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AIDS/Lifecycle Days 5 and 6: A Ribbon and A Raven

AIDS/Lifecycle Days 5 and 6: A Ribbon and A Raven

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Day Five: Santa Maria to Lompoc

This day was the so-called “red dress day”, a call for the riders to wear a red dress, or in my case just red in general since I dropped the ball on dress shopping. When you see the entire peloton of riders wearing an almost uniform shade of red, it creates a powerful image: a living, moving ribbon of AIDS awareness. It being a 40 mile ride, the pressure to leave early and not procrastinating was gone. We all slept in, ate breakfast late and left the camp basically at the last possible moment before they locked us out of the bike parking. Today was for vibes! We decided to stick together pretty much the whole ride, it was like riding together back in Long Beach, just for fun. I even broke my most hallowed ALC rule and stopped at the first rest stop which on this day was a HUGE party. There was a sea of cyclists in red dancing and hanging out. It was so full that we couldn’t even get back to our bikes to leave until people cleared out. We weren’t sweating it though because we were informed that we couldn’t even get into the next camp until after 1 since they still had to set it up.

Extended LBC family


Eventually we got moving again and I guess my body had slipped into recovery mode because I felt that lactic acid burning in my quads. We had two substantial climbs that day which were nothing to scoff at but compared to the bigger picture almost became irrelevant. My reality had been redefined by the previous four days, I was no longer a tech worker who cycles in his spare time but a cyclist who had no time to spare. Mountains and hills were just natural occurrences, not challenges to be overcome but objects to move past and through. I was going with the flow, feeling Wu Wei. Physically I still hurt, and suffered on those hills, but my mind had shifted into a place of clarity. We got through the 7-9% gradient climb at Devon which led into a descent and then a second climb (lesser evil twins?) up the switchbacks of Cabrillo Highway and ending at the much maligned Vandenberg Space Force base. Here is where the column of riders twisted into a ribbon that could be viewed overhead. It was impossible not to feel the weight of the symbolism as I saw red for miles, stretching out around the bend and out of sight touching places I’d never see and people I’d never meet but was still connected to.


We pulled into Lompoc around 12:30 pm still before we could even get into camp so we went to get a well deserved lunch. Like the rides we did back in the LBC we found a cool pizza spot to bike to and walked in. I think almost everyone got a personal pizza. I got a bacon apple gorgonzola one that was leagues ahead of everything we had eaten thus far (save that burger). We hung out for hours and chatted away without any foreboding sense that time was ticking away and we still had miles to go. That night, camp had enough programming to fill the extra hours: a talent show, cyclists performing DIY versions of Broadway hits, and a burlesque performance of the anti-fascist song “Bella Ciao.” In short, it was a relatively relaxed day — a much-needed break before the final two-day push, 175 miles left.

Day Six: Lompoc To Ventura

I woke up feeling amazing. The chill day before, combined with the apparent vanishment of my cold, had me feeling like I’d emerged from the 35th Chamber of Shaolin as a master cyclist. This part of the route I had done before as part of my training so there was going to be no real surprises. I knew the day started with a climb then a long stretch of riding the 101 until we hit Goleta, followed by a cruise through Santa Barbara to Ventura along the coast. With the end of the ride rapidly approaching, having reached the end of my illness, and cycling back in familiar territory I felt relief begin to wash over me as I thought that maybe…just maybe I was actually going to finish this crazy thing. I began the climb to the 101 early and in earnest knowing that no matter what the group would always catch up with me.

The previous night at camp I was talking with a roadie about how I didn’t know having license plates on your bike was a thing. I guess it provides an easy way for riders to call out to you when they don’t know your name. He gifted me a plate that said “OMG OMG” and now that I was so slowly climbing this hill I enjoyed all the variety of ways other riders announced they were about to pass me.
“oh my god oh my god, I’m coming on your left.”
“om gomg (phonetic pronunciation), on your left”
“oh em gee! on your left”

I skipped the first rest stop as was tradition and maybe by this point a hint of superstition, lest I upset whatever delicate cosmic balance had worked in my favor to get me this far. It was bittersweet passing by all the riders enjoying their break but in the dense fog of the morning I quickly lost sight of the stop as I ventured higher and higher through the marine layer. A shadowy figure materialized out of the haze: A man in a hat, and he said to me “May these good vibes give you safe journey home”. I said thank you as he vanished back into the cloudy unknown and I wondered whether I had just talked to a spirit or Odin himself. Not long after, the outline of a raven appeared on the shoulder. As I got closer, I realized it was a corpse. My oxygen deprived brain wondered whether it was Huginn or Muninn, Odin’s ravens of thought and memory, sprawled out and discarded on the side of the road and what it would signify for the last two days of my ride. It must have been Memory, I decided, because I was the ultimate Taoist cyclist now. What did I need memory for? There was only the constant flow of the present with no past or future and me riding in it forever!

Breaking me from my existential spiral came along one of my teammates, and I could mercifully chat about the weather and breakfast instead. It didn’t last long though because soon we hit the crest of climb and began the incredibly fast but fun descent down the 101 to the coast. This was probably the steepest descent besides the unbustin’ part of the Quadbuster and I would have been more worried have the crew not already done it three weeks back WITH cars blasting by. We got to Gaviota and rest stop 2 was not so far from there. We chilled there and recharged, the hard 1/3 of the ride was now behind us and I had the fabled ice cream stop waiting for me at the beach of Santa Barbara so we didn’t dally long and kept going. I was by myself not long after, being the slowest pedaler out of the bunch, but my spirits were high as I was looking forward to the comforting sacked sandwich vibes of the lunch stop in north Santa Barbara. I would swiftly learn a lesson though, just because you feel good doesn’t mean your body is doing well.

When I got to the lunch stop I felt a strange tingling in the back of my legs that I had not experienced before. Strange pains are not uncommon when you are putting in this many miles, so I pushed the negative thoughts to the back of my mind, even as the slightest limp began to appear. After lunch I pushed hard to the beach to get this fabled ice cream. The stop was affectionately called Paradise Pit and it was manned by volunteers and the mayor of Santa Barbara. They really went above and beyond because not only were there six ice cream flavors to choose from but there were also churros, coffee, fresh strawberries and chairs lined up along Ledbetter Beach so you could stare at the vastness of the ocean while you ate your tiny little sweets. Against the magnitude of the sea what’s a few little calories going to do? We definitely took our time there, enjoying the amazing stop but also starting to reflect on the impending finish of this crazy experience. Eventually we left since all the other riders were saying that rest stop 4 was the “dance” stop. The only thing I remember between paradise pit and rest stop 4 is how even though I’d ridden to Santa Barbara so much I had never ridden in this direction, on this bike path along the beach. As Heraclitus said more or less: different river, different me.

We approached the next stop and from down the street we heard the “oontz, oontz” of whatever massive festivity was happening. The scene spread out before us as we turned the corner: a sprawling park dotted on the sides by cyclists lying in the grass and in the center a massive bacchanalia of shirtless dancing riders overlooked by a DJ and performers on podiums meant to evoke the go go dancers of the 60s. It was clear that everyone had a lot of stress to relieve or perhaps they were enjoying the last gasp of the love bubble that would end the next day. We stopped here and some of my teammates immediately joined the dance but I preferred people watching and lying down on the grass, almost wistfully falling to sleep even as the music pounded with whatever electronic rhythms carried people into perpetual motion. I can’t know what an Ancient Greek party was really like but I don’t imagine it was much different than this. Even with no wine or alcohol everyone seemed content to let loose, all I needed was grapes and a toga (and maybe a light sacrifice) and I’d believe I was at Dionysia itself.

When we finally decided to call it a day and finish the remaining 17 miles before camp I felt a tightness in my hamstrings that had me almost hobble back to my bike. At this point I thought maybe I pulled a muscle or something but as I got back on my bike, the motion of pedaling still felt fine. So we played it a little loose with the rules of the ride and we pacelined to the last camp of the ride so we could get there faster. The reality that this was the final night we’d spend at camp together hung over everything I did. My last mobile shower (not really going to miss that), my last kind of bland but nutritious buffet dinner, our last team meeting, my last time pitching a tent which I was pretty good at by now, and the last time I got to just exist outside of the time and space of my regular life. To cap it all off the tightness in my hamstrings was worse and I could barely walk around camp. I thought I had done irreversible damage to myself, with ONE day to go! I brought it up the group and they quickly asked how much I stretched that week and I said “none…”. They immediately took me to task for being so dumb. but I have never suffered repercussions for not stretching, which doesn’t mean that I should have ignored it but us non-athletes have to learn the hard way. I was given a quick how-to on foam rolling which felt like I was squeezing pins and needles through my legs due to six days of built up soreness. It was undeniable that my hamstrings felt so much better afterwards though. I could walk again which made getting to participate in the vigil that night a realistic option.

The last night of ALC the camp hosts a candlelight vigil on the beach where participants light candles and place them in the sand next to a riderless bicycle. It’s meant to honor those lost to AIDS and show support to survivors. During the ride, it was easy to forget that this was not just my personal endurance project. It was also a way to raise money that would affect people immediately. I lit my candle and walked out onto the beach with hundreds of participants. The procession was mostly silent, I didn’t hear a single word spoken. After placing my candle I stepped back to join the circle and everyone stood in solemn muteness for as long as they felt appropriate. I have not been personally affected by AIDS and I’m not sure I know anyone who has but if causes only reached people with direct personal stakes, they would not be causes. They would be private grief. The ride afforded me an opportunity to accomplish a goal I once thought impossible. The candles in the sand represented people who never had the chance to attempt whatever impossible thing they might have wanted for themselves. For that perspective, and for every friend and family member who donated to my campaign, I was grateful. All I had left to do was actually finish the endeavor. Little by little people started walking away back to the tents as the candles still illuminated the darkness. Eventually I did too, ready to finally make it home.

AIDS/Lifecycle Days 3 and 4: Climbs And Lines

AIDS/Lifecycle Days 3 and 4: Climbs And Lines

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Day Three: King City to Paso Robles

I woke up at 5 am and rather than try to fight it and return to the dreaming I just decided to pack up my stuff and get on with it. I was developing a system, I was learning to be efficient with what I put where so I could grab and go. Efficiency is the name of the game here at least if you don’t want to waste hours waiting in lines for restrooms, food, snacks, or coffee.

There was one inevitable line again, the one to get out. One dirt road leading out that intersected with a street with actual traffic at which cyclists were making a left. This meant that it was the traffic signal from hell now. Every time cars drove past the procession stopped and waited, there was no going around and no shortcuts. At the back of the line, I didn’t know what was happening, just that we were inching along this dirt road. I wasn’t on my bike for long since there was no point pretending I was riding.

I had lots of time to contemplate the challenge of the day though: the Quadbuster. It was a five-mile climb that starts immediately upon exiting camp. The last mile is an infernal 10-14% gradient. The kind of hill that has your quads screaming in repentance. My goal was to finish it without having to get off my bike. I wasn’t even thinking about how fast because at efforts this big I have to worry more about not falling off the bike rather than beating any sort of time. Everyone around me was pedaling as slow and as steady as they could, we were crawling up a hillside. There were plenty of people that got off and walked up, which was definitely a move maybe I wasn’t above making but I wanted to give it my all first. Near the top, most of the people that completed the climb were all waiting to cheer the rest of the cyclists on. This was motivating and inspiring, but the sad human truth is now I had an audience and I didn’t want to fail in front of them. That got me past the last agonizing quarter mile. One of our team members was already there and cheering us on so I parked my bike in a bush and joined him, and we whooped and hollered until our whole group was at the top.

We all left together and as Isaac Newton successfully predicted, we accelerated down the backside of the Quadbuster, taking turns re-busting our quads but this time to go fast. In the blink of an eye we were at the second rest stop, mile 18, which for a 65-mile day was almost a good third done. The rest stop we were at was a church, and it had opened its door to the cyclists as a way to get out of the sun and relax a bit, no religion required. I took a peek inside as an excuse to get to the star of the show which was the banana bread the congregation was handing out. I took a slice of bread as well as a sprig of lavender that came with it which I stuck in my helmet for good luck and a pleasant scent. I think we hung out a little too hard here, it was 11 am by the time we left and lunch was still 20-ish miles away.

The church of the immaculate rest.


We were riding somewhere east of the Santa Lucia Coastal Mountain Range and experiencing the mediterranean climate of the Salinas River valley firsthand. It was getting hot! So when I saw the third rest stop, even though I was starting to hurt I wanted to just make it to lunch once and for all. I had lost most of the group probably because I left it all at the damn Quadbuster. That was the running theme of the week, we were not so much a team as we were a group of riders whose paths connected and intersected in sometimes mysterious ways and other times in less mysterious preplanned ways. I was always happy to run into one of them or spend time at a rest stop chatting about how different this was than riding around a considerably less hilly Long Beach. I ran into another teammate and we both agreed to just hightail it out of there before it got hotter and so we could get lunch. We set off together but pretty soon she was pulling and I was struggling to stay on her wheel. Ces’t La Vie, but we were rolling through some scenic vineyards as we approached Paso Robles so I just took it all in.

We made it to lunch and connected with the rest of the crew. This was another stop I oft heard about, the elementary school where students sold burgers as a fundraiser. They also sold postcards and keychains, it was a real enterprise. You could even pay a premium to get your burger faster and eat it in an air-conditioned room! Who’s teaching these kids about capitalism so early?! I didn’t get the VIP package but I DID opt for the double cheeseburger, and I’ll tell you what: I know they were just store-bought frozen patties but, on that day, on that ride, it was the best damn burger of my life. Not to mention it was probably the single most delicious meal I had all week. The food at camp was for the masses and had to fit that nostalgic blend of nutritional and palatable. That burger though had grease, cheese, and calories. I showered the kids praises as I left full and content.

Because the heat was approaching 90 degrees, even though I left with the group I was quickly dropped. Historically speaking, if you’ve read any of my ride reports, the heat is like my kryptonite and it was no different today. I’m not sure how the “easy” 65 mile ride turned into an almost whole day ordeal, but I had officially boarded the struggle bus. I wanted to finish quickly but I found myself needing to stop at the fourth rest stop because I was dying and my bike started making a weird noise when I braked. I sat there and just tried to enjoy the spectacle of seeing a drag miss America pageant performed while I waited for my bike to be looked at. Say what you will about the convenience or cost of doing this ride supported but that’s an experience you’ll never get anywhere else but on AIDS Lifecycle. Eventually my bike was ready to go again and I lazily pedaled to Paso Robles. I was hurting and stopping at every chance I got, including for some goats that were hanging out on the side of the road. When I finally made it to camp I felt a sense of relief, which immediately was subsumed by annoyance at having to set up my tent in the windiest section. I near passed out from the heat and exhaustion of trying to wrangle that damn tent without it flying away but eventually I got it done after anchoring it with my luggage.
That day they had Ice cream root beer floats waiting for us. I think I probably had mild heat exhaustion or dehydration and combined with my cold I felt sicker than ever that night. It’s probably not good for recovery to put my body through all that in one day but I didn’t come that far to quit then. That night I called my mom since it was her birthday, I had to miss it for the ride and she told me I sounded very sick. I didn’t let it get to me though, after a nice dinner and plenty of fluids I was feeling okay. I was even allowed back into the group tent since they decided I was *probably* no longer contagious. We talked about the day and about the plan for the next day. It was an 88 mile day but I only had one thing on my mind: cinnamon rolls at Pismo Beach.

Day Four: Paso Robles to Santa Maria

Again I woke up early as I was having fitful sleep. Yet somehow I also felt refreshed and re-energized, my body was learning to use the times between rides more effectively and finally fighting off the damn cold that plagued me. I was up way earlier than the rest of the group, I was ready to roll out while some were still waking up. I decided to just go ahead and get a head start because if there’s one thing I was certain of it’s that they would all catch up to me.

The first part of the day consisted of crossing back over the coastal mountain range so we could ride down the coast proper. I was thankful because it meant getting out of the heat and back under the nice overcast marine layer. I wasn’t thankful that to get there I had to get through “The Evil Twins” first. To get back across we had to go over the mountains using a route that had one big climb, then a descent that lulls you into a false sense of accomplishment (evil) before running straight into and even steeper climb (twins). The first rest stop was right before the twins began and I just zoomed right past it, at that point in my life I didn’t need first rest stops. This was an example of a bigger change in attitude I was experiencing.

It was the 4th day into the ride and I was beginning to feel that flow state of Wu Wei. The ride was hard, the climbs were hard, the weather could be against us or with us and it all just started to blend into one experience. I started to feel that with the proper nutrition and sleep cycle I could pedal forever, a perpetual motion machine powered by chicken, rice, Oreos, gummy bears, mac and cheese and an occasional double cheeseburger. Whereas normally I would obsess over the minutia the route: all the elevations, efforts, rest stops I started to cede control over to fate. More specifically my confidence that I could overcome any obstacle had grown and that whatever was thrown my way would just be part of the experience, I was beginning to act without doing. I knew that eventually I would surpass the evil twins, since my style of kung fu was superior, and get to the much celebrated halfway to LA point at the top.

That I did, but once again I was met by my bureaucratic and logistical foe: the line. Lines! Was this a bicycle ride or a waiting-in-line-thon?! I could have kept riding, which would have been the more Taoist approach, but I also firmly believe in the modern philosophy of Instagram permanence. It was a photo op I would not dare miss. So I got into line thinking I was so far head of the rest of the group that they wouldn’t be here before I got my photo and they could cut in front of me. This thought summoned an instant pre-emptive strike from karma because to my horror three members from a different team in front of me slowly let the rest of their teammates cut one by one until there were 20 or more, all taking photos individually AND as a group. I gaped at the gall of luck that had befallen me, I was not feeling the Zen of yin OR yang at that particular moment, rather I felt the sting of suffering due to my attachments and preconceptions of what it means to be in a “line”, the Buddha would be pissed. I bit my tongue and waited. It was fallacious of me to assume that moving to another line would be time wasted yet I held my ground until this massive team was done taking photos. The funny part is that even though holding the sign was cool, the normally majestic backdrop was completely covered up by fog due to how early I had gotten there. In the time I spent waiting, the rest of the group caught up. In a way getting waylaid by that initial group set up the Long Beach crew’s photo so going with the flow proved beneficial once again.

We left together and once again it was a matter of descending from the mountain as fast as possible. This time we went West back to the coast then turned South towards San Luis Obispo. We got to Cayucos which was a big party because there were several bakeries. This is where I had my first non-camp coffee of the week. It’s crazy to me that I wasn’t doing one or more coffee stops per day but normally we were riding in such remote environments that our options were non-existent or limited. No wonder the streets here were overrun with cyclists they also got cookies from the Brown Butter Cookie Company. I indulged, it was a nice little halfway celebration. After that stop I was back in known territory as we passed through SLO and Morro Bay, Morro rock was still a sight to behold and I felt satisfied to have closed the loop from the training ride I had done. I pushed on to Pismo beach. It wasn’t as hot as the last couple days and somehow I was feeling great. This is the exact moment when my health turned around on the ride, conveniently at the halfway point perhaps but I’ll ascribe it to the glorious cookies I ate.

Unfortunately, I was not to have a second dose of medicinal pastries because when we rolled up to Old West Cinnamon Rolls it was swarming with cyclists. The line for rolls was down the street and around the block. That most despised and evil of foes, the line, here reared its ugly head once more to rob me of my most coveted object of desire. Can man do battle with a metaphysical entity?! Would that I could greet it on the battlefield of reality or cast down curses upon it that no person should have to wait in a line ever again! This was why ancient civilizations anthropomorphized concepts into deities, so that we could HATE them! I swallowed my disappointment and moved on to the next stop; I had already burned time with the earlier lines and the cookies. I ate some sad consolation pop tarts instead and kept going. I had 20 miles left and I just pushed through, skipping the 4th stop since I was feeling good for the first time at the end of the day that week, 340 miles in and somehow I was getting better.

That night camp proceeded as usual and as we were hanging out underneath the large tent where dinner was served, about to head to sleep, something truly serendipitous happened. Someone with the roadie crew came by asking if we wanted leftover cinnamon rolls from Old West! Apparently the crew bought them in bulk and had leftovers, lots of them! The roadie exacted payment from me in the form of a physical offering to him, a hug, and left us with a box, no lines required! I grabbed some decaf coffee and my dessert that night was one of the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever had. It was a good night, my health had turned around, and fortune favored me. I was beginning to think maybe things were turning up Jairo. The next day was the 40 mile “rest” day, which is something only a cycling junkie could consider restful.

AIDS/Lifecycle Days 1 and 2: The Learning Curve

AIDS/Lifecycle Days 1 and 2: The Learning Curve

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Day One: Daly City to Santa Cruz

I woke up in a sweat, a good fever breaking sweat. I felt much better though I had to admit to myself I was definitely sick, still had a sore throat and a congested nose. I couldn’t back out of so many layers of organization and planning though. As far as I was concerned, I was on a one way train to Santa Monica whether I got there on my own pedaling power or on the SAG car. I took care not to breathe or otherwise interact with my teammates too much. My mantra for the day, as all days really, was “keep going until you can’t”. It applies whether I’m sick, dehydrated, tired, overheated, or not feeling it. I’ve ridden enough to know that how you feel at the beginning is not how you feel in the middle and is not how you feel in the end. The first day was going to be 80 miles in a freshly sick body which I have never even attempted but I wondered… what’s the worst that could happen?

The energy at the starting line was infectiously high. I think the sheer adrenaline from the mass start, hundreds of spectators cheering me on my way out, banished the sickness right out of me for at least those first 20 miles. Every day would have four rest stops, more or less evenly spaced out throughout the route. So when I got to the first rest stop I thought “why not take a little break”. This turned out to be a huge mistake as basically the entire ride stops at this rest stop. I could have turned right around and left, but the salty dog in me refused to leave after I already “invested” 20 minutes into the bathroom line. I swear it must have taken me 40 minutes to leave which was a little absurd for being the first stop of the day. That was my first AIDS/Lifecycle lesson: Never stop at the first rest stop.

There was some climbing at the beginning of the route, it wasn’t hard but with all the riders having left at once and with the mandate to stick to the shoulder of the road things got very crowded. It was like being in a traffic jam where you kept having to leapfrog past other cars. What I noticed though was in this section and in the next before lunch as long as I kept going I didn’t feel the symptoms of my illness. My body was too busy pedaling to worry about fighting the cold I had contracted. This was so alleviating; although I’m sure I wasn’t performing at peak capacity, not being able to breathe or having a lingering cough while exercising would have been a much worse experience. Then of course once I stopped moving I felt the symptoms come back. At lunch I thoroughly enjoyed eating my sad packed sandwich meal that they had prepared for us while overlooking the ocean at San Gregorio Beach. As I felt the solids in my nose quicken however, I decided it was time to leave. One of my team members was departing around the same time and I rolled out with them, only to be unceremoniously dropped after a mile or so. Given the climbing and my waning health this was just par for the course.

I never truly rode alone though since there was one unbroken steady stream of riders the entire way to Santa Cruz. This was a unique aspect of AIDS/Lifecycle. With over 2000 riders participating I was never far behind or too far in front of anyone for very long. It warps an individual feat into a greater accomplishment. The stronger riders, the slower riders, the roadies, the rest stops all form some sort of collective cycling consciousness whose sole goal is to move all of its body parts from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Being a cog in such a glorious machine is comforting since all material concerns and objectives are replaced with one defining motivation “keep going”.

I kept riding down the coast, which this was my first time ever riding north of Santa Cruz and the views delivered that same magical California coastal vibe that we get all the way down to Long Beach, so I never felt far from home. It was overcast but the temperature slowly started to climb. By the time I got to the last rest stop (“seamen” themed) I was not feeling 100%. My sickness had come to roost, or my body was catching up to pushing too hard in the morning. I almost skipped the stop, but I wanted to load up on oranges and vitamin C to fight the cold. I pulled into camp around 4 pm which I thought was a great time. But on Day 1 I was going to have to figure out the ropes about camping on the ride so there was going to be a learning curve.

It goes like this: You pull into camp and park your bike at the bike parking. Once you park, take everything you need off your bike, collect a chocolate milk from a handy cooler by the exit and get to the cargo trucks. The truck I left my stuff at in the morning was the same truck I’d be picking up from at camp. From the truck I collect my giant bag of stuff which I regretted bringing because sometimes the walk from the truck to tents was long. The first thing I did when I got my stuff was take off my cycling shoes and put on my Crocs, which quickly became my favorite part of the day. Then I would wander in the direction of the tents trying to find my “site”. My teammates did this on day one and never again, opting to place their tent wherever they could get away with and was convenient for them. But I doggedly adhered to the rules every day, not really having the mental capacity to consider actual options after I finished. Assembling my tent sucked, but it was better to get it over with immediately, so I actually had a place to relax. Putting the tent together on an empty stomach made me feel woozy as I wrestled with the hooks, flaps, and the wind. That first day was the hardest. I was so tired from the 80-mile day, the struggle with the tent and my illness that I just lay down in the tent and tried to process everything. My stomach began to rumble. I knew it was time for dinner but before I could eat, I needed to figure out how to shower.

Contemplating why I am even doing this


I’ve never used a shower truck before, but it was kind of like the locker rooms at school or showers at a gym. It was a great feeling getting rid of the gunk from the day and the shower is a good way to signal my body to relax a.k.a. start the recovery process. It’s not lost on me that if I was doing a real self-supported bike tour, showering every day like this would be a huge luxury that was unlikely to happen. I tried to keep that clarity of mind as I realized the hot water in my stall wasn’t working. The cold water was bracing, and it woke me the hell up from the stupor I was in.

Finally, I was in my comfy clothes, and I could just relax and desperately try not to think that the next day was the most challenging single day out of the whole ride. Dinner was something carb heavy and bland that night, I can’t even remember now but I’m sure at the time it was a blessing. Our group had a little team meeting inside one of our member’s tents, but I excommunicated myself to the outside as I was still trying to fight off whatever cold I had. We discussed the plan for tomorrow which was going to the be the same plan for the rest of the week: try to meet up for breakfast and leave together. Afterwards I went to my tent to just try and let my body rest, and to actually sleep early so I could wake up early the next day and get out of Dodge.

Day Two: Santa Cruz to King City

I woke up feeling like crap. Had a stuffy nose which didn’t let me sleep very well, that and my body was still getting used to the inflatable sleeping bag mat. I sighed and got to work deconstructing my belongings, my tent, and my life. I was grumpy at the Jairo from yesterday who threw around all his stuff as he was trying to shower and get dressed for dinner. I was able to more or less pack everything the way I had the first night. It’s sad how taking down a tent is so much easier than putting it up, “the universe really does favor moving towards entropy”, this was my pessimistic thinking as I groggily rolled over my belongings to the truck. I needed coffee asap, then a light breakfast, and I would be able to start around 630 am to allow for spending extra time on the road if I had to. At least that’s what I thought but I learned some more ALC lessons that morning.

The sheer logistics of getting 2000 riders fed and onto the road was staggering. I saw the line for breakfast and knew I’d had to throw my planned start times out the window. Even the line to just get coffee was absurdly long in case I wanted to skip breakfast. I waited patiently as more of our team showed up and we began to chat. I decided to just get food and skip the coffee line but once we put our heads together, we divided and conquered. I sang exalted praises underneath my breath because I would have to otherwise stop somewhere during the day for this delicious elixir, adding logistical overhead I didn’t want to deal with. Then when we were done eating, I realized we made a huge mistake. The bikes were stored in a baseball field with a very narrow entrance and exit. It wasn’t a problem getting them in since every rider came in at different times based on their pace, but now that almost every single rider was trying to leave at the same time it created a huge bottleneck. It was a traffic jam from hell. Everyone’s instincts in this situation were to get in a line and wait their turn but even that proved chaotic because the number of riders and bikes was enough to wrap around the field several times over. A zig-zaggy queue formed but it was clear that the further back you were the later you would start due to people hopping into the line wherever their bikes were instead of dutifully walking to the end of the “line”. This morning I played it straight, but I took mental notes for the next day about what would be morally permissible, at least from a line-ethics perspective. I got out around 7:30 am, an hour gone just like that due to the challenges of moving bodies at scale.

I tried to make up the time by implementing the lesson from the first day and completely blazing past the first rest stop. It was a honey pot for basically every rider that didn’t get to use the restroom before leaving and also there wasn’t enough time from the start to spread out the massive column of riders into digestible chunks yet so it was crowded when I rode by. I knew I made the right choice and surprisingly I felt much better on the bike and pedaling than I did when I woke up. It’s like the symptoms of my cold had become subservient to the goal of finishing this ride. My sickness and my body were putting aside their differences to meet the proverbial gauntlet. This part of the course I had actually ridden previously as well on a Santa Cruz to Big Sur century so I knew I was expecting lots of farmland and crops. It made it easier to ride the 32 miles to the first rest stop without pause, and what a stop!

As if it was the culmination of all the vegetation I had seen up until that point the stop was Pezzini Farms: an Artichoke farm that had a dedicated shop with artichoke themed merchandise and food. It was crowded but not obscenely. I was able to enjoy an artichoke cupcake and grilled artichoke. As it turns out I don’t love artichoke, but the frosting was delicious. We very quickly came to rest stop 2 at mile 40 where the DJ was playing some throwback music that lured me to stop and eat a banana just to soak up the vibes. Then before I knew it, Bam! Lunch at mile 50. Not sure why the rest stops were bunched up but I could never say no to lunch so of course I stopped and ate some sandwiches under a tree with my cohorts. It was meditative to lie there and relax, I can see how the Buddha reached enlightenment that way, but before I reached Apotheosis I had to get on with the next 60 miles.

Time was waning and we left Salinas and away from the coast through neighborhoods and more farmlands. Stop #3 at about mile 70 was yet another park, I saw the fabled cookie lady delivering homemade cookies to all the starving cyclists. I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure! The temperature started to climb as we left the overcast coastal vibe of the morning for a more sun-drenched valley situation. To sour the deal we even had a steady headwind that had slowly snuck up on us. This was the hardest part of the day when you threw in some elevation and the high mileage count. Our bodies were exhausted and mine was sick and tired of being sick and tired. I pressed on and eventually came upon the otter pop stop, which offered otter pops to cyclists on this last stretch of a hotter day. I took one look at the never-ending line of sun kissed riders and peaced out, it was tempting but this day was dragging on and if I didn’t get to camp pronto I’d be setting up my tent in the dark.

It was about mile 90 when I came to an interesting sight, I crossed a bridge and there were dozens of bicycles on the side of the road seemingly…abandoned? All day I had heard people talking about the “secret” skinny dipping spot unsanctioned by the ride itself of course, and yet all these bikes left next to the bridge could only mean that the secret wasn’t so secret. Our group wanted to check it out, so we dutifully left our bikes propped up against a hillside wall and clopped down to the side of the river. I had no intention of dressing down or even getting wet but I wanted to be part of the experience. I will say this, there were a lot of people there and plenty of appendages soaking up the sun. This was the perfect time to indulge in some Beaver nuggets I had brought back from Buc-ee’s on a recent trip to Texas. If you look at the sugar content on those things, a 100 mile bike ride is just about the only way to justify eating them. Before we knew what was happening the Sheriffs arrived to break up the party. Apparently innocent families had chanced to look down at the river while crossing the bridge and what they saw had been burned into their minds as indecent and criminal. The Sheriffs told everyone to leave immediately or they would take all the bikes. Of course we got out of there, “not the bikes!”. It was better this way, I was definitely indulging in killing time when I should have buckled down and just gotten to camp.

The beaver nuggets. Just out of frame: human nuggets.


Finally, we got past all the climbs of the day and like some sort of token victory from the universe the wind changed direction and all of a sudden I was flying towards the “privilege” of setting up my tent. I was doing so well that I ignored the last stop somewhere around the 100 mile mark. It was time to eat dinner!
That night I was so tired from the day that all I could was slowly set up tent, shower, and scarf down dinner. My cold was waiting in the wings, biding its time until I got off the bike to make its presence known again. I went to bed early, still sick, still tired, and now aware that every day brought its own set of challenges. In the morning, that challenge had a name: The Quadbuster.

AIDS/Lifecycle: The Calm Before The Storm

AIDS/Lifecycle: The Calm Before The Storm

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Act without doing;
work without effort.
Think of the small as large
and the few as many.
Confront the difficult
while it is still easy;
accomplish the great task
by a series of small acts.

The Master never reaches for the great;
thus she achieves greatness.
When she runs into a difficulty,
she stops and gives herself to it.
She doesn’t cling to her own comfort;
thus problems are no problem for her.
– Tao Te Ching

I still don’t really consider myself an athlete, which became a harder position to defend after riding from San Francisco to Los Angeles. This passage of the Tao Te Ching is necessary to explain, or rather to illuminate, how someone like me, in this case a representative of what I would consider the “accidental” caste of athletes, can undertake massive efforts like the one I did last June. I’ve never expressly done the things I do for athletic gain, it’s been a side effect of other motivations: adventure, weight-loss, spiritual and bodily harmony, forming and upholding community. I can’t say what motivates a true athlete, but I have been around people that push themselves to extremes and in them exists a willpower that drives them to suffer and surpass that suffering ad nauseam (literally, sometimes). I tried structured training for a while and it made me hate the sport for which I trained. The key for me is reaching that state of Wu Wei: acting without doing, working without effort. The contradiction is that to get to a place where riding from San Francisco to Los Angeles could feel effortless required a great deal of effort. But I favor quantity over quality when it comes to miles on my bicycle. No longer am I pushing myself on every ride, I merely ride. This mentality is what I bring to every exercise now, difficult or easy, keep going for as long as I can. The last puzzle piece of course is that no matter how hard or long a ride is when confronted against the life affirming trip to Anza Borrego, it could never be that bad.

I trained for this ride not in any overly serious way, but I used a step ladder approach. Most of the toll on my body happens within the auxiliary limbs and muscles. My legs don’t be get too sore but my shoulders, sitting bones, hands, feet, and sometimes my back can feel strained. Not in a dangerous way but in the way that your body might feel sore from sitting in the same position for over 8 hours. So instead of throwing myself into the deep end I wade in from the shallow side. It’s not a good system for anyone starting out, but since I ride so damn much anyways this works for me as I’m never really trying to develop stronger or faster muscles as much as getting used to progressively longer and tougher hours on the bike.

My training began with my journey to the Bay Area in March where I did a century around the bay, then it was time to add climbing to my activities as I avoid long climbs, mountains, hills etc perhaps subconsciously….sometimes very consciously. I did Palos Verdes repeats. This dovetailed into a ride I had not done in over three years since I considered myself retired from scaling mountains ever since my defeat at Tour de Big Bear years ago. The ride up to Mount Baldy was the most elevation gain I’ve gotten in a single day, and the last part up the dreaded ski lift switchbacks was absolute torture on a scale I don’t normally subject myself to. After a century to San Diego, The capstone to this series of training was a back-to-back century. We took the Amtrak to Morro Bay then rode 120 miles to Santa Barbara where we stayed at a hotel, woke up the next morning and rode another 100 miles to downtown LA. To be clear there are no back-to-back centuries on the Lifecycle ride but this was an opportunity to make certain I could survive big consecutive efforts.

I flew to San Francisco earlier than the rest of my team, if only to actually enjoy what the bay had to offer before rising south. The ride itself is misnomered as it actually begins in Daly City, which is just south of San Francisco. It’s a forgivable offense given the astronomic prices of setting up a space for thousands of cyclists to register and gather for the opening ceremony. So to actually enjoy San Francisco and feel like I was starting my journey there required earlier exploration. I got there Wednesday morning and was working remotely until Friday. So in between meetings I was checking out the brand new Nintendo store, and walking over to Union Square to enjoy the free concerts, or hitting up my bay friends for coffee recommendations. It was an enjoyable three days and reminded me of why I loved working autonomously in the first place.

Friday came around and it was time to move into the Airbnb with my teammates. We met up and after sharing our anxieties and fears (or lack thereof) we went to sleep. In the morning we drove to the Cow Palace early which was the staging ground for the opening ceremony. On this day we would be registering, getting our bib numbers and seeing our bikes for the first time since they got shipped over a week ago. We waited in a brutal line for hours before we got to the staff, a preview of the coming days. We even had to make a coffee run lest we fell asleep standing. Once inside there was a hype presentation on behalf of the leaders and an expo area complete with merch, sponsor booths, and displays. We perused a bit but very soon we left with the intention of going to Sports Basement to attend the free bbq they have for the riders and to shop for any last minute supplies (but mostly the bbq).

My allergies were acting up once we got to the store, but I figured it was because we were standing outside in that line all day. We had some free burgers and hot dogs and I did end up buying some shampoo and snacks which I had forgotten. With our remaining time we decided to walk to Mission Dolores Park to really soak in the SF vibes before departing in the morning. We sat down on the grass with some paper bag wrapped beers and just took it all in. Lots of people were there, as I’m told is usually the case, there was singing, dancing, conversing, picnics, photo shoots. It was a lively third space of the kind I would like to see more of in the States. It reminded me of the energetic crowds of people hanging out along the River Seine in Paris at 2 am. I let my thoughts drift on purpose, yet still I didn’t want to think of the ride looming before the next day. My energy was better spent relaxing as much as possible. It was a good choice because even though I didn’t realize it at the time, my body was at this point actively fighting an invasive species, my allergies were not allergies!

Greener Pastures

We had dinner at fisherman’s wharf because at the end of the day we were tourists too. It wasn’t particularly good but it just felt right. Now my “allergies” were really spiraling out of control, my nose was turning into a runny faucet, and I had to consider that there may be something wrong with me.

On the uber ride home I felt worse and by the time we got to the Airbnb again I had to admit that I was sick. No sooner had I done that then I began to feel a fever dimly poke through the edges of my perception.

This was HORRIBLE timing. I was going to ride out in no less than 12 hours, the first day being 80 miles in length and I was in the throes of a fever. Instead of laying down to rest I began frantically packing my bags because our wake up time was 430 am and whatever happened next I didn’t want to risk packing later.

One of my teammates was gracious enough to go buy Sudafed for me and by the time they came back I was laying down dealing with the illness. Under almost any other circumstance this is where my ride would end, I would just stay home and recover. This was on the eve of my greatest undertaking, my bike was still at the Cow Palace, I had no return flight, and checkout was the next day.

I fell asleep early, determined to rest as hard as possible, an oxymoron but I was hoping and praying that I would wake up and feel better to start my journey to Los Angeles.

Anza Borrego: The Existensialist Re-Awakening

Anza Borrego: The Existensialist Re-Awakening

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There’s been a lot of hubbub on here about the interpretation of Jesus and God, and the historical teachings of Christianity and the church. I don’t know who keeps writing those blog posts but I’m here to remind everyone that God is dead. Of course the implication there is that God was alive at some point, and he was. The picture perfect male representation of the ultimate father figure. As the father he handed out inviolable decrees about how we should live and what is right and wrong, saving us from the pesky trouble of having to reason about such trivial matters ourselves. Then something interesting began to occur, as we invented science and began applying the scientific method we began to discover natural laws. These were still of course part of God’s design but a comfort began to creep in as humanity decided that it “knew” things instead of “were pretty sure” about stuff. Then we built on top of these laws and developed the civilizations we know today: housing, government, industry. Yet still God was there as the foundational cornerstone to all ideas as even Descarte’s famous Cogito Ergo Sum declaration rests on the existence of God. As mankind developed medicine they started to forget about their impending doom, death became far removed from the certainty it was in years past and even then, the staunchest believers were sure of a better life after death anyways.

It was in this milieu of scientific advancement that Nietzsche simply declared God had died. Civilization had advanced so far and became so sure that maybe all laws were natural that we didn’t need the foundational existence of God any longer. He removed that Jenga block from the very bottom of the tower. All of a sudden concepts such as morality and purpose that had a direct connection with God were left floating in the void, unconnected to any objective source or explanation. Philosophers have then tried to perform surgery on these most ancient concepts. The purpose our lives shifted from “How to live the best life in service to God” to “Why do we live at all?”. The certainty of death and the apparent absence of God led to a depressing outlook on our existence. The existentialist thinkers eventually came to an idea though, that this mortal certainty is what brought meaning to our lives. After all it was the one objective truth that had not been decimated by the death of god. No one on this Earth can argue that we wont die, regardless of what happens after, this life will end. So death is now a foundational element on which we should rebuild our purpose. Non-existence is the antimatter on which we should measure our lives. Yet there is a problem in modern society, we forget about death. We’ve abstracted it away to farthest reaches of our minds. That’s not to say that tragedies don’t occur everyday but unless we’re personally involved we don’t see the spectre of death hanging over us every second of everyday.

That’s a very long preamble to say that the fear of death was firmly placed back into me by my bikepacking trip to the Anza Borrego desert. I haven’t written about my cycling exploits on here in a while mostly because I haven’t tackled any rides that made me scared, by choice. I chose to have adventurous but predictable rides which definitely deserve to be written about but they’ve become so numerous that it would be a disservice to each one to pick and choose which ones to highlight. The events of the weekend of March 15th 2025 though deserve to be retold. Recently I’ve taken a dip into the world of camping and specifically camping on a bike ride. I was presented with an opportunity earlier this year: 6 months of unemployment in which I wanted to ride my bike for as long and as far as possible, in which I would adventure through much of the west and maybe even Europe. To that end, camping as much as I could would be a great way to curb the expenses of such an undertaking. So I put together a setup that could carry about 50 pounds of extra weight on my bike. Enough for a tent, cooking utensils, one or two changes of clothes, food, water and maybe a laptop or books if I was really feeling sprightly.

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Suffering Exists

Suffering Exists

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I’ve talked about suffering before but lately I’ve been reading up on Siddhartha Gautama’s teachings. That’s the Buddha, not to be confused with a buddha. His lessons can probably be summarized as suffering exists, and suffering can be overcome. Today I wont be waxing on about him though, that will come in a few weeks, I’m here to talk about physical suffering. More specifically suffering for 14 hours on a bicycle.

Maybe it’s not fair to say I was suffering for 14 hours because I certainly started off feeling elated, undercut with just a touch of dread maybe. Certainly, even in the midst of the worst pain I felt spurts of joy as well. Delirious, pure joy such as the one described by the buddha as the second jhāna of Right Concentration:

Furthermore, with the stilling of directed thoughts & evaluations, he enters and remains in the second jhana: rapture and pleasure born of composure, unification of awareness free from directed thought and evaluation — internal assurance. He permeates and pervades, suffuses and fills this very body with the rapture and pleasure born of composure. There is nothing of his entire body unpervaded by rapture and pleasure born of composure.

https://www.accesstoinsight.org/ptf/dhamma/sacca/sacca4/samma-samadhi/jhana.html

On these long rides it’s hard not to consider them a form of meditation, yet I’ve never really experienced the banishing of thought on my bike until this day.

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Dialectical Monism

Dialectical Monism

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I’ve talked on here about the concept of bad faith and the need for one to be authentic to ourselves. Half that battle is knowing who we are and what we want because those things are moving targets. The dissonance between those two realms of the inner and outer is what leads to unhappiness and un-fulfillment. Yet none of us are automatons with singular wants and needs, we are tapestries of desires and we twist and fold in on ourselves in a myriad of ways. Yet to simplify this paradox we abstract these internal battles into two opposing forces. All decisions can be broken down into a series of two choices: yes or no. This is at the heart of how we think, so it is no wonder that when creating computers we have embedded them with this sacred knowledge of yes or no, 1 or 0. Two opposing forces that build into a unified self.

Sometimes I feel my two selves at war, and the battlefield is my mind and body. Yet aren’t we always in constant battle with ourselves? There is the push and pull of time in every situation. If our decisions are the fundamental exercise of our existence and we cannot remain in a state of non-existence then time is both the cause of our existence and the measure against which we exist. The existential relief that comes from having chosen lasts only as long as the next choice remains looming in the distance. Putting off that next decision is at the heart of the human condition. It is the agony of consequence that keeps us in a state of complacency, an inactive participant in our daily lives. Yet if our biological imperative is to survive, then to live is to wage battle with ourselves over and over until we perish.

Under the tongue root

a fight most dread,

and another raging

behind in the head

These are the lyrics of Duel Of The Fates (before they got loosely translated into sanskrit), it’s a snippet from Cad Goddeu (The Battle of the Trees). The lines refer to the fight amongst a tree yet it applies to us as well. The roles we embody with our words may be in opposition to the self in our minds. The act of decision can sometimes feel like a violent rejection of one role or fate over the other. The song plays during a battle as the two greatest opposing forces in the Star Wars Universe battle to lay claim to Anakin’s future. Light vs Dark, Yin vs Yang, and yet ultimately unification through balance.

Last weekend I tried to do a bike ride that I objectively failed at. Having planned it very poorly I ran out of water on a hot day and turned back having done only about half of what I set out to do. The heat was exhausting and every second I was on the bike was a decision point to continue riding or to stop. The mounting pain, onset of heat exhaustion and mechanical troubles that I was facing were forcing me to keep deciding to continue as opposed to the state I wish to be in which is passive activity, the role of cycling. Yet is willpower more like a status check that may or may not fail you depending on the severity of the decision or like a reserve that whittles away little by little as you are forced to take action over and over? To be an athlete you must be able to tolerate pain, that is the nature of strength and growth. The athlete in me told me to keep pushing forward, yet the pragmatist repeatedly questioned why I was pushing to the brink of suffering. So who is my true self? In that moment the pain, doubt, and realization built to a crescendo and I knew then I was cycling in bad faith. Eventually I chose to stop and turn around. This is a microcosm of the decision points we face in life yet it illustrates the profound effects the simplest ones can have. To wit, having invested in my identity as a cyclist I feel like I have failed myself yet undoubtedly I made the right choice that day lest I ended up on the side of the road with heat stroke. Who we are is a conjunction of the forces that shape us and it’s important that our identity and our confidence must come from different sources.

There will always be me and the shadow of me, the me I aspire to be. There will be times when they are in opposition and times when they are in agreement, they both may grow or diminish but through constant reflection and interrogation they should always remain in balance.

Victory In The Valley

Victory In The Valley

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I blew past my previous max distance by a resounding 24 miles. The total elevation ended up coming up just under 5500′ which is about 500 merciful feet less than the route was described. Still it’s the most I’ve climbed on one of these long rides. I completed the route one hour and a half before the cutoff. Looking back on the ride itself, my previous post sounds childish (maybe it did anyways) with how strongly I managed to finish. Yet even the night before I was still in the throes of anxiety…

I rolled up to the Simi Valley Hotel I was staying at with Daniel around 5pm. I was immediately beset by concern because they had multiple “No bicycles permitted in building” signs plastered all over the entrances and windows. I wondered how this could have been such a recurring problem that it warranted such aggressive signage. I imagined Simi Valley being swarmed by flocks of cyclists at hotels but I never saw a single other one besides Daniel and the rest of the randonneurs I was heading out with. One thing bicycling has reinforced in me is that sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than for permission, I believe they call this exercising your privilege. If you’re in a shady neighborhood you grab your bike and walk right into the store; If you’re at red light with a weight sensor and no cars for miles then you just roll on; if you feel unsafe on the shoulder of a road you just take up the whole lane instead. I gathered my nerves and walked right in with my bicycle already mentally preparing my defense: “Your website never said no bikes allowed”. The lobby was completely empty, I leaned my bike out of sight of the reception, checked in, and went to my room after the worker walked to the back room.

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Things That Scare Me

Things That Scare Me

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I was listening to Jonny Greenwood’s latest score and I am ashamed to admit that often times I am moved by the music, having never watched the film. I definitely intend to watch Spencer, but my opportunity to see it in theatres was lost amongst the shuffle of life. I’ll report back here once I do but until then this piece highlights something I want to call a beautiful dread. I lack the knowledge of musical theory to really describe it but there is the challenge and response at the beginning, followed by an unceasingly ascending fugue that is anchored by some devastatingly minor chords. He is channeling J.S. Bach at his most contrapuntal here, which in the film is no doubt a reference to the baroque excess of the royal lineage, but for the person sitting here listening to it without knowledge of its origins it fills me with a promise of greatness and an anxiety of failure. The fugue is especially suited for this because it’s layering of melodic lines represents the many pressures, demands, and thoughts circling through my head at these times of fear. Yet undeniably, on the whole, it’s a beautiful, fragile piece and although there is an undercurrent of anguish it strives upward and onward like many dancers who do not notice they are inching towards a great precipice as they are too preoccupied with their partners.

But the song alone is not responsible for my current malaise. This Sunday I’m doing a brevet, a 200km bicycle ride, I’m afraid of: 124 miles and 6000 feet of elevation which for me is no walk in the park. If it goes well it will be both the highest elevation and the furthest distance I have ever covered in a single ride. I have 13 hours on this earth to finish, which may very well be a lot until you realize I practice the way of the tortoise when it comes to these large efforts. Yet why am I afraid? Not finishing a bicycle ride will hardly be the worst thing to ever happen to me. It is my soul that would suffer, the bitter defeat of not achieving my goal, however small, is a blow to my ego and confidence. I have employed every trick in the book to rationalize away this fear:

“I’ve done 100 miles what’s 24 more?”

“I’ve done 5400 feet of climbing in 70 miles, 6000 spread out over 124 miles that’s easy.”

“My friend Daniel is doing 370 miles that day, he is surely better than me but even I can keep up on his last 124 miles can’t I?”

“Worse comes to worse I can just stop and quit, it’s my choice. I can get picked up.”

“If I feel like I wont finish I can cut the route short, I am the master of my own destiny after all.”

“Even if I don’t finish maybe I will still have gone further than ever before.”

This is my personal fugue, playing endlessly in my head leading up to the ride this Sunday. There is the anticipation of pain, but also the sweet dreams of victory. Will I come back here next week hence and regale you with the tale of my adventure, mission accomplished? Or will I publish a post about Icarus and how he journeyed too close to the sun? This is what Kierkegaard refers to as Anxiety, the dizziness of freedom, for after all as much as I like to hand off the responsibility of being on this ride (“I paid $20, I have to do it now”) it is my choice alone to put myself through this gauntlet, a test of my mental and physical fortitude. Taking that responsibility is unmasking my true being and rejecting the many excuses and opportunities to exit it that my inauthentic self whispers to me is part of the challenge. So there we have it: challenge, response, and now the perpetual silent second before the journey.

Roles And Bad Faith

Roles And Bad Faith

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I watched Michael Mann’s Thief yesterday about, you guessed it, a thief. He’s the best thief, but he’s trying to get out of the business. You see this archetypal film a lot, “The best at x because it’s all they’ve ever known, but the consequences are catching up”. Compare this to another archetypal plot: “They’re the best at x but no one will give them a chance to prove themselves”. Of course there is the Hong Kong Kung Fu twist on this: “They have the potential to be the best at x but they need a master to help them achieve it”. It’s all influenced by the other now but this was a highlight between traditional Western and Eastern thought. Look at the cowboy films from the 60s, these badass men just drifted in from who knows where and they were masters of their art, fully formed from the womb no doubt. In the West we want to believe we can become masters using only extreme American gumption, and the tools at our disposal. In the East one can only achieve their true potential by acknowledging and listening to the wisdom of their elders. Like I mentioned though the two schools have mixed, at least in film (Think Kill Bill). James Caan’s thief did have a master in the form of a character played by Willie Nelson.

So what is it about these people that are the best at what they do that makes for a fascinating watch? All of our human existence is a struggle to learn and I think sometimes we want to fantasize about what happens when we get to the end. To use a concrete example, I’ve been cycling two years now and yeah I’d want to watch a film about the best cyclist (sit down Lance Fakestrong), what does that look like? What kind of super human feats could they accomplish? I know that objectively there is an actual best cyclist out there in the world since that’s how sports are structured, but give me a mythical, fictionalized one that I can aspire to, that will never break, disappoint or otherwise let me down. I think we all inhabit various roles every day of our lives, and there is satisfaction that comes from the being the best at it. Yet none of these roles are truly us.

To use an example from Jean-Paul Sartre that I just read about, say I am a waiter and I’m the best waiter gliding around a restaurant, taking orders, never forgetting a single item, never dropping a plate or delivering food late and charming all the patrons meanwhile. The totality of my being and energy in this moment is devoted to being an absolute badass waiter. Sartre describes this as living in bad faith with yourself because by inhabiting a role so perfectly you are undoubtedly pushing down the part of your consciousness that makes you a real person. So why do we do it? It feels good to perform. If we imagine an action as a series of miniature goals and targets then in a way every person on earth is an athlete and their sport is living. For example, as a waiter I know I have to take the orders of customers in the order that they arrived: that’s goal #1. I need to jot down or memorize the order correctly including customizations: goal #2. I need to deliver these orders to the kitchen on time: goal #3. These micro goals go on and on and achieving each one will produce some measure of satisfaction.

Another reason why we like to exist in bad faith is because it can be a form of meditation where we stop thinking of the pressures and anxieties that are outside of our control. It’s essentially a relief to inhabit some perfect (or perfect adjacent) version of ourselves that does not have to deal with pressures of true existence if even for a short while. It’s not a cure for our existentialist ailment of course, as our true authentic selves need to reassert eventually. Existing in a role for too long provides diminishing returns and if we lose sight of the compass that is our real being then we grow stale in the roles we have chosen for ourselves. This is the great wheel of life that capitalism (for one) has sunk its teeth into. Our jobs are defined by roles, and we are provided targets and goals for these roles. Corporations know that positive feedback titillates us, and providing a great amount of work for us to accomplish will keep us working by sheer force of existential dread. Yet even if we like our jobs, we are existing in bad faith because we ignore the multi-facetedness of our life. What’s more, existing in a role takes away our ability to choose, technically we are “deciding” to go to work every day, but ask yourself if you really are or if you feel forced to via the pressures surrounding you and then you’ll know that you’re living in bad faith. “But that’s what the weekend is for” I hear you corporate shills saying. Our lives should be lived in accomplishments, feats, decisions, and changes not in two days out of the week.