Last month, my partner Jen and I drove up to the Catskills to spend a weekend with friends. The house in Palenville, New York overlooked the Niobe Waterfalls, and we could hearing the sound of the river water cascading over the rocks from every room. The river has several swimming holes, including a spot where I got the equivalent to a deep-tissue massage standing under one of the bigger waterfalls. Even Sadie, our dog, who is something of a princess and not one who takes to water, took a dip.

Dexter and Sadie, guarding us from the wild beasts in the woods and in the river, Palenville, New York, August 2012.

Dexter and Sadie, snoozing together, Palenville, New York, August 2012.

The weather was beautiful during the few days we were there. We hadn’t been away all summer, so our main priority was to relax and enjoy time with our friends. No one else besides me was a cyclist, I had done some serious riding the previous weekend, and I didn’t want to spend a full day away from all the people I’d driven up there to spend time with. If this all sounds like a justification for taking a weekend off without doing a long ride, it is. I know that life happens, but during training season, I have to justify, if only to myself, the handful of weekend days I choose not to train, or not to put in a lot of miles.

Niobe Falls, located on the property where we spent a weekend in Palenville, New York, last month.

My concession to myself that weekend was that we were in the mountains. Mountains, as in hills. Big ones. A few years ago, Jen and I had rented a different house in the same area near Woodstock, and while we were there, I did some hill work. As I’ve said before, when cycling up hills, I’ll slow down to a snail’s crawl when I need to, but I don’t stop. This isn’t an act of bravery so much as a survivalist mentality. Once you stop on a hill—because you’re tired, because your muscles give out, because you fall over, because the grade (steepness) is too severe, because you’re out of breath, whatever the reason—it’s even harder to start up it again on the bike. Psychologically and sometimes physically as well. When cyclists are forced to stop mid-hill, more often than not, they end up walking the rest of it.

Niobe Falls, Palenville, New York, August 2012. We could hear the roaring sound of what you see here from every room in the house where we stayed.

The funny thing about the definition of failure in my world is that it only applies to me and my own endeavors and not to other people. Stopping mid-hill and walking the rest carries no stigma, no shame, and no failure—so long as it’s someone else we’re talking about. The trek I made up Meads Mountain Road in July 2010 goes up Overlook Mountain and spans roughly two miles, with around 1,100 vertical feet of climbing. I mention it now because up until last month, that was the hardest climb I’ve ever attempted—the first hill that was so grueling, I had to stop once along the way. The grade had become so steep, I couldn’t complete one of my pedal rotations, and I clipped out and had to stop before I lost my balance. I also almost fell over a second time trying to start again. I weaved and teetered for 10 to 15 feet before I was able to clip into my pedals fully and use my weight to steady myself and start the momentum of pulling myself up again. Stopping and starting again was humbling, but I didn’t end up walking any of it. I made it up to the top on my bike, and at the summit, I rewarded myself with a rest, with my admiration for the view, and then finally, with the joy of coasting down the same hill I’d climbed. In some ways, reaching the top felt even better once I got there because I almost hadn’t made it. When I looked up my route later on online, I found out the grade of Meads Mountain Road exceeded 11% most of the way, with a stretch of some 400 vertical feet with a 13% grade.

View of the valley near Woodstock, New York. Jen and I spent a long weekend here in July 2010, and while we were there, I cycled up Meads Mountain Road, a hill that almost beat me.

Even after cycling a lot for five consecutive seasons, I need a concrete point of comparison to appreciate what hill grades mean. Professionally, I come from an industry that relies on sales numbers to measure success; in that context, percentages below 50% sound small to me. They sound like nothing. Out of context, when I hear a hill has an 8% grade, that doesn’t mean much to me. The percentage is so low, it doesn’t sound too bad. To put these numbers in some perspective:

• A 0% grade is easy to fathom. It’s flat. Likewise, a grade of 1-2% is barely noticeable.
• At around 3%, you’ll start to feel the effect. While most riders will zip up inclines of 3-4% fairly easily, hills of this steepness will absorb a fair amount of their power.
• With a 10% grade, only cyclists in good shape are making it up without having to walk it, and unless they are hard-core racers, they’re struggling and using all their power to do it.

Data on some real-life hills can also help make the impact of grades more palpable and real:

• The Harlem Hill in the northwest section of Central Park is just shy of one-third of a mile, with 84 feet of vertical climbing at a 4.4% grade. It is regarded by many as the toughest hill in the six-mile outer loop of the park. Runners and cyclists do repeats of this segment for hill-training purposes. For me, it’s a good way to ease my way into the re-entry of a new training season in March and April.
• Palisades Park’s Alpine Hill, the toughest hill at the northern end of River Road in New Jersey, which I wrote about in a previous post, runs a little over a mile, with 400 feet of vertical climbing and a grade of 7.1%.
  

  Pro cyclists making their way up Fillmore Street during the San Francisco Grand Prix in 2002. Reportedly, the climb has an average grade of 18%.

• The Fillmore Street Hill in San Francisco averages at an 18% grade. The photo above of cyclists climbing up this street was taken during the San Francisco Grand Prix, a race that was held annually for five years, from 2001 to 2005. Fillmore Street was considered to be one of the two most challenging hills in the race, whose participants included Lance Armstrong (who didn’t win during any of the five years this race existed, by the way). The other major hill on the course was on Taylor Street, and this is what top cyclist George Hincapie looked like going up it in 2002.
• The climbs in the Tour de France are slotted into five categories. From easiest to hardest, the first four are Category 4 through Category 1, and they correspond to the gear you’d need to be in to drive an old car up the hill. The toughest is Category HC, which stands for hors catégorie, or “beyond categorization,” and those are so steep, a car can’t traverse it. For some comparison, I looked into the relative levels of difficulty of the hills on the Tour. Of course, one needs to keep in mind that one major factor in the hill categorization is their length; most of these hills span between 4 and 23 kilometers, or between 2.5 miles and 14.3 miles. That said, it’s eye-opening that the average grades on most of these climbs are 6 or 7%, and the steepest portions max out at 11% and 13%.

Mind you, I don’t tend to look up hill grades before I seek out a route. It’s possible I should, but I certainly didn’t when I was in Palenville last month. That Saturday morning, I sipped my coffee and stared out the picture window at the Niobe Falls, then typed in basic search terms for local hills and cycling on my iPad. I researched only enough to discover that Platte Clove Road was seen as challenging and was only about eight miles from the house—perfect for my purposes. I could do some hill work and be back in less than a few hours. I finished breakfast, suited up shortly thereafter, took a couple of puffs on my still-new-ish asthma inhaler, and rode out.

Platte Clove Road/Devil’s Kitchen, Tannersville, New York, August 2012. It’s deceptive, isn’t it? Through a camera lens, it doesn’t look that bad. But it was. And it got harder as I went.

The ride from Palenville to the base of Platte Clove Road in Tannersville is fairly forgiving, mostly flat with a few gentle inclines and rollers. The moment one turns onto Platte Clove, however, the grade shifts. At first it’s deceptively gradual. Then there is a clear point at which the suburban looking houses that are spaced closely together for the first mile stop, the forest tree line begins, and the road grade shifts upward dramatically. Even though the road is paved, there’s no mistaking the fact that you are climbing a mountain. For most of the way up, Platte Clove has no shoulder on either side; it’s just wide enough for two cars to pass each other driving in opposite directions, and in certain places, even that looks iffy. The asphalt ribbon of the road twists and turns, and the overall trajectory and grade shifts move continually up and up, so you can’t gauge how far you are from the peak of a given hill segment much less from the summit. What appears to be a brief crest and decrease in grade turns out not to be.

I didn’t know any of that before I attempted Platte Clove Road. I noticed one or two seasonal signs as I rode: The road is so narrow, so winding, steep, and difficult to navigate that it is closed to all traffic between November 1 and April 15. That was all I knew.

Platte Clove Road beat me. It didn’t take very long either. I was less than a mile into the mountain segment of it before I had to stop. The incline felt more like a wall than a mountain road. I was so short of breath, I thought I’d hyperventilate. Sweat stung my eyes and dropped from my chin, from my elbows. I let myself stand there at the side of the road for long enough to catch my breath, and then I tried to continue. Unlike my Meads Mountain Road climb, however, I couldn’t get going again. I tried, I weaved, and I started to fall over, along with my bike. I couldn’t get enough power to fully rotate the bike pedals.

I don’t know why I didn’t turn around. Stubborn and willful, I begrudgingly walked up the incline instead, for 10, 20, 30 feet. I felt terrible—hot, breathless, exhausted, achy, disappointed. Even pushing my bike while walking up the hill kept me panting. As I walked, I made myself think of all the BTC cyclists I knew who had had to walk up some or all of Mount Archer in East Lyme, Connecticut. I thought of the novice riders I’d seen stopping and walking Harlem Hill, and Alpine Hill, and the tough climb along Route 9W going south out of Piermont, New York and up to the New York-New Jersey state line. They did what they could and stopped when they had to—and then they kept going. They weren’t failures to me, and the world didn’t come to an end when they walked it.

The part that I hadn’t expected was that while the hill didn’t end, or even flatten really, the steepness did ease off ever so slightly. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might walk a portion of the climb, then get back on the bike and cycle up some more of it. I thought, “Maybe that was the worst of it.” I kind of knew I was kidding myself, but at that point, I was willing to say anything to myself to find a way to keep going. When the grade decreased, I got back on the bike and to my surprise, I was able to make a go of it.

Higher up on Platte Clove Road/Devil’s Kitchen, Tannersville, New York, August 2012.

The satisfaction and relief were short lived. Less than a few minutes later, I had to stop again and get off my bike. This time, I had to pull over to the little ditch on the inner side of the road, and I stayed put for several minutes to catch my breath. A number of cars zipped by, wheezing their way up, most of them taking the curves too fast.

At that point, a big part of me wanted to say, “Fuck it. This hill beat me. I’m done.” I was almost in tears, possibly as much from physical exertion as from disappointment. My lungs were on fire. I looked at my odometer; I was only about nine or 10 miles from the house. I was plagued by the thought of not finishing what I’d come there to do.

Still higher on Platte Clove Road/Devil’s Kitchen, Tannersville, New York, August 2012.

But another part of me was curious. What if I walked a bit, until the steepness dissipated again? Would I be able to climb further? How high could I go using this painful stop-and-go method? Even more, how long would my self-esteem hold out? How much ego-bruising could I stand? Conversely, what might it feel like to keep going in assuming failure, knowing failure, embracing failure and physical pain, repeatedly? What it would be like to sit with and in the belly of disappointment, and still keep going? Would it feel more like failure to stop, rest, and walk again? What if I could continue to walk a bit, then ride a bit, then walk a bit if I needed to? What would happen to me?

I won’t lie. Most of the journey continued to feel lousy. My legs hurt from pedaling uphill for what felt like years. My arms hurt from trying to use my grip to gain some forward stability and momentum. My head ached. I was drenched with sweat. My bike felt like an anvil weighting me down. I felt as small as I ever have.

I did have to stop again. Three times? Maybe four? I don’t recall.

It’s hard to reconstruct what I was thinking as I plodded along. My mind may have drifted off to a Zen place where what was right in front of me was all I could focus on. On some less conscious level, I think I was testing my own dueling senses of agency and despair, as well as my physical limitations. I wanted to allow myself the space to fall short and to choose to sit with whatever that brought—discomfort, sadness, self-doubt. I haven’t been adept at giving myself that latitude and that freedom in other areas in my life. I wanted to do it, not because I wanted to suffer, but because I needed to know I could, and that afterward, I could still pick myself up and start again.

This all seems very obvious in the telling. Like something out of a self-help best-seller I’d never read. Knowing what’s meaningful and true and wise is one thing. Living it is far harder and the journey is more elusive.

People who are battling serious illness have to live some version of Platte Clove every day. The difference is they don’t have the option of getting off whatever rocky, merciless mountain road they’re on in favor of terrain that’s softer on their bodies and their spirits. They get to choose how to face it, battle it, and bear it. They get to choose who and what brings them a level of peace and grace as they traverse a hard, long journey with no maps and little comfort. That’s all. And they get to make those conscious decisions over and over again. That’s real bravery.

I didn’t know I had been in the Devil’s Kitchen until after I finished trying to climb it.

On my way down Platte Clove, the angle of the path was so bumpy and severe, I had to ride my brakes to slow myself down in order to not lose control of the bike. Even the downhill on this one wasn’t any fun. My body stayed tense until I made the left turn back onto the road leading back to the house.

About halfway back to the Waterfall House, I passed a copse of trees, and two deer bounded out to say hello, a doe and her fawn. That was the loveliest moment of the whole ride.

Later on, I did further digging online about the route I’d taken. I found out that the alternate name for Platte Clove Road was Devil’s Kitchen. It spans 2.2 miles and the climb is 1,280 vertical feet, 1,400 if you begin farther east. One website described it as “quite possibly the most hellacious climb in New York State, and one of the most difficult climbs in the Northeast, with over 1,200 feet of climbing, most of it steeper than 12% grade. Several sections exceed 22% grade.” Pro riders in the Tour de Trump reportedly ended up walking sections of it. The short video above is of pro riders making the climb during the Tour of the Catskills race.

How was the view from Platte Clove when I stopped? As breathtaking and beautiful as it would have been if I had sped all the way up:

The view looking down Platte Clove Road/Devil’s Kitchen, Tannersville, New York, August 2012. This photo doesn’t do it justice. The little bluish strip under the bright spot in the sky at the center of the image is the expanse of the Hudson valley, which was visible for miles into the distance from where I was standing.

View of the neighboring mountain, from Platte Clove Road/Devil’s Kitchen, Tannersville, New York, August 2012.

Sources:

• New York Cycling Club list of regional hills, with distances and grades
• http://www.kenpapai.com/racing/sf2002/
• http://www.podiumcafe.com/2012/7/5/3134330/2012-tour-de-france-mountains-preview
• http://www.catskillsearch.com/site/2012/04/30/platte-clove-road-devils-kitchen-signs/
• http://capitaldistrictclimbs.blogspot.com/2010/10/platte-clove-road-devils-kitchen.html
• http://thehudsonvalleyrandonneur.blogspot.com/2012/08/climbing-through-devils-kitchen-platte.html

This year marks the tenth anniversary of the Braking the Cycle AIDS rides.

Like any milestone anniversary associated with a life-threatening illness, the decade marker for an annual bike ride raising much-needed money to support AIDS/HIV services is a bittersweet one.

I am in awe of the folks at Global Impact Productions who have made this ride happen every year for a decade.

Rider Tommie Stringer, who calls himself “Team Turtle.” I met Tommie on the road during my first Braking the Cycle ride. Unlike me, he is always smiling, and it’s infectious.

I am inspired that the collective efforts of this small community have played a crucial role in saving and bettering the lives of so many who need the help. My inspiration is tempered by the equal amount of sadness I feel that this work has been necessary and even more, that there is any need for the ride to continue into another decade.

Still, I couldn’t be more proud to be part of this band of riders and volunteer crew members. Indeed, I am honored and privileged to ride in it.

I want to call particular note to the size of the BTC group. Braking the Cycle isn’t a big ride; it doesn’t register thousands of people the way the remarkable AIDS/LifeCycle event in California does. Most years, the number of BTC participants falls somewhere between 100 and 150.

That means the feel of the ride itself is intimate and unbelievably well-supported.

Fearless crew leader Christian Miller. He makes it all look so easy. Sadly, during the ride, my first reaction to seeing Christian is to hop on my bike and pedal away from him, given that his presence at a rest stop is usually accompanied by the warning, “Riders, you have 5 minutes to leave this oasis!”

My first BTC ride was in 2008. When I signed up that April, I knew no one. I was willing to go it alone, and I sort of mentally prepared to do so—both the fourth months of training and all three days of the ride itself—but in truth, the prospect of that solitude scared the hell out of me.

Those anxieties were unfounded. By early July, I had over a dozen regular training buddies, some new riders and a number of veterans. During the ride itself, I was equally astonished to discover that I met most of the participants. By Day 2, most riders and crew knew me by name, and vice versa. I met the same people on the road again and again.

This experience was very different from the Pallotta TeamWorks AIDS ride Jen and I did in the late 1990s. The infectious energy of those rides was derived largely from their size; over 3,500 people participated the year we rode. We met a lot of people. On the other hand, we rarely encountered the same ones twice.

My friend Clay Williams, who, like Tommie Stringer, I did not meet until the ride itself. We kept passing each other on the route all three days. Who knew that a conversation about chafing would ever be the beginning of a beautiful friendship?

The comparatively modest BTC stats make these figures all the more impressive:

• In its first nine years, with participation usually spanning between 100 and 150 riders and crew total each year, Braking the Cycle has delivered over $3 million in support of AIDS/HIV services.
• In 2011, BTC raised a staggering $462,000.
• The percentage of returning Braking the Cycle riders every year is mind-boggling. I’m coming back for my fourth year, and every year, at least one-half the participants have done it before.

My tenth anniversary wishes for Braking the Cycle are easy:

• May we all ride hard, ride proud, and ride safely.
• May BTC raise a massive sum for Housing Works, this year’s beneficiary.
• May the BTC ride never reach its twentieth anniversary because the AIDS/HIV epidemic is finally over.

Cycling: ALL ABOUT FASHION. Me and a fellow rider wearing shiny mylar duds, BTC 2008.

This one reason alone might be incentive enough to spend my weekends from April through September doing things that would seem crazy otherwise—drinking smoothies by 6am, cycling out into the morning while the sun is coming up and I’m still half-asleep, having “lunch” before 11am, spending five or six hours riding instead of eating brunch with my spouse, and wearing Fashion Victim cycling spandex, cycling shoes, and a helmet for most of the day: The people, the people, the people. The number of fabulous people I come into contact with because of the ride and the training it necessitates is staggering. Here’s who I’m talking about:

The people at Housing Works, the beneficiary to the ride this year: amazing. They do everything in the name of fighting homelessness and AIDS. Housing. Medical care. Behavioral health services. You name it. They do a ton of stuff locally—many of you know them through their numerous retail thrift stores around the city, but they do a lot more than that so it’s worth checking out the NYC section on the primary website—and they do a great deal of national work (e.g., lobbying Congress on AIDS/HIV-related legislation) and international work as well (e.g., they have been doing major initiatives with Haitian activists living with AIDS since 2008).  The scope of their programs surprised even me and made me proud to be working to support all they do.

The Braking the Cycle participants who ride and crew this ride, which supports what Housing Works does: amazing.They are my fellow riders, and many have become close friends who are more like family. Cliché as it is, they make me smile and laugh, they inspire me, and they give me a hug and comfort me when I cry. They also dress in drag and ride bicycles (yes, some of them at the same time!), which is a definite plus, too, though it’s somewhat dispiriting when a gay man in fish nets has better legs than I do.

And yes, all the people like you, dear Reader, who have supported me in the past and who are supporting me doing this ride: amazing. A million thank-yous wouldn’t be enough to express my gratitude and how much your encouragement helps. Donations and contributions are coming in from family, from friends, from old friends who have resurfaced, from colleagues, from second-hand connections I’ve never met. Case in point: Just the other day I had an email exchange with the lovely people at the jewelry shop when Jen and I got our wedding rings, and I mentioned the ride when I was asked what was new with me; I didn’t even think to ask for a donation in that moment, but the ride links are in my email signature, and the next day, a contribution was posted on my First Giving page. All my supporters out there, each and every one of you: you rock.

Equally important, I’ve been in touch with hundreds of people about this cause and in the process, I’ve gotten more messages of love and support and cheer-leading from all of you than I ever could have imagined. As I’ve noted, it’s been a physically challenging season, so the gestures of support really been a wonderful boost. Your words keep me going on the days when I’m exhausted, cranky, or feeling demoralized and wondering why the hell I’m doing this. So thank you thank you and thank you again—and keep it all comin’… I’ve still got a month to go here before the ride! Hundreds of miles and thousands of dollars to go before I take a ten-minute break and sit on something that isn’t a bike saddle.

If I listed all the lives touched through this process, my individual Braking the Cycle process alone—of training, of asking for donations, of blogging, of talking about AIDS and Housing Works, of reminding people to donate—all by name, you would be scrolling for eons through pages and pages of names.

Instead I’ll leave you with a photo array of images from the three Braking the Cycle rides I’ve done in past years. They are far from comprehensive and only begin to scratch the surface of what the actual Braking the Cycle ride experience is like, but they are a concrete reminder of why showing up is always worthwhile and meaningful. You never know what will happen on the road, where the possibility of change is ever-present; what seems impossible one morning can feel welcoming the next.

When I signed up the first time in April 2008, I had no idea it would change my life. I didn’t know a bike ride of all things could change me. I truly hadn’t a clue that four years later, I’d have logged nearly 9,000 miles on a bicycle and raised nearly $30K to support services for those affected by AIDS/HIV. (That $30K figure does *not* include this year’s ongoing fundraising, by the way, which exceeds $4K as of this writing and, like me on my bike The Blue Streak, keeps climbing.)  I get kind compliments from people sometimes about what I’m doing and what I’m giving, and it’s flattering and energizing to be praised. But the fact is, I’ve always received and gotten back far more from doing this than I’ve given, for which my gratitude is immeasurable. The pictures will, I hope, give you just a tiny taste of what I mean by that.

Yep, that’s me in the foreground. So fast I’m blurry… When arm warmers come back into fashion, I will be so ready.

The fabulous Tim Fitzpatrick who kicks my ass going up hills every time. My better half Jen, also a Braking the Cycle crew member, is giving him a pep talk.

Yes. Photographic evidence. I hollered my way up this beast of a hill in Connecticut. Twice. In 2009. And then again in 2010. Successfully. Perhaps the screaming helps? Mount Archer (AKA Mount Eric), which I’ll be facing again on September 29, still scares the crap out of me.

William Thompson, flat on his back, for a change. Would you believe this guy has done multiple marathons, triathlons, and Ironman events? He always looks as fresh as a daisy, too. I am certain a painting of him is sitting in a closet somewhere, aging.

Trust me. Simon Chung, who does, in fact, ride his bike very well in outfits like this, is a very, very Bad Witch. He also has fabulous legs.

Believe what you read. 90 miles and still smiling.

If you’re friends after 300 miles on the road, most of it through rain, you’re really friends: Terry Christopher, Kerri Fox, Gregg Passin,me, Rich D’Amico.

Look! A Braking the Cycle ride day when it’s not raining! We look pretty decent considering we’re about four miles from the end of the ride. Thomas Capobianco, me, Gregg, Rich Monreal, Terry, Kerri, John Gonzalez, ?, Steve Kolbo.

My friend Clay Williams hugging previous BTC rider Greg Baker at closing ceremonies.

This isn’t a photo from the ride. Obviously. But this is my family, and all this biking and training and fundraising and all the rest wouldn’t be possible without their love.

How often does one get to participate in something that make one feel like this?

Dennis was the first person I knew who was HIV+. He is also the first person I knew who died of AIDS.

I was nearly 15 when Dennis became ill. I don’t even know how long Dennis was sick before he died. My hazy memory and my instincts tell me it wasn’t very long.

In point of fact, I didn’t and don’t know much about Dennis first-hand, except that he was a constant in the thread of my family’s history while I was growing up. He was a journalist, and he spent most of his adulthood traveling the world, hopping from one political conflict and hotspot to the next to report on what was happening. So I didn’t see him often, but I had known him my entire life. Dennis was one of my mother’s best friends from childhood. My mother, who was born in Bucharest, had only two friends who date back to that early part of her life. Dennis was one of them. When the two of them got together in person, the air was filled with a dizzying barrage of Romanian. My mother has no siblings, and Dennis as close to an uncle as I ever had on that side of the family. Which is what he was, really. Family.

My mother could say a lot more about who Dennis was than I could and has enough personal memories of him to make up a book. These are the things I know about Dennis:

Silence = Death ACT UP poster, c. 1987-1995. Courtesy of New York Public Library Digital Gallery.

• He was funny.
• His full laugh was a high-pitched giggle that went on and on and somehow gave everyone in the room permission to laugh no matter how silly it sounded.
• He was fiercely intelligent.
• He loved politics and debating.
• He loved holding court with people.
• He had secrets.  Before moving into journalism, he worked for the State Department. He was often evasive about where he was going for work and why. But it seemed that wherever major political trouble was brewing, there he was. I remember my mother musing that it wouldn’t surprise her at all to discover Dennis was some kind of covert ops spy.
• He knew many languages.
• He seemed to know everyone and have friends everywhere.
• He wasn’t handsome, but he had a kind face.
• He loved to have fun. One of my few concrete memories of Dennis takes place at a party. I remember Dennis’ insistence on dancing, even though no one else was.
• He was closeted, both about his sexual orientation and later on about his HIV status.
• No one talked about Dennis being gay.
• No one talked openly about the cause of Dennis’ mysterious illness when he got sick. His obituary in The New York Times was three paragraphs long and said he died of cancer.

Dennis was 37 years old when he died. I am nearly three years older than that now. If he had a romantic partner, his obit didn’t mention it.

A lot of things were different in December 1987:

AIDS and HIV had been around for six years, since 1981.

An ACT UP poster, c. 1987-1995. Courtesy of New York Public Library Digital Gallery.

President Ronald Reagan had been in office since 1981.

By December 1987, 71,751 cases of AIDS had been reported to the World Health Organization. The greatest number, 47,022 (65.5%) were reported by the United States. Both those figures are cumulative, since the first cases of the disease were reported in 1981.

When you contracted HIV in 1987, you were pretty certain you’d not only die, but die relatively quickly.

AZT, the first antiretroviral drug to treat AIDS, had only been FDA-approved for nine months.

ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power), the influential advocacy group devoted to working on behalf of people with AIDS and to shaping public policy, medical research, and treatment for the AIDS pandemic, had only existed for nine months.

The American Foundation for AIDS Research (amFAR) had only existed for two years.

Silence = Death, Keith Haring, 1989. Courtesy of New York Public Library Digital Gallery.

Artist Keith Haring was still alive and would be for another 27 months.

Housing Works, this year’s Braking the Cycle beneficiary, had not yet been founded.

Gay rights activist Cleve Jones made the first panel for what would become the AIDS quilt, in memory of his friend Martin Feldman.

April 1, 1987, marked the first time Reagan gave a public speech on the disease.

Reagan’s second major address about AIDS was given on May 31, 1987, at a dinner honoring the American Foundation for AIDS Research (amFAR).

Abstinence and morality were emphases in both of Reagan’s speeches.

Even if Reagan’s claim on May 31 that “spending on AIDS has been one of the fastest growing parts of the budget,” was accurate, it was because there was nowhere for the numbers to go but up. The proposed allocated monies for AIDS in 1987 was $416 million, and only half of that was at the urging request of the Reagan Administration; Congress requested the other half.

United States government federal budget, 1987. Federal funding for AIDS accounted for .0038% of the total health budget for that year and .000416% of the overall federal budget.

Without any context, $416 million might not sound so bad. To put it in perspective, total federal spending on health that year was $110 billion, 11% of a $1 trillion ($1,000,000,000,000) federal budget. What that means? The federal budget’s spending in 1987 on AIDS, which Reagan boldly pronounced to be “Public Health Enemy #1,” accounted for .0038% of the federal government’s spending on health and .000416% of the overall federal budget. So little it wouldn’t even show up as a sliver on the pie chart reproduced here.

Federal defense spending in 1987 was 33% of the budget, or $330 billion.

People were so scared of HIV at the time and the ignorance about how one got it was still so common, many were afraid to touch with someone with HIV. Which is why it was a big deal that in 1987 UK Secretary of State for Social Services Norman Fowler became the first person to publicly shake hands with an AIDS patient. Even some of the educated, knowledgeable friends and family of those with HIV or AIDS were terrified they would contract it because at some point, they’d kissed the patient on the lips as a social greeting.

United States government federal budget, 2012. Federal funding for AIDS accounted for .034% of the total health budget and .0075% of the overall federal budget.

It’s 2012. Federal spending on health today is 22% of a budget of $3.8 trillion, or $836 billion. Of that, some $28.4 billion is being spent on AIDS and HIV, for both domestic and global activities combined.

Compared to where we were in 1987, that’s a huge leap. And yet: That’s a mere .034% of the health budget and .0075% of the overall federal budget.

Today, the reports that are released each year tout the fact that the annual rate of new HIV infections in the U.S. is relatively stable, as opposed to increasing each year. This is regarded as the good news. It is good news, but that number isn’t a reason to celebrate when you examine the historical trajectory either. Some 50,000 Americans become newly infected each year. That stable annual rate is bigger than the total number of AIDS cases reported in this country by the end of 1987.

Here is a fact that’s neither good news nor bad news, and after 31 years, it’s not even news at all: We still have a long road and a lot of work to do.

Sources: PBS Frontline; federal budget spending data from usgovernmentspending.com, 1987 and 2012; AIDS.gov; AIDS/HIV data from The Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation.