AIDS/LIFECYCLE 2005
Day 6: Lompoc->Ventura (85 miles)
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By now we could see the end. Two more days, only a reasonably hard 85 miles to Ventura, and the closing day. I still felt good, although I must admit I wasn't quite as strong as the first days, and I could feel the lactic acid pooling in my calves. Otherwise, I wasn't tiring of the food, the company, the portapotties (luckily, I hadn't dropped my bike pump in them, as one woman had).
Like the 4th day, this day was one of appointments. D- had sworn that we had to lunch at Super Rica, a taqueria in Santa Barbara that Julia Child had called her favorite. We had to be there before 11:30 or the line would be out the door. And my parents were coming up to Ventura that evening to see me. I hadn't seen them in 6 months, and bless their hearts, they couldn't wait another day. So I planned on making good time into camp. They had offered to get me a hotel room, but I declined-I wanted to be with this community on this last evening.
It was a warm, overcast morning, and we came again to the coast. Then into Goleta; strange to see the suburbs. We had a bit of fun getting to the Taqueria-it was well off the route, in Santa Barbara, and we lost one of our posse along the way. Luckily the power of cell phones saved us, and eventually C- found us.
D- had insisted that we arrive before 11:30, and he was right. We parked our bikes at 11:45, and already there was a line, and we got the last available table.
La Super Rica looked like any other slightly scummy taqueria, but already I could see the menu was unusual. I was excited, especially since the Mexican food is, um, atrocious in A'dam, and so I was storing Asian and Mexican like acorns in a chipmonk's cheek. The fact that I was eating like a demon helped, as I could order more. I had two tacos with pasilla chillies and a tamale de verdures and a big fat awesome horchata, and they were all spectacular. Any frustrations from getting inadvertently lost and left behind were gobbled by the food. Truly amazing. If you're in Santa Barbara, go there, you won't be disappointed.
Alas, we couldn't stay forever. Not only did I promise my parents I'd arrive at 3 or 4, but there was another fun thing en route. On the outskirts of Santa Barbara, the local merchants had, in a small grassy area across from the beach, something called the Paradise Pit(no relation to the Peach Pit). It was like a rest stop, but not organized by the ride; it was simply a gesture of goodwill that included disco dancers, the usual food and drink, and free, all you eat ice cream provided by a local creamery. What a lunch!
Again, though, I had to speed along, and I left my comrades with ice cream dripping down their necks.
I only remember two small events of the last 30 miles. Well, 3. 1st, being greeted by a very sexy mermaid at Rest Stop 3. Or was she a witch? I can't remember. I had to pee so bad.
Later, I had one of two times that I thought I might eat it. I was looking back to see if I could pass a not very good rider when my bike landed into a big crevice that he didn't call out (stoner!) I skidded and passed him and tried to repress a dirty look.
About a mile before the campground in Ventura, a lovely couple was walking along the bike path, cheering on the bikers. Wait! It was my parents, maybe looking for me. I don't know if they saw me right away, but I rang my bell and chatted with them for a while. I was very happy to see them.
I raced in and set up the tent and showered and they picked me up. I had my heart set on sushi, but Dad, who had worked in the area (he tells me that Ventura is "Bakersfield by the Sea") took us to ??? Palms. I must admit that I was grateful to have a fancy meal and a good glass of wine and for the first time that I can remember, I ordered a soup, salad, main course, and dessert, and I ate, much to the amazement of my shocked parents, every bite of it (My riding partners call me a hummingbird). After dinner, I showed them around the camp-tent city, the semis converted into showers, the food and information areas. Mom wanted to read everything in the Dedication Tent.
It was just getting dark, and candlelight march was about to start. We could see a long line of people with candles stretching out to the beach. I could tell that Mom wanted to stay, but Dad was ready to go. He's a compassionate man, but he was tired, had seen enough, and he's not much for ritual. I'd see them tomorrow. I walked them to their car and came back, just in time to be one of the last to receive a candle (with a wind protector) and be gathered into the shape of a red ribbon. Maybe 1200 of us, bothered only by the documentary cameras filming us from the inside of the ribbon.
I will not forget these moments.
For a while, it was still; everyone held their candles. No one spoke. The lights from a few oil rigs blinked as they became visible and invisible behind the waves. As far as I could tell, there was nothing organized, no leader. After a few moments, people held their candles over their heads. 1, 2, 10, 100, 1000. More silence; nothing but the breakers. Then someone called out someone's name. For a minute, I thought about the Kaddish. Suddenly names were being called out all across the beach. In that way that happens when people are trying to be considerate, there was an overlapping of names. And they wouldn't stop, the names. They poured out of people; one person would recite a litany, a line, a family.
Finally, there was again silence. At some point someone turned and walked towards the ocean. He doused his candle in the water, turned, and walked off the beach. Another followed, another. No one spoke.
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