That's what the banner said; the one strung across Syndicate Street in St. Paul on this early morning of JULY 9TH, day one of the AIDS ride 2001. I could have seen it better if I hadn't been crying so hard. Matter of fact I could have seen everything better if it weren't for the tears blurring my vision.

I couldn't find my way into the gymnasium so we'll have to rely on Edie and Rick's beautiful pictures to tell us and show us what it was really like during the first moments of the sendoff celebration.

I can tell you about the riders as they poured out of the staging area and set off between the white barricades. I can tell you about the strains of music, sounding like the Rocky theme song and the people lined all along the way, clapping and cheering. I can tell you about the tall and short bikes, the reclining bikes and the occasional tandem bicycle built for two that moved along the way.

I can tell you about the riders, some whippet thin, sleekly muscled; some tall; some short and round; and some brown haired and white haired and blonde and red headed -- all brightly helmeted. Many of them with helmets resplendent with flowers and streamers and one with a little row of baby ducks marching along the top.

I can tell you about the expressions of the riders: some stoic, some frightened a little and overwhelmed by the venture, some smiling -- many of the riders waving back and blowing kisses, some faces lighting up as they saw a loved one, some faces streaked with tears, feeling deeply the emotion of the day and the emotion of the bystanders behind the white barricades. I can tell you about one man painted in silver and one rocking and rolling on his bike in time to the music. And about the man who stopped near me and kissed his lover good-bye and about his lover watching him ride away with eyes red from tears.

I can tell you about the crowds gathering on street corners along the ride route and the bright, proud signs they carried. Moms and dads and kids and sisters and brothers and friends and marshals and volunteer organizers in red shirts moved among the crowd and St. Paul's finest police stood at intersections and their police cars, with lights flashing guarded the corners and protected the riders. There was an ambulance standing nearby, a grim reminder that there was the potential for danger ahead. Each rider was precious and wore the armor of prayers and good wishes from the people watching and clapping and waving. They were on their way, this valiant band who said they would keep riding, year after year, until AIDS was eradicated.

They'd worked hard to be ready for this day. Completed grueling practice rides. Up steep hills, hill after hill, and across country, 50 to 100 miles at a time. And here it was 6:00 AM on July 9th at the corner of Syndicate and Marshall in St. Paul and they were on their way.

Ronnie Angelus says: "There are three things that make my life work: Talking to my daughter who opens vistas to me and makes me laugh; being in the circle of the Divas, my writing group, who shout "go girl" and give me standing ovations with their smiles and tears; sitting next to Mary and Claude Paradis during Sunday Mass at St. Joan of Arc, which is as close to pure goodness as I will know in this lifetime."

And the crowds never stopped clapping and cheering and they stayed behind the barricade until the last straggler, the last lone rider was embraced by their sounds and sent on his way.

I could have told you a lot more because I would have seen a lot more, if I hadn't been crying so hard.