waving a pompom, and singing songs from his repertoire of AIDS ride cabaret tunes.

When his voice grew weak, he grabbed his sliding kazoo and tambourine.

“I try to pick good spots, where they are hitting a hurdle--at the top of a big hill or at the city limits at the end of the day,” said Callaway, who is an architect in San Francisco between cheerleading gigs. He went to watch the first AIDS ride four years ago in Santa Cruz, and ended up trailing the riders all the way to Los Angeles. Now it’s a tradition.

“They get a kick out of me and I get a kick out of them.”

At the finish line, a drag queen with pink tresses gyrated to Donna Summer, and other supporters blew showers of bubbles. Cyclists sighed with relief and wheeled their bikes into the makeshift parking lot for the evening.

For many, the final night is bittersweet. Physically weary, many say they have had enough. Mentally elated, many say they want the feeling of community to continue.

“People say being on this ride changes them completely,” said spokeswoman Samantha Farrar. “People say, on the ride, this is the way the world should be.”