A year ago I was a contented jogger and sometimes mountain climber. Not often, but enough to say I can do it. I also cycled about once a week using an old hybrid bike, which means that it’s not as slick as a touring bike (those skinny bikes with skinny people riding them who have Lance-Armstrong-like ripped muscles and wear cool shirts) but not as bulky as a mountain bike (which have really thick tires and usually young, crazy males riding them through forests). I wasn’t too competitive.
Then Barry just had to go and cycle across America in 2012 (3,700 something miles) to raise money for the nonprofit I founded, Save One Life. And when he hit New York, he emailed me that I was going to ride
the last 50 miles with him to dip our wheels in the Atlantic Ocean, at Rye beach, in New Hampshire, not too far from where I live.
Oh really? I couldn’t refuse; he shamed me into it.
So I did have a top-notch Spanish touring bike, an Orbea Diva, though dusty and stiff, hidden in a closet. It was in storage for the past four years, after I bought it as a consolation prize when I turned 50, fell in the middle of the street on its maiden voyage, and put it away, too scared to ride it. Well, that’s all chronicled here. https://www.blog.kelleycom.com/2012_08_01_archive.html
Today, I continued what has become an addiction. (Barry, you knew this was going to happen.) I hopped on my baby (the Diva, which used to give me nightmares as it sat eerily waiting for me in my cellar closet, like some haunted, phantom thing from a Guillermo de Toro movie) at 9:30 am and headed out for Route 1A, and cycled along the Atlantic sea coast for over four hours, covering 64 miles, the most I’ve ever done. Yes, it hurt after a while, but you just can’t stop it. Whatever it takes.
Last week, if you are friends with me on Facebook (you are friends with me, right?), you might know I spent four days solo in Sedona, Arizona, where I indulged my new addiction. I checked in last Sunday into my hotel in Sedona, a mere two hours after the Arizona Hemophilia Association meeting, and almost immediately went for my first mountain bike trip. Why? I
was surrounded by majestic Boynton Canyon, with the desert and all its twisting, red-dusty paths calling to me. Something different and new. And kinda scary. Mountain biking is very different than touring biking. It’s like the difference between riding a Mustang with an attitude using a Western-saddle, and sitting all pretty and proper on a fast thoroughbred (well, not that fast when I am on it) on an English saddle.
The day was hotter than I thought, and it would be easy to dehydrate.
I slipped on a new backpack, very small, with a built in “Camelback”
water pouch. This has a tube connected to the “bladder” (I know, sounds gross) from which you can easily drink water.
I set out on the bike, hit “Deadman’s Trail” alone, and pounded my way through red dust, over lots of stones and sand. Sedona sits at 4,500 feet, and my heart was soon thumping in my chest. To my left, the massive sandstone wall of Boynton Canyon, with towering red rocks. Cacti and scrub bushes fringed the trail. After 30 minutes, I felt I was in the middle of nowhere, alone… the path was steep. I stopped, chickened-out (it is DEADman’s Trail, after all), and decided to turnaround the way I came: downhill, rocky, exciting!
My heart was pounding furiously, meaning that I
was overheating. It was trying desperately to circulate overheated blood from
my midsection, where it was “cooking” my internal organs, to the extremities. (I recall all this from my Outside magazines, when I used to enjoy reading about other people doing stupid things outside) This is about the only cooking I am ever successful at. Rest in the shade and water would take care of that. I took off my helmet, and my backpack, to allow my sweat to do its job and cool me.
The next day, after four hours of hiking Bear Mountain and Devil’s Trail in the 96-degree heat, in which I drank perhaps more water than in my whole life combined, I actually went for another mountain bike ride, on Cockscomb Trail. Who would be crazy enough to do this after such long and superheated hikes? People with bicycle addictions.
George, the Native American guide from the bike rental shop, gave me excellent tips on biking the trail. It was much better than Deadman’s Trail; more trail than steep rock steps, exciting. I found the trail head off the highway, entered, and was frustrated to stop a few times as I
didn’t have my rhythm down yet. Don’t power up the hills, George had said. That’s what you
“touring” people do. Just sit back, go in your easiest gear, and pretend you are walking “up” the hill. The hill with lots of rocks, you mean?
Yes. When I got through the rocky part, the trail smoothed out and became like the Run Away Train ride at Disneyworld. I marked the trail as I went with the contents of my stomach. I guess I pushed myself too hard and was so spent. But it was fun!
Boynton Canyon
On Wednesday I wasn’t sure at first how to start my last day. Swim in the pool? Attend the yoga classes? Leisurely breakfast? Nope. Up at 6:30 am, made some tea, ate a banana and some berries, checked email, wrote to my daughters to tell them to come and find me if I disappear, threw on my riding gear and headed to the Activities Shop. By 8 am, with some cloud cover thankfully, I pumped down the road, to the Fay’s Canyon trail head, and dove into the
outback again to Cockscomb. I was going to nail it this time, and make George proud of me. No more walking my mountain bike. I did so much better; only had to stop twice as opposed to three or four times on Sunday. At times I felt like I was on a runaway horse, recalcitrant and skittish, as I bounced over the rocks, fishtailed in the red, fine dust, and then rolled up
and down the roller coaster trails. It was challenging, exhilarating, dusty, dirty, sweaty. And did I mention addictive?
After that, I came back out to the road, and then pedaled back towards the hotel, first taking a side tour to Deadman’s Trail again, determined to see it through the end. It was so much harder than Cockscomb, but I did much better this time. I actually pumped up the first very hard incline,
with many rocks, doing just what George had suggested. And in 20 minutes got to the tricky part where I gave up on Sunday. It was better after that, but still challenging. It suddenly got scorching hot as the sun rose, and I was sweating and drinking tons of water. I felt like I had leaks in my skin. Water in, water out. I had to stop now and then, and rest or walk the bike. At one point, the bike seat (which had a loose part to it that stuck out) caught on my shorts, tore a small hole in them and wouldn’t
allow me to hop off when I needed to, so down I went in the dirt, the bike landing on top. The handlebar jammed into my thigh, causing instantly a raised hematoma. Ouch. At that very second a runner swept passed me (out in the canyon?), a Matthew McConaughey
lookalike, tanned, trim, ridiculously handsome and fit, and half naked. We said
hello… instant painkiller. Back on my bike, finally reaching the road, and aimed for the turnoff for my hotel.
Wipe out!
But I didn’t want to go back, as it meant I had to leave tomorrow for Boston! I still had half an
hour so I swung the bike around, pedaled back to Cockscomb Trail and did it again, and this time only stopped once! It was such a great feeling. I was so incredibly hot, my heart was pounding, sweat
pouring out of me, my legs all banged up and bruised, and I never felt better in my life. (Well, maybe if I saw Matthew McConaughey’s look-alike again)
After the 64-mile ride today, I came back, lay on my bed still in full biking gear, and passed out for an hour. How will I make it to 100? Because I have to do 100. What good is an addiction if it doesn’t keep pulling you to push the envelope?
So here it is: On September 21, I will ride 100 miles to raise money for the Springfield Police Department, in honor of Officer Kevin Ambrose, who was killed in June 2012 in the line of duty, the first officer in that city in 25 years to die in action. My brother Tim, also an officer, was a good friend of his. So he and I will ride together, along with 200 other officers, with a full State Police escort. I might need it.
And, Barry, who got me into this mess to begin with, is going to ride with me, Kimberly
Haugstaud (executive director of Hemophilia Federation of America), Vaughn Ripley, and Allie Boutin of HFA (and a neighbor of mine!) and more, to raise funds for HFA on September 27. “Gears for Good.” Want to sponsor me? Take pity on me and my addiction, and think of a pledge. It’s all for a good cause—for HFA. And it’s only a few days after my 100-miler (my “Century”)—so I will be primed and ready! Or totally passed out somewhere in my gear. What I fear most is not the these two rides, but Barry whispering how I should do the cross-country ride with him in 2014… Barry, it’s not nice to take advantage of someone with an addiction!
This book was a best seller, and recommended by my favorite magazine, Outside. In 2002, Rory, a
free-lance writer, decides to walk across Afghanistan just months after the Taliban were deposed, retracing the path of a former and ancient ruler, Babur. He claims to be researching a book about Afghan history and Babur, but this book is mostly about the people he encounters and the extreme physical hardships he endures. The problem is his writing is mercilessly dry, without emotion or sentiment, and seemingly for no purpose. Why does he undertake this trek? Just to see if it can be done. There is no setting up of girls’ schools, as in Three Cups of Tea; there is no bonding of humans who endure outside exposure and
survival. There is barely even a bonding with the faithful and suffering dog he adopts and who accompanies him. While he does have potentially an interesting story, it is told in such a way as to make the reader wonder why he or she is reading it. To what point? There seems to be none. And there is no excuse for mediocre writing; Rory had plenty of time alone to conjure up literary references, flowing of words, rhythm. It’s flat, uninspiring writing. I learned a bit about Afghanistan but didn’t enjoy the trip much. Two/five stars.
Barry the Biker is at it again…. riding clear across America to raise money for and public awareness of hemophilia!
Barry Haarde is a 47-year-old with the stamina and ambition of a 20-year-old athlete and the soul of an ancient sage. He also has hemophilia and HIV, and lost a brother with hemophilia to AIDS. He conceived the idea to ride across America two years ago, and completed one trans-American trip last summer, covering over 3,600 miles in 7 weeks. You can read about that exciting journey in a previous blog.
Last year, Barry became the first person with hemophilia/HIV to complete a trans-American bike trip.
This year, he does it again, but in only 30 days! Starting from Costa Mesa, California, Barry will ride an average of 110 miles a day, through the southwest and plains, to arrive after 3,456 miles in Amesbury, Massachusetts on May 23. This is also the day of our annual Spring Gala for Save One Life, the beneficiary of Barry’s fundraising. Barry plans to attend, as soon as he hops off his carbon-framed steed.
Each day of his trip, as he did last year, Barry devotes to someone with hemophilia who died of HIV. He posts daily on Facebook. If you are friends with Barry on Facebook, you will be reminded of each beautiful man who died. What a tribute! Does anyone anymore put this kind of thoughtfulness into action?
Last year Barry raised about $50,000 for Save One Life, the child sponsorship program for children with hemophilia in developing countries that I founded. This year he hopes to raise $35,000. Please consider sponsoring Barry in any amount. Thanks to Baxter Healthcare, our Gold sponsor!
Great Book I Just Read
Freddie Mercury: The Definitive Biography by Lesley-Ann Jones
I’m on a Queen kick since I witnesses the amazing performance of Gary Mullen and the Works as the Queen tribute band a few weeks ago. I always liked Queen but now love them and appreciate them even more. This is an in-depth look at one of Rock’s most intriguing and talented front men, Freddie Mercury, who is often cited as the greatest vocalist in Rock history. Certainly no one could match his range. This book is a great first look into his life, from a childhood on Zanzibar (I actually saw the house there he grew up in) to his life at boarding school, the roots of his neediness for praise and adoration, the strange duality of his nature–and not just his bisexuality. He was complex, talented and self-destructive. And a showman all the way. His personal charisma, charm and intelligence are clear. This is also about Queen, probably one of the most educated of all Rock bands. Life on the road, Freddie’s affect on the band, how they grew in influence and hit the heights. Those of you who watched Live Aid will recall how Queen stole the show. Their live music far surpasses their recorded. Freddie adored opera and even produced “Barcelona,” an album with his favorite opera diva. You’ll learn about the history of the band, and Freddie’s sad demise to AIDS in 1991. Great read. Four/five stars (but then I am biased)
Emily Haarde surprises son Barry
At some point during our 50 mile ride last Monday, which would
complete Barry Haarde’s epic ride across America, I had to confess to him that
while I was pleased that I was keeping up with him, a world class athlete, at
his pace, I had only learned how to clip in my bike shoes two days prior.
Really.
I would not have done this ride at all if it were not for Barry’s insistence
that 1) I could do it, and 2) I had to do it as president of Save One Life, the
nonprofit I founded and the cause for which he just spent 49 days in a hard
saddle, cycling from the Pacific Ocean in Oregon to the Atlantic Ocean by noon
on August 6, raising about $35,000. Barry’s ride truly was epic: no one with
hemophilia, much less hemophilia/HIV, had even attempted this. Barry attempted
and was victorious. And I was so privileged to ride alongside him for the last
day.
Privileged but not worthy. I am such a cycling novice. Somehow,
Barry seemed to think that because I had summited Mt. Kilimanjaro last August
(if you read my blog from a year ago you know that I was pretty much dragged unwillingly
up that summit in the final 7 hours; the rest of the hike I did just fine), I was naturally going to be good at cycling. But my bike, an Orbea Diva, a very
expensive 50th birthday present to myself four years ago, scared me.
Yes, my bike scared me.
Its ultra light carbon frame, clip pedals and wacky gear shifting made it a totally different ride from the heavy, clunky but sturdy hybrid I had
been riding for years. When I first took the Orbea out for its maiden voyage, I turned to look behind me at traffic, in order to execute a quick U turn. I
promptly fell in the middle of Route 1 northbound in Rowley, Massachusetts—not a good place to be! I was mortified. I couldn’t get my darn feet out of the clips (you know something is bad when I say the word “darn”). I couldn’t get the feel of the bike; like a highly sensitive horse, the bike responded immediately to any slight shift in my body weight.
I couldn’t get the hang of the gearshift: what did the instruction manual mean by two clicks? I shifted gears like crazy, not knowing whether I was in
high or low or what. I rode the bike only twice that year, not enjoying either ride. I didn’t ride it at all the second year. My beauty hung on the garage
wall, ignored, like a forlorn trophy gathering dust. Last year I took it out a few times, scared, unsure and still not able to shift any gears. I marveled at the cyclists I saw, how they had mastered their steeds. I had little time to crawl back humbly to the bike shop and ask how to shift the gears. Soon, I told myself, soon.
.
Laurie and Barry about to set out
Then came Barry Haarde, with a wonderful idea to raise money for Save One Life. Barry was so taken with our cause, that he proposed something no one had ever done. Save One Life would raise the money with him, and support his trip. He joined America by Bicycle and 49 other cyclists, and embarked on a well defined route that would lead him to my backdoor, practically: Portsmouth, New Hampshire, just 20 minutes up 95 north from my house.
And he wanted me to join him that final day, to cycle 50 miles to dip our wheels in the Atlantic Ocean in victory.
But I was not worthy to wipe his clip-in bicycle shoes!
So I started rehearsing, mounting that feather light frame,
wobbling on razor thin tires, jamming my feet helter-skelter into the foot contraptions,
eventually snagging the pedals, and off I went. The most I ever cycled at one
time was 12 miles. My first venture of the day left me saddle-sore, bow-legged
and bruised badly. This is fun?
Undaunted, on Sunday, August 5, I waited for the cyclists to roll in, in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. And in they came: most of them were in their 50s and 60s, silver haired speed demons on a gorgeous
collection of elite machinery: hip clothes, excellent physiques, and not the least bit tired looking, despite having cycled 76 miles that day. Gulp.
Finally Barry coasted up to the Comfort Inn, where we waited with hugs for his achievement thus far. He had a wonderful, fantastical faith in my ability
to do the 50 miles the next day. Should I tell him now about the clip in shoe confession? Maybe I should tell him that I still couldn’t shift the front gears
at all. That might have an impact on my ability to climb hills. Nope. There were other things to do. Barry’s family had secretly flown all the way up from Orlando to welcome him and surprise him and we were keeping this a state secret. They had all checked in about 30 minutes before.
While Barry was upstairs getting settled in for the evening, his mom Emily, age 84, snuck down stairs and waited in the lobby armchair, just as cool as a cucumber, but giggling with anticipation. When Barry reappeared, he walked right by her, sat in an adjacent armchair and began speaking to me about the day’s road trip. The surprise was getting anticlimactic when the son didn’t recognize his own mother (who in all fairness was turned away from him watching the Olympics on TV). I eventually had to suggest that the nice lady in front of him might come to dinner… and then, what a sweet reunion! Barry had hoped his family would join him and so they did: brother, sister, nieces and cousins.
Dinner that night was a celebration and ceremony of the achievements of a diverse group. Barry was riding not only to highlight the plight of the
poor with hemophilia in developing countries and to raise funds, but also had been devoting each day in memory of someone who had died of hemophilia/HIV. This included his own brother and brother-in-law, whose photos he would wear on his back the next day, the final day. I would spent a lot of time on Monday staring at that back, staring at those wonderful men who passed away so young.
As we left the dining room, Emily, bringing up the rear, leaning on her cane for
Bagel Stop!
support, joked, “I’m the cow’s tail,” which made me turn and smile at her—this was a phrase I had not heard since my grandmother passed away in 1996. It was one of her favorite phrases. That phrase would dog me the next day.
Adrenaline was surging Monday morning! I hopped out of bed at 6 am, donned the very stylish cycling clothes. By 6:30 am we had gulped down many carbs at breakfast (oh my, could these guys eat) and straddled our bikes, ready to go. “Barry,” I timidly said, first confession about to seep out. “Could you check the air in my tires? The Orbea hasn’t been in the bike shop in… about four years.”
Oh yeah. It was at 20 pounds of pressure when it should have been 120 pounds.
Off we went! The day was cool, with thunderstorms predicted but which never emerged, thankfully. I was thrilled when we zipped away, over a
bridge, down the road. This was pretty easy.
Twenty minutes into the ride and I noticed I was really losing ground as Barry pulled away from me. Try as I might, I couldn’t recover. Wait—my bike was making an odd, rhythmic sound. Barry slowed down and I asked him about the sound. The front gear? I reached behind and squeezed my tire,
which was completely flat. A flat tire. Me. The interloper. Barry remarked he hadn’t had a flat tire in oh-about 2,000 miles, not since Wyoming. Me, 20
minutes into an historic ride.
We called the support van, which showed up immediately and changed the tire. This put us about 15 minutes behind everyone. What a difference when we began riding again! We zoomed along. Despite not being able to shift the front gear, it was permanently stuck in low gear, so I couldn’t manage any hills well.
By about 9 am we had our first pit stop (SAG, as they call them). Everyone gathered together, chowed down granola bars, peanuts, chips, fig newtons, oranges, replenished water bottles and joked about. Jeff and Al decided to switch bikes, not something recommended but after 3,600 miles, they must know what they are doing.
Off we went again; the miles passed easily and Barry and I enjoyed coasting by picturesque New England towns and back roads. Old Congregational
churches sporting white steeples, horses grazing in the fields, men fishing off bridges, rolling green hills and rich green trees. Barry couldn’t stop remarking about the lushness of New England compared to Texas, where he now lives. New Hampshire is a pretty state and typically New Englandish; it’s a state I turn to for adventure and fun. It’s here I go rock climbing and skydiving—and now cycling.
I confessed to him when I was feeling more cocky about my ability to master the clip in shoes just on Friday. Barry diplomatically didn’t comment.
The next pit stop seemed to come up quick: a bakery in downtown Exeter. Again? Really, guys? Bagels, donuts, coffee… I could have kept going
but it seems the team was eating its way across New Hampshire! Off we went again and this time no more stops…. So we thought.
The ride was going unbelievably well. Barry, having a rear view mirror attached to his helmet, knew the best times to pull alongside me and chat. Cycling is so much better when someone is along to chat with or pace you. I learned more about this remarkable man, the brother he lost, how he got
involved only since 2009 in the hemophilia community, how it took his brother’s death to push him to become a participant, then activist, and now, first person ever with hemophilia to cross the US by bicycle. With over 1,400 friends on Facebook, almost all related to hemophilia, Barry has become an icon in our community.
Barry announced my milestones: “Twenty-four miles, twice as long as your longest ride!” “Thirty-five miles…” and then “Just two miles to the
high school…” where we could congregate, do a group photo and then be escorted by New Hampshire’s Finest to the Atlantic Ocean at Wallis-Sands Beach for the wheel dipping ceremony.
And then disaster struck: Barry’s bike made a terrible noise and he pulled over to the shoulder, on a residential street with magnificent homes.
Only two miles from the “finish.” His chain had snapped. With characteristic Zen calm, he said, “That’s it. I’m done.” And then added ruefully, even smiling, “Figures. I’m always the underdog.”
I happen to like rooting for underdogs. He called the support vehicle, but wasn’t sure just where on the route we were. I thought it was North Street; Barry thought it was West street. The driver got the wrong street number and waited for us down the road somewhere. Precious minutes were ticking
by. At 11:45 am, with or without Barry, the team would cycle to the beach and dip their wheels. Barry just had to be there!
“Take my bike,” I begged. “It’s important that you finish!” But Barry patiently explained 1) it’s a girl’s bike (but it’s only 2 miles!) 2) the seat is too low (well, bend your knees!) 3) I can’t bend my knees due to arthritis (Oh. I felt stupid; all this time I never noticed that Barry couldn’t bend his right knee beyond 45 degrees. And he did this all across America on that knee?) 4) The seat is too low. (But…but….)
The support vehicle finally showed, and Mike, the driver, was none too pleased. Tension was mounting. He thought they couldn’t fix the chain in
time. Take my bike, please. Mike then took my bike, muttering “Where’s your personal support vehicle?” and jacked up the seat, as high as it would go, “without it snapping in two,” he warned. Barry sat on it; his feet couldn’t even clip in to the pedals. But off he went. It was amazing how fast he zipped off; before we even got into the van—with Mike frowning at an unregistered rider in the support van (me)—Barry was
just gone.
We drove in to the high school, begged everyone to stop the photo shoot to wait for Barry and what seemed like agonizing minutes was really only
about 5. Barry wheeled in, looking like a teenager riding a little kids’ bike. He got cheers and whoops from his own teammates, and a few jokes. Amazing victory; seriously, the Olympics held no greater charm for me than this sweet moment.
After the shoot, the police positioned their cars and everyone slowly cycled to the beach, an armada of wheels, helmets and great big smiles.
Al, the joker (every team has one) kept declaring, “I want to be last!”
But Al, someone shouted, Laurie is! “Aw, she doesn’t count!” he quipped. And I agreed; me, the cow’s tail, didn’t count. I only did 50 miles,
and these cyclists did over 3,677! 50 days to my one day!
A huge crowd was waiting at the beach, as they knew to expect the riders. People of all ages, applauding at their achievement! Present too were
Save One Life staff and Janie Davis of Baxter Healthcare (Baxter sponsored the ride) and even a few local families who so kindly came to give their support.
We dipped our wheels in the chilly Atlantic, amazed at how this day turned out. It seemed no obstacle, no matter how close to the finish, could
stop the incredible Barry Haarde. His mom, standing by his side in the brilliant sunshine, beamed. So proud of her son, as she should be. So was I; so were we all.
Congratulations to Barry Haarde and to all the cyclists that day; I do believe you don’t know who you are until you know what you can do, and
pushing yourself to near-extremes is one way that adrenaline junkies like Barry and me find out. I didn’t know I could do 50 miles on a bike I was afraid of. Barry didn’t know he could do over 3,677 having hemophilia, HIV, a half-useful knee. I think when you attempt feats with a purpose, a cause greater than yourself, a cause that helps others less fortunate, you find strength within, and resources within, you never knew could be possible.
And just to prove it, Barry pushed me some more. You’d think he’d want to rest after traversing the US? No way: 12 more miles the next day in Massachusetts; up to 6 am Wednesday to drive to Maine and do another 12 miles all along the gorgeous coast of York. I couldn’t think of a better way to share his victory. And I can’t wait to do the next ride with him.
Special thanks to Baxter Healthcare for sponsoring Barry’s ride! Thanks to all who donated!
Book I Just Read
The Road Less Traveled: A New Psychology of Love, Traditional
Values and Spiritual Growth by M. Scott Peck
An appropriate title to read after this road trip, but not nearly
as exciting. Written in 1978, the book explores the meaning of love through the
eyes of a psychoanalyst. Love, as he defines it, is a journey that helps
another grow spiritually. Peck delves into meanings of love and discipline,
expressions of love, and shares vignettes of how people overcame emotional
difficulties. He describes the difference between love and being “in love”—which
was well written. I read this in the 1980s and thought it was brilliant; rereading
it again, I now see it as dated, fairly academic and dry, and limited. Who can
really say what love is, when there are so many types of love? The first half of
the book is more about love and mental health and taking personal responsibility for navigating life—good stuff; the second part gets into spirituality, God,
science and Christian values. Some of his take on religion vs. science is a bit
head-scratching. I found the first half of the book more readable and useful
than the second half, which was muddled and lost focus. Two out of five stars.
On Monday, August 6, 46-year-old Barry Haarde will be the first person living with HIV and hemophilia to have ridden across the United States by bicycle!
He’ll dip his bicycle wheel into the Atlantic Ocean in Portsmouth, New Hampshire after 50 days and 3,667 miles.
I rode 12 miles on Saturday. I cannot even imagine. Barry is the hemophilia community’s new national hero!
Barry’s “Wheels for the World” ride is about more than setting a record: he is riding to help raise money for Save One Life, the nonprofit I founded in 2001. Many of you are aware that this program provides personal sponsorships of individual children with hemophilia who live in poverty in developing countries. We’re hoping to raise $50,000!
Barry is on Day 35 today, in Fond du Lac to Manitowoc, Wisconsin; 57 miles in one day, elevation gain: 1,350 feet. The Wisconsin hemophilia group took Barry out to dinner to welcome him! Nice going, Wisconsin!
Barry has heart, physique and courage. Each day he dedicates his ride to someone with hemophilia who lost their life to AIDS. For example, today, day 35 of the ride, Barry devotes today to Brandon Hendrickson. I know Brandon’s mom, Angie. How wonderful that someone still remembers Brandon, and urges us all to remember him and the hundreds, thousands more who died!
But let’s not forget those still living, who suffer with no treatment and extreme poverty. Barry is also riding for them.
So to honor Barry’s most certain achievement, I am doing something I’ve never done before. I’m hosting a party for the hemophilia community locally! On August 6, Save One Life will celebrate Barry’s ride. It’s at my house… so contact me if you want to come! laurie@kelleycom.com (An attendance of 75-100 guests is expected. Tickets to the celebration are $25 per guest; $50 per family.)
And please, readers, can you also help? Make a donation today in any amount to our Wheels for the World fundraiser. Go to http://www.saveonelife.net and click on Wheels for the World. You’ll go directly to a page where you can use PayPal or other means. And if you do, I will double your donation by matching it! Please help today and show Barry you are cheering for him!
See Barry’s Interview with the KDLT Evening News, a South Dakota news agency!
Last year I summited Mt. Kilimanjaro to raise money for the nonprofit I founded, Save One Life. We’re starting to corner the market on “adventure fundraisers.” This year? We conquer the
American highways with “Wheels for the World”!
On Monday, June 18, Barry Haarde, a 46-year-old Texan living successfully with hemophilia A,
HIV and hepatitis, from Texas, will start a 3,667 miles coast-to-coast bike ride from Astoria, Oregon to
Portsmouth, New Hampshire to raise funds for Save One Life. This is the first time someone with hemophilia will bike across America for charity!
Save One Life is a Massachusetts-based international nonprofit that provides direct financial aid to impoverished people with bleeding disorders in developing countries. Founded in 2001, Save One Life provides one-to-one sponsorships for almost 1,000 beneficiaries in ten countries. In addition, it provides funding for camps, scholarships for students and support for outreach to locate patients in rural areas. Barry is one of our dedicated sponsors.
Please help support Barry!
Pledge by the mile or by the state; make a one-time donation or sponsor a child—all proceeds go towards operations and programs to help Save One Life’s mission. Thanks to Presenting Sponsor Baxter Healthcare International for helping to make this possible!
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Today, I continued what has become an addiction. (Barry, you knew this was going to happen.) I hopped on my baby (the Diva, which used to give me nightmares as it sat eerily waiting for me in my cellar closet, like some haunted, phantom thing from a Guillermo de Toro movie) at 9:30 am and headed out for Route 1A, and cycled along the Atlantic sea coast for over four hours, covering 64 miles, the most I’ve ever done. Yes, it hurt after a while, but you just can’t stop it. Whatever it takes.
This book was a best seller, and recommended by my favorite magazine, Outside. In 2002, Rory, a
