I Peed on a Landlady and Rode for the Angels: A Memoir in Electric Blue

It was the first week of September 1997, and I'd just touched down from Paris with a peculiar brand of confidence that only a clueless youngster can possess. I'd signed up for an AIDS Ride from Boston to New York (300 miles), sponsored by Tanqueray (because nothing says "I care" like gin).

Despite the glaring fact that I'd never really learned to ride a bike. And when I say "never really," I mean my cycling history read like a medical chart. There was the time with my uncle's guidance when I somehow ended up in oncoming traffic. I remember a station wagon going through the front of a bodega, then everything went blurry (I was about 8 years old). Then I crashed into someone's hedges and landed on their porch, which earned me a week in the hospital. A wrong turn onto a steep cobblestoned hill. And that memorable afternoon upstate when my wheel got stuck underneath a big cargo truck. I'd gone upstate specifically to avoid hazards and went down so hard a concerned stranger asked if she should call an ambulance. Nothing says living life to its fullest like riding a bike in New York City, right?

At the beginning of the summer I went to Paris to hangout with my friends who'd recently opened a restaurant in Le Marais. My plan had been to practice in Paris and return home transformed into some graceful cycling gazelle. Instead, I'd avoided bikes entirely. Still, I was determined to do this ride. At this point, I'd lost so many close friends and relatives to AIDS. Beautiful, vibrant people who deserved so much more time. I was riding for them, and I was proud of the amount I'd raised ($10.5k).

Before I left I needed to buy gear. I wanted the best-looking bike ever. The sales guy kept showing me road bikes, but I was fixated on an electric blue mountain bike with "Klein" written on it. I naturally assumed it was Calvin Klein. Being the young, stylish (yet clueless) diva I was, how could I not? The guy genuinely feared for my life and almost didn't sell it to me. I was convinced the thicker the tire, the easier it would be to balance. We compromised: I could get the bike if they switched to hybrid tires. I also got this cool Spider-Man jersey, matching sunglasses, and a wet-back hydration system (I refused to let them drill holes in my Calvin Klein bike for a water bottle; that would've ruined the aesthetic). The shop owner kept shaking his head, teary from holding in his laughter. They still remember me to this day.

In Paris, I was dancing with friends at this tiny hole-in-the-wall bar, trying on this new version of myself like an outfit I wasn't sure fit, when the music stopped and the lights came on. Princess Diana's vehicle had crashed. August 31, 1997. Tragic. The word felt too small. Here was this woman who'd broken all the rules, who'd held hands with AIDS patients when the world was still terrified to touch them, who'd lived publicly and messily and somehow gracefully, and now she was gone.

I thought I understood loss, but standing there, I realized I was still learning what it meant. Two days later, my friends and I boarded the Eurostar to London. The train station was on high alert (there had been bombings in Paris) with hot soldiers everywhere inspecting passengers. My friend James, who was always stopped because of his dark Arabic features (he's Australian), warned us in advance: "No matter what happens, keep going." This both piqued our curiosity and fears. What was he up to? As predicted, James was stopped, frisked, his luggage thrown on a table. Then the soldier held up this big black object, questioning a smirking James until he realized it was the largest butt plug on the planet. He dropped it immediately, red-faced, and told James to pack up and go. We laughed the entire trip. As James walked away, one soldier asked his comrade, "It was HOW big and it goes where?" (in french of course) Everyone was in on the joke now, laughing collectively.

In London, we did what any confused youngsters do when confronted with grief: we danced. Substation became my sanctuary. At the time the club was a famous underground gay venue located beneath the Astoria Theatre in Soho with some of the best house music I'd heard, accompanied by really hot men (it was dark, I could barely see, but they were hot nonetheless).

That party at the old train station (none of my British friends remember this party; they all swear I was tripping on something, but I don't do drugs or drink, never have) was where I first heard "Love & Happiness (Yemaya Y Ochùn)" by River Ocean featuring La India and Louie Vega.

I became possessed. Still one of my favorite songs. Twenty different rooms, twenty different sounds.

The shopping was where something shifted. I discovered Red Or Dead and found electric blue chinos with a matching blue fishnet crop top and a matching blue terry cloth bucket hat. The salesgirl smiled knowingly, like she'd seen a thousand versions of me (kids trying to become someone new). The mirror showed me someone bold and ridiculous and unapologetically alive. I looked like I'd been dressed by club kids awake for seventy-two hours. It was cute, trust. Leaving London was bittersweet. Met amazing people, heard great music, had some of the best Indian food ever.

Back in Paris at my friends Montmartre flat, I really had to pee but kept fumbling my friends' keys. So I did what any desperate youngster would do: I opened the hallway window and peed out of it. BOOM! their landlady received a golden shower while lounging in her backyard. All I heard was yelling in French and Russian. No longer doing that weird I-have-to-pee dance, I got into the apartment. Twenty minutes later, someone knocked. It was the landlady, looking like she'd dipped herself in scalding water and Clorox. She told me what happened in French. I tried playing dumb, then remembered we'd had a conversation in French my second night there. I feigned shock and disgust. She asked if I'd seen anyone strange. "No, I just arrived from the train station." I helped her and her son search for the culprit. When we heard the ground door slam, we ran downstairs thinking we'd caught him. No such luck. For weeks, we all vigilantly watched for strangers. I didn't confess until twelve years later.

I arrived in Boston and went straight to sign in for the ride. It was PACKED (roughly 4,000 people). The vibe was incredibly positive. They'd bought our bikes and gear, so I was set. There was a speech with really useful information. I didn't pay attention. My first year of college was in Boston, so I caught up with friends over dinner, then hit my old stomping ground clubs (Axis Avalon, Venus de Milo, Ramrod and Avenue C). I returned to the hotel at 4 AM; the ride began at 6 AM. I hadn't slept in eleven hours, but 100 miles a day didn't seem far (I figured we'd cover it in thirty minutes). I never claimed to be a math genius.

The ceremony was emotional: an empty bike symbolizing a rider no longer with us, a speech about loved ones we'd lost. I was a mess (half touched, half tired), like my Aunt Suzie catching the holy ghost every Sunday at her storefront church in The Bronx.

I hadn't been on a bike all summer and had those step-in-and-click pedals I had no idea how to use. Off we went, and down I went because I couldn't get the pedals right.

No one told me Boston was below sea level and Connecticut so hilly. And I knew nothing about gears. Here I was, scraped knee, riding uphill on one gear (the bike had fifteen). I was miserable, giving "are we there yet?" vibes. Not even shirtless guys in spandex could snap me out of it. Until this guy (who'd become a good friend and pass two years later) rode next to me and asked if I was okay. Suddenly energized, I said, "I'm great!" He replied, "You know you have more than one gear on that bike." "Huh? What's a gear?" He reached over to adjust it, and down I went. An hour later I got a flat. The number of men who stopped to help me (by "help," I mean they did it, not me, because I'm technically illiterate) was INSANE. I became popular, just not for the reasons I thought.

At the first pit stop, a volunteer asked where my water bottle was. "Huh?" "Your water bottle on your bike." "Oh, I didn't want to damage my bike." She was so judgmental. "At least you have a wet-back," she said, but I'd removed the hydration unit for my camera, 4 different kinds of lip gloss, 2 different lip balms, an Evian mist spray to keep my face hydrated and keys (priorities!). She literally thought I was on drugs. I was one of the last to arrive at base camp that night. Have you ever eaten only PowerBars, Gatorade all day and bounced on a bike for 11 hours? And I have this thing about doing number two in public (Chiiild! I won't do it). But I really had to go, and there were only porta-potties with lines 4,000 riders long. I was determined to hold it for 3 days.

As a city kid, I'd never been camping. Had I gone to prep classes like recommended, I'd have known about tarps (that stuff that goes under your PRADA sleeping bag). I woke up so soaked I thought I'd peed myself.

Day two, all uphill. Miserable and complaining, I contemplated hopping on a bus and meeting everyone at the finish line (pretending I was lightning fast!, the kind of imagination and self delusion associated with youth). That brought a smile to my face. Until I reached the top of the hill. Two women were handing out water, snacks and cheering the riders on. I stopped and chatted (I was such a charming extrovert back then). They thanked me for riding, how proud they were of the money raised. Then one told me about her daughter who'd died of AIDS days prior and the other woman's son was currently in the hospital wasting away. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Here I was complaining, thinking about cheating, and here these women were, standing all day smiling and cheering us on. We hugged and cried. One of the most memorable and life changing experiences on the ride. At this point I was inspired and determined.

One of my elementary school teachers had just past and she came to mind as I'm riding along the Connecticut coastline. She was one of those teachers that saw past my facade. "You love acting like a ditz and letting everyone think you're not smart... meanwhile you're 4 steps ahead of everyone else. They're playing checkers while you're playing chess" she'd say. I'd get the "You don't fool me" line daily. This was the same teacher who gifted me Octavia Butler's Wild Seed. Which kick started my appetite for reading and storytelling. She truly believed in me. Unconditionally. I was crying hurricane tears at this point.

I made it to base camp on my own and wasn't one of the last. More in the middle.

I was so proud. After dinner, we sat around a fire telling stories, remembering loved ones. It was beautiful and transcendent.

On the last day, I made it to the finish line on my own. Embraced by family and friends. My aunie turned to me and said "the ancestors were working hard these last 3 days cause you're alive". The statement couldn't have been more true but for different reasons. No accidents.

What an experience. It was worth it. I went on to participate in other rides including 6 days from San Francisco to Los Angeles.