Hilary Ward Schnadt
When my brother Frank told me that he planned to ride a bicycle in the first Twin Cities to Chicago AIDS Ride in July of 1996, I was startled. To say that he was not athletically inclined doesn’t begin to cover it. He didn’t own a bicycle and, through gastric bypass surgery, had recently lost more pounds than I weighed. And, he would have to raise $2,300 in donations to participate. But he was passionate in his desire to raise money for this cause.
He bought a bicycle with a special padded seat and named it “Seymour. . . .Seymour Butz.” I helped him solicit friends and family, and he did some training. Soon he was Rider 237C enroute to Minneapolis/St. Paul to start the ride.
We made plans to reunite at the closing ceremony on Chicago’s lakefront. Mom would drive in from the suburbs to pick me up in Rogers Park, and we would celebrate the six-day effort by Frank and his 1300+ companions.
When I went down to pick up my newspaper from the front stoop early that Saturday morning, I saw cyclists in matching t-shirts whizzing past. Only then did I learn that the AIDS Ride was routed down my street. The closing ceremony was still about four hours (and only 3 - 4 miles) away, so I was surprised to see them speeding past so early. Feeling confident that my brother would not be at the front of the pack, I hustled back upstairs to put together a quick congratulatory sign that I affixed below the stop sign, grabbed a lawn chair, and began cheering on the packs of passing riders.
Eventually, the space between riders lengthened and the riders’ speed slowed. I began to worry that I had somehow missed Frank. Then I saw a solo rider and was thrilled when my brother glided to the curb. A moment later, a passenger van with AIDS Ride logos pulled to the curb, too, and the driver jumped out and obligingly took our picture. I thought it kind that she would take such individual care of Frank.
I asked if he wanted to come inside for a beverage or a pit stop and told him that Mom was already on her way to the city. “No, no,” he said. “I can’t stop, I want to pedal into the ceremony myself.” I assured him that he was close to the finish line, but he was insistent that he keep moving. Only when we reunited at the end of the day did I learn why.
The kind van driver was closing up the route behind its final rider. Until Frank got moving again, she couldn’t go anywhere either. On the first night of the ride, Frank had to be brought into camp in an ambulance because of over-exertion. On the second night, he was the final rider into camp, past blocks of people who cheered him in. The remaining days, he rode as much as he could, and without protest got into the van when the staff closed each leg of the route.
The Twin Cities to Chicago AIDS Ride ran from 1996 – 2002 and my brother was an annual volunteer, often in traffic control, encouraging those riders who had to hop aboard the van, and year-round in the office processing paperwork.
We lost him in 2003, but I still wear one of his AIDS Ride t-shirts to remember him and his heroic effort.