"You are our heroes" read banners that schoolchildren held en route. Bicyclists, treated as celebrities, stopped to sign autographs.
What does it mean for us to call ourselves pilgrims? That word stands vividly in our religious tradition, whether one imagines a medieval journey by foot and by sea to the Holy Land or a modern journey by jet and by air-conditioned motor coach to Lourdes.
I made a pilgrimage last summer when I participated in the California AIDS Ride 5, a seven-day bicycle trip from San Francisco to Los Angeles that raised funds to help those with HIV and AIDS.
While in studies at the Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, some fellow Jesuits and I began talking about the ride as a way of stretching our personal limits and as an act of service. We had spent time serving those with HIV and AIDS and thought this would be an opportunity to celebrate our vocations as Jesuits and show our commitment to helping those with HIV.
I was sponsored by people and organizations that contributed over $3,500, and three other Jesuits and I committed ourselves to rigorous training for the 564-mile trip. Circumstances, however, forced two to cancel early on, and ten days before the event a nasty bike accident incapacitated the third. The sole survivor of the group, I went on this one-week adventure accompanied only in spirit by my fellow Jesuits.
Though the ride was a secular event, most other riders I met were living in the deepest part of their hearts during this time. The daily journal I kept is how the Jesuit saying "finding God in all things" came alive for me.
Hundreds, including San Francisco's mayor, Willie Brown, came out to cheer us on this beautiful Sunday morning. The opening ceremony ended with a moment of silence for all who have died of AIDS. We were all assigned tent mates; mine, Randy Marcotte, happened to work for Catholic CharitiesÐAIDS Services in the Oakland Diocese. I wondered already if this was the hand of God at work!
Randy's ride group was called Team Tanqueray after the corporate sponsors of the ride. With Tanqueray bike shirt in hand, he made me an honorary member of the team. In a moment of whimsy I taped a plastic martini glass to my helmet and rode with it up there. It became a great way to start conversations with people who asked to pose with me and my helmet (I became known as Martini Man) at pit stops, so I have decided to leave it on my helmet for the whole trip.
Twenty miles into the ride, some of us made an impromptu stop at St. Paul's Lutheran Church. Hundreds of people dressed in their Sunday best were in the parking lot, waving at us and holding up signs and staffing a table set up with juice and water. A little boy was offering a platter of cookies to riders.
Tonight in camp, I eat while listening to the "Ride Witness News," a nightly broadcast over a loudspeaker that includes profiles of riders, accounts of the day's interesting events, and mentions of people we passed who asked us to remember loved ones who had died of AIDS.
The broadcast discussed the pit stop at the church. One rider, who had asked a parishioner if the boy with the cookies knew what the ride was about, learned that the boy had lost his mother to AIDS the year before and that the parish was doing its best to support the boy's family. I stopped eating and let the report sink in. Here, in suburban San Francisco, the reality of AIDS was taking on new dimensions. Mother Teresa once said at the opening of an AIDS hospice, "The AIDS patient is the newest face of the suffering Christ." I vowed tonight to be more attentive to that suffering Christ and never miss the opportunity to invite people to share their stories.
A long day, especially with the wind in my face the last 30 miles. We were up at 5 a.m., taking down the tent and getting our gear to the trucks before having breakfast. I began riding at 7 a.m. and rode into camp at 5:30 p.m., where hundreds of riders who had already made it in cheered me on, congratulating me on my "century" ride of over 100 miles. I quickly put up the tent, took a shower (long semis filled with shower stalls traveled with us), and then cheered on other riders making it into camp.
One stop today was at Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, a cool, quiet Franciscan mission where I sat, prayed, and took in the beauty of the church. Other riders walked in hesitantly and breathed the cool air. A dozen sat down and started asking questions about the artwork and the mission's religious significance. I was answering as best I could until one person finally said, "You know too much about all this. How come?" I told them I was a Jesuit; it was the first time on the ride that I have mentioned it. I was curious what the response would be.
One said, "I used to be an Augustinian." Another said, "I studied in the seminary for a while." A third said that she had gone to Fordham and loved the Jesuits. We all smiled at our common religious heritage. I was glad to have had the opportunity to share my vocation with this small group.
At the evening "Ride Witness News" we listened to a story about a volunteer at one pit stop who had spent $400 on the strawberries we had enjoyed there. He thought it would be horrible for us to ride through the Salinas Valley and not partake of their biggest crop!
We also learned that there were four riders in their 70s, the oldest being 78. They were recognized by applause; one of them was across the table from me. I asked him why he decided to do the ride. His eyes began to water. "My grandson died of AIDS last year back on the East Coast, and I never really had the chance to show him how much I loved him. I'm doing this ride for him, and I'm hoping he's with me, looking down on me." Tears welled up in my own eyes too. Tonight my prayers are with this man and his grandson. Grant to him eternal rest, O Lord.
This news and fellowship is a kind of evening prayer that reminds me of Ignatius's dictum that one should spend time on retreat soaking up, like a sponge, the consolations that come from God's presence in our lives. The whole ride is becoming very retreat-like for me.
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"You are our heroes" read banners that schoolchildren held en route. Bicyclists, treated as celebrities, stopped to sign autographs.
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The day began cool but became hot. The first twenty miles were hilly, and then we rode uphill 800 feet in one long stretch. I am sore and exhausted; the UCLA medical team traveling with us gave me Motrin to ease the muscle pain. To "motrinize" my body is becoming an operative verb for me.
At the evening news, one of the ride directors spoke of what had happened at a pit stop: Migrant workers were picking vegetables across from where our bikes lay strewn along the road. One rider, fluent in Spanish, greeted two of the women. They asked him what was going on with all the bikes; he explained that we were raising money for people with HIV and AIDS and told them he had lost loved ones to AIDS. They thanked him and went back to the field.
The rider went to get some food and drink. When he came back, the women approached him and said, "We told our friends what you said. We took up a collection and would like you to have this."
The rider held out his hand and received $2.56 in change. When he tried to give it back, the women responded, "Take it. We know what it is like to suffer. Take it."
He accepted their offering. Hearing this story, I thought of the Gospel narrative of the widow's miteÑsomeone giving to others out of her needÑand I prayed for all those who have known hardship and poverty.
This morning I ate breakfast with David, a man who lost his legs in an accident years ago. He does about 50 miles a day on a bike that allows him to use his arms to pedal, then he is picked up and driven to camp. His sprit is awesome.
Today we went up Twin Peaks, the most challenging hills of the ride. As I began climbing Twin Peak #2, people who had made it to the top started going back down. "David's coming up," they were shouting. "Let's get behind him." I waited for David to pass me and got behind him with the others. We were cheering him on as he maneuvered himself on his bike. At the top of the peak were 50 riders who whistled and clapped as David came over the crest.
At dinner tonight, Ed, a doctor working in a Brooklyn clinic for kids with HIV diseases, told me about the children he has treated and those who had died. When I asked him how he kept his spirits up with so much tragedy surrounding his work, he responded humbly, "You know, these kids give you their hearts. What else can you do but give them back yours?"
The day was short but difficult--three long climbs plus a few smaller ones at the end. One woman was about to give up and walk the last quarter mile. A young man told her to give him one of her hands and he would pull. Another rider placed his hand on her bike seat and pushed. This human chain pedaled for a slow quarter mile. The gratitude on this woman's face was thanks enough for them.
I stopped where some riders were helping a woman with a flat. She told me she had lost her best friend to AIDS and wanted to do the ride even though she hadn't trained enough. She was feeling pretty tired, and the flat was about the final straw. After the tire was fixed, she gave me such a hug of gratitude. A simple act of kindness had helped her to get back on her bike and finish the day.
We saw children in front of a school with banners that read, "You are our heroes." We stopped and signed autographs. Their teachers had talked to the students about AIDS that morning because our route went past their school. They gave us a renewed sense of why we were doing the ride. I left there hoping and praying that these kids would not have to worry about this disease when they are my age.
Tonight in camp I needed help for my sore neck and back. A chiropractor named Christine told me that she and about 60 other chiropractors were volunteering to keep us in good form. She said that this would probably be her only vacation time this year but that she wouldn't have missed it for the world. There were many other unsung heroes of the ride, including doctors, masseuses, and the 50 or so UPS drivers who devoted their vacations to following us in trucks with our tents, gear, and food.
Today was a sunny day after a cool morning and fifteen miles of climbing, much of it alongside the ocean. My body is holding up fairly well, considering the workout it has been getting.
At dinner I talked with a Californian who teaches at a Catholic girls' school. Early in the school year he had mentioned to one of his senior classes that he was thinking of doing the ride but was not sure if he would have the time to raise the $2,500 needed to participate. That afternoon a group of seniors told him that they would do the fund-raising if he would do the ride.
He agreed, and the senior class made it their special project to raise the money. Later, one who had spearheaded the successful fund-raising drive came to his office and began to cry. She told him how grateful she was that he was doing the ride because she was infected with HIV. The stunned teacher, who had never suspected it, realized that the many illnesses that had caused her to miss school over the last few years were, when seen together, symptomatic of HIV. He gave her a hug and told her that this ride would be for her. He attached a picture of this graduating senior to his handlebars so he would not forget why he was doing this ride.
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Closing ceremonies in Los Angeles were an emotional time for the bicyclists, many of whom participated in memory of loved ones who had died from AIDS. |
This last day was filled with such emotion. Los Angeles's mayor, James Riordan, rode the entire day with us and later spoke at the closing ceremonies. The words of novelist Alice Walker came to me as I finished the last few miles: "I think it annoys God if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it." This whole trip became for me an exercise in noticing things--the beauty of creation as I pedaled past mountains, farms, and beaches, or the diversity of God's people forming a community of friendship and support in the face of a terrible disease.
Thousands cheered us at the closing ceremonies. Many riders lifted their bikes overhead in triumph. A riderless bike was walked down center aisle as a bagpipe played a dirgelike hymn. The bike, for much of the week a metaphor of dedication and hope, was now a metaphor for the loss of so many people to AIDS. As the bike passed the crowd, riders and crew broke into tears. Though I have never lost a loved one to AIDS, I saw that loss on a sea of faces.
I write this final entry at the end of an exhausting week, a pilgrimage, an extraordinary journey. My faith in God and his people has been renewed. The words of the Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins come to mind: "Christ plays in ten thousand places, / Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his / To the Father through the features of men's faces." The ride gave me the gift of noticing my Lord alive in so many places, in so many faces. 
Author Mark Bosco, SJ, taught at Regis Jesuit High in Denver and received an MA in English at St. Louis University and an MDiv in theology at the Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley. He is currently pursuing a PhD in literature and theology at the Graduate Theological Union and was ordained to the priesthood on June 11 in St. Louis.