Thank you for your support for this years MS Ride

Hello All,

I wanted to thank you for making this my biggest year yet. Your donation put me into the blue bib category. MVP treatment at the end of the ride. Imagine endless banquet tables piled high with catered corporate food heaven or artery clogging dysentery hell, depending on your perspective and gastrointestinal fortitude.

The event collected over $2M and I think was the biggest year yet. It certainly was my biggest year. I finished the ride without to much trouble besides a few dark moments which I will share, but still much better than last year.

Last year I was not prepared for the Palisades hills. They made my legs wet noodles. And when I had completed 97 miles, I over-shifted my old-style derailleur into my spokes. I had to take the subway home while holding up a broken bike, wobbling with the turns and bumps of the train. When I got home, I laid down and closed my eyes. I was still peddling off into the night on a broken bike.

Again, this year was much better, mainly because your generosity really energized me. So I thought I should share with you some notes I jotted down during the 100 mile ride.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

10/3/08 6:00 AM, This morning is crappy. Rain and wind keep everyone cold. And wet. I did not over-dress. I jump around in place. Other cyclist weave through the crowd, getting closer to the start line. I scoff at them. This is not a race...

Baloney. Nobody likes to get passed. It is a simple, primal impulse. You pass someone, you get a little boost of dopamine. Dolphins know this. The way they swim along a ship. Dolphins don't want to be second. And there is not even a finish line in the ocean.

Two guys behind me are cracking bad jokes about the weather leaning on their very expensive bicycles, that I swear I do not covet. The horn finally blasts. We head down the West Side Highway and warm up. We are a tightly packed group. We are the front pack.

The front pack is wet. The front pack is yelling. The front pack yells things like "slow." It ripples through, like the wave at a football game. But the sound stays in the same place and it is the riders that pass through it, an audible gate. The pack yells "puddle right" and the pack squeezes left. Then pack yells "puddle left" and the pack squeezes right. Then the pack yells "stop" and somebody yells "yelling." It is funny the first time.

Then the Lincoln Tunnel. They close the tunnel for the pack. They pinch off an inch and let it into the tunnel. I am in the front of the front. I lied to somebody once. I told them on a good a hill in New York you can get up to 35 or 40 mph. I swear this tunnel made me honest.

Top gear all the way until I hit the bump. As bumps go it is not so bad, but my water bottle doesn't' t like it and starts to want to leave on its own. Then the pump on my down-tube wants to dance with the bottle. There goes the rest of the pinch as I stop to gather my wayward things. I am last of the pinch pack. I am in stinking last. And it really doesn't feel good. But this is not a race...

I get back in the mix. I leave the tunnel at the rear of the pinch, but not last. And I see this cute girl with a megaphone. She is looking right at me. She is saying something into the megaphone. She is saying, "hello," she is saying "wait till you see me on my bike," she is saying "we will go riding together, into bliss," she is saying "watch out for that speed bump."

The handle bars are suddenly 6 inches above where my hands are. I sadly, know what is coming. I feel the compression of the Styrofoam that separates my head from the clean swept asphalt of Edgewater, New Jersey. I am severed from the pack. From WE to just ME in an instant.

Wear you helmet.

Adrenalin kicks in as a crane my neck like a turtle on its back. Shouts of "all right?" circulate, I right myself, pull the bike up. I curse the siren and then drag my 1984 Fuji Series IV Touring 12 speed bicycle to the sidewalk.

Embarrassment in check, the chain is off, handle bars turned, derailleur a mess. Pack after pack passes as I dirty my hands with the business of becoming mobilized. Wheels, check, chain, check, brakes, check, me, check, me.

I get back on the bike and think, what a glorious lesson I have learned. I should share this lesson with those that sponsored me.

Here is that lesson:

In life there are speed bumps. And sometimes those speed bumps will knock you flat on your *** because you were staring at a cute girl when you should have been watching the road. So watch the road.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The rest of the ride was excellent but in a solitary way, no big messages, just that if you keep peddling you will eventually wind up back at the start. So lets keep peddling...and find a cure for MS.

The Hidden Beach at Jacob Ris

Cliff called. He said there was a ride today. He said I would not be alone. He said he had a mess of papers he had to sort out. He said he was up till three in the morning working on some data file. He said Dome Lady and Manray would be there.

I said OK. I would be there at 11:30AM. I said I would make some breakfast first. I didn't even chop the garlic. I just smashed it with the knife. The garlic went in a hot pan of olive oil. The smell filled the apartment. It was almost enough.

It was a quarter to 11:00AM. It was ten till 11:00AM. It was five till 11:00AM. It was going to be alright. I took the Panasonic down. It is a fast bike. It had a flat. I put the Panasonic back. I would settle for the Fuji Touring Series Four IV. Nobody is losing sleep over this bike but I like it.

I moved through the traffic on autopilot. Greenpoint Avenue past the water plant. The water plant smelled like shit. I weaved through Mini-van mitzvah tanks on Kent Ave. Flushing was nothing. I was water. I was there, it was 11:18AM. I was a God.

Cliff said come in. I sat on the couch. Cliff got a call. Cliff moved some data. Cliff made some coffee. Cliff gave me a cup. Cliff is a good person.

Another call. Later another call. It was Dome Lady. They were at the Park and ready to ride. It was Noon. Cliff was not ready. Cliff sent me to stall.

We said hello. I was lost in my Godliness. No one must know I am a God. Manray said he impregnated three women that morning. I said good job. I moved away. Manray said with his eyes. I moved away again.

I looked at their bicycles. Dome lady on a Panasoic DX-3000, Manray on a Surly Cross-check, I talked about bicycles. I know nothing about bicycles. We talked about helmets. My helmet is cool.

Cliff arrived. We discussed directions. Manray had the map. I decided Manray was Mapray and I would follow him. GPS Lady is not around. She got dumped. We went through the park. I talked more about bicycles. I still know nothing about bicycles.

We stopped at a light. Cliff was a Jack Rabbit.

We headed East. Past Canarsie Jack Rabbit thought we were going the wrong way. I got turned around. North was South, East was West. The Manhattan skyline was on the left. Mapray knew where to go. He was a fucking landshark.

We stopped somewhere. Jack Rabbit got me Orbitz. A bird shat on Dome Lady's head. There were people there. They laughed at Dome Lady. Dome Lady laughed. They laughed at the bird shit. But not mean. Everybody drank water. Mapray bunged the bags.

Jack Rabbit thought we were going the wrong way. We followed Mapray. The bridge was down. Took the free Golden Coach across the bridge to Broad Channel McDonald's' parking lot. Dome lady took some pictures. Manray bunged the bags.

Jack Rabbit yelled make a left. I yelled follow Mapray asshole. Mapray went left. We went left. We road on the boardwalk. The map said no bikes on Rockaway Beach Boardwalk. We said fuck the map.

Stopped at the grease pit. Jack Rabbit brought out the plate of corporate bar food. Cliff is a good man. It was devoured. Cliff finds my gum under the plate. We still want more. I borrow $20 from Cliff.

Cheezeburger, cheezedog, cheeze fries, cheeze coke, cheeze beer, cheeze cheeze. Mapray Bunged the bags. I said fuck. I said I left my bag at the grease pit.

We headed West. On the conrete sidewalk. Dome Lady pointed out the Empire State Building. We were on the 34th St extension. Jack Rabbit took off like a jack rabbit. He took a left into a bush. We followed Jack Rabbit. It was not a bush. It was a concrete path. It looked post-apocalyptic. It looked cool.

That was the road to the Hidden Beach at Jacob Ris.

Dome lady and I wore our suits. Jack Rabbit and Manray were like flashdancers. Manray said he hated gyms. I said why. He said he had athletes dick. He said athletes dick is when your dick touches an athletes dick and becomes a long black dick. He has some fucked up ideas about gyms.

We swam at the hidden beach. The water was incredible. I said a prayer for Michael Phelps so that he might obtain his eighth Olympic gold medal. Dome lady did the Australian crawl. We discussed survival strategies.

When you are in a riptide, do not swim towards shore. Swim parallel to the shore until you are out of the riptide. Then swim towards shore. Fat people float better. Become fat.

We raced back to the shore. I was a God. Manray offered sunblock. Cliff offered plums. Dome lady offered to take a picture. I offered dental floss. Nobody wanted to floss.

To reduce the public aversion to dental floss I made a garbage bag kite using dental floss as the kite string. It flew aproximately three and a half feet above ground. Manray bunged the bags.

Dome Lady wrote a song for Manray:

(Bootsy Collins)
Put the back
Pack
On the rack
Put the back pack on the rack

(Backing girl chorus)
Do that bungee thang
and make the thang twange

(Bootsy Collins)
Put the back
Pack
On the rack
Put the back pack on the rack

Manray couldn't outrun his top gear. Manray outran my top gear. I stopped at the best water fountain in Prospect Park. The best water fountain anywhere. The water was cool. The water was free. The water was America.

Dome Lady and Jack Rabbit were picking their teeth at the plaza. I still don't know how they got their first. It was a good ride.