Zen and the Art of Mountain Biking

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I'll meet you there. - Jalal-Ad-Din Rumi in the Zen Calendar (February 23, 2009)

Day 18. And what a day it's been!

So far, the "Buddha" part of "CycleBuddhaDoc" has probably dominated my blogging. Change may be in the wind. As weather permits, the "Cycle" aspect of my screen name will become more prominent. That's okay. Zen is everywhere.

Today it was right smack dab in the middle of the woods of Clear Bay Trail in Norman, OK. Due to a wet winter (read: poor trail conditions), I haven't been on my mountain bike near as much I'd like to. That changed today. We headed out to the trails at Clear Bay, site of a serious heat incident for me almost exactly a year ago (but that's another blog). Clear Bay is a challenging trail for me - in part because it's 18 miles once around, and in Bigger Part because there is lots of "up" (there are some really good "downs," too, but I ride them so fast they seem to make up a much smaller portion of the trail). Now, I'm by no means a pro mountain biker, but I am what I consider to be a Bad Ass Mountain Biker. Meaning I will ride anything I come to -- or at least give it a try until I end up in a ravine somewhere. Today was the first serious riding I've done since I returned to my zazen practice. And it showed.

It was the most remarkable day of mountain biking I can remember. Everything a meditation practice has to give was made manifest during my 15 miles on the trail (yes, I cut off a small loop because it started to rain and my legs were way past the stage we lovingly refer to as "jelly." ) The concept of "non-attachment" was particularly on my (non-) mind. Rather than fighting the steep climbs, the loose rock, the sharp rock that always finds a body part when I fall, the roots, the sucking, slippery, red mud, the numerous downed trees blocking the trail, I seemed to just flow with it. Everything about the ride was simply that -- a part of the ride. Today's ride. My ride. Every pedal stroke, every rotation of my wheel, every splatter of nature's and my own bodily fluids, every manic heart beat, even the screaming protests of my quad muscles simply WAS. The absence of a thought, criticism, or opinion of every trail condition and every ride event felt so different. I had so much more energy to devote to my bike. Together, we just WERE the ride. My balance, my technical skills, my timing, my reflexes, my stamina - EVERYTHING worked so much better without my Mind mucking it all up (incidentally, there was plenty of good ole Oklahoma red mud to do the mucking!) When my Brain wasn't in the mix with its incessant, "Watch that . . . Slow down. . . Speed up . . . You could have ridden that faster. . . . Why can't you keep up with your partner. . . I hate those trees (branches, rocks, climbs, mud, sand, mystery stumps hidden in the leaves). . . Are you sure you should try that. . . . Heart rate is too high . . . I need a goo . . . You'll fall . . . You'll slip. . . That's where you fell down the last time -- it was an amazingly different ride. Who knew? Who knew that you can just give yourself over to the trail, the woods, the misty, foggy sky, the camaraderie, the feel of the bike beneath you -- just BE the frickin' RIDE!

There were two junctures today when I was especially aware of the presence of Zen. They both occurred when I was perched atop a precarious drop into a deep ravine. Because so many trees were down, I kept holding back while my partner (superior cyclist and all-around good guy that he is!) rode a difficult section first, sort of a reconnaissance role to reduce the number of face plants I do. I'm sure it's no accident on the part of trail designers, but most of the time the lip of these deep drops has a conveniently situated tree, so that those of us that can't ride the entire area without stopping have something to lean on while we preview the more terrifying sections of trail. The situation is something like this: I'm perched right on the edge of a red earth drop-off, usually with roots, ruts, and other debris littering my path. Sitting upright on my bike, I clip the cleats on the soles of my shoes into my pedals (making me One With My Bike), and then the Moment of Truth Comes. The moment of Leaving The Tree. In the second before my front wheel drops over the edge, a lot has to happen: Get my hands on the handlebars, let go of all braking whatsoever (which is VERY counter intuitive!) pedal enough to get moving again, and regain balance in the act of going from a dead standstilll to forward motion. It reminds me of that stereotypical thing people say to sky divers, "Why would you jump out of a perfectly good airplane?!" Why would I let go of a perfectly good tree?! At the split second I release myself from the stability of this blessed stationary object I literally experience a Leap of Faith. Faith in my mountain biking skills, faith in my experience of careening down ravines, faith in timing, reflexes, strength, and -- especially -- faith in Letting Go. Trusting that I will be okay at exactly the moment I'm risking NOT being okay.

It's a powerful second. A heartbeat of time that precedes the rush of rocketing down an embankment with enough force to shoot me up the solid wall of red dirt rapidly approaching my front wheel and my face. You can't think too much. You'd best not think at all, or you'll never let go in the first place. And then you'd never get the rush. Or the Bad Ass feeling when you're on the other side of the abyss, looking back at what you just traversed.

I think this is exactly how practicing zazen feels for me. It's a drop into the unknown. A leap of faith. A rush. Best done if you don't think. Possible only when you are able to let go, even if everything in you is saying, "Hang on tight." You have to turn loose of what's known, what's stable and reliable, and rocket into the abyss. And then watch for the amazing places it can take you.

I know I am to approach my practice with the idea of "no attainment," but days like today remind me that, sometimes, you can't help but receive from your practice. And what a precious gift it is.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc