I know it was wonderful, but I don't know how I did it. - Laurence Olivier in the Zen Calendar (May 2, 20003)
Day 53. Welcome, New Followers (is it just me, or does that sound a wee bit evangelical?) Thank you, and Gassho. As soon as I can feel my fingers (they are presently paralyzed with performance anxiety), I will write you another blog.
Dawn on Saturday mornings in the spring brings a crucial decision: Road or mountain bike? This morning was a no-brainer. The wind was blowing 40 mph -- head for the hills! Mountain bike season is waning (love the sport, hate ticks and poison ivy) so every ride is precious. I just returned from Ardmore after riding eighteen miles on the Lake Murray trails. I'm trying to find a way to describe the ride with the accuracy and clarity I've committed to without bulging at the Ego. Hmmm. Nope. Can't be done.
Me and Buddha on the bike. I knew a quarter of a mile into the ride that I would be blogging about it. I'm rather bipolar when I ride mountain bikes (I'm a shrink, so I can credibly toss around these diagnostic terms). To quote my mother, "When I am good, I am very, very good, and when I am bad, I am horrid!" I have had rides where I had to be scraped out of ravines and we ran out of band aids before the halfway point. Usually, these were the rides when I would get way up into my head -- over-thinking every pedal stroke, over-analyzing the terrain, second guessing my timing, undermining my reflexes. Basically, riding like crap. Usually, once I've gravitated to the upper cerebral cortex, I can't come down and salvage the ride. I'm tight and hesitant and frustrated and angry (well, no, actually mountain bikers get pissed). Not a very pleasant riding companion. I've never actually hurled my bike, but that's probably because I was just too sore.
Many variables contributed to the astounding ride today. I was with my dream team: my partner and our good friend Ted. The weather was warm but not hot, low humidity, and plenty of breeze. After seeing two guys on the trail early in the ride, we seemed to be the only three people within five hundred acres. By some amazing planetary alignment, both my bike and my body were in perfect working order. Most importantly: as soon as I began to pedal I noticed that, although my hands were safely gripping the handlebars, I was breathing through my mudra. At least, where my mudra rests when I sit zazen. I followed a couple of breaths as they whooshed in and out. I knew - I just KNEW - that today's ride was going to kick ass.
I wasn't in my head -- I was on my bike! At any given second, I was just IN that second, ON that trail, RIDING my bike. A few years ago I used to ride with some guys that were about ten years younger than me (yes, I have a clinical term for that, but I'm not going there). On Tuesday nights, they used to meet for what they called a "flow ride." The idea was to just flow with the trail, and try not to use your brakes. I'm pretty sure their flow may have been substance enhanced; I, on the other hand, rarely got into a rhythm that remotely resembled flow. I sort of chopped. Or sputtered. I rode so far up into my head, it's a wonder my bike didn't levitate of its own accord.
At Lake Murray, there are several sections of trail called Rock Gardens. I have no idea why. Perhaps my connotation of the word "garden" is unique, but I've always pictured them as these pleasant, serene, green, flowery areas. These "gardens" were portions of trail, usually on a steep climb or descent, littered with treacherous rocks and boulders that were clearly intentionally placed in strategic positions to make you crash on the sharpest ones. Nature would never design such perilous pathways. With each crank of my pedals, there were about a thousand different things that could go wrong. Loose rock, lose momentum, take the wrong line, bury my front wheel, jam my back wheel, pop up a ledge so forcefully that my shoe comes unclipped . . . not to mention the urge to just tip myself over to cut the tension and end the terror. And not a flower in sight.
During the first few rocky patches, we would stop, dismount the bikes, and stand staring at the trail like river guides before the rapids. We discussed, pointed, contemplated, picked a line. We would then jump on the bikes, clip in, and three characteristic things would happen: My partner would flow through like poetry in motion; I would optimistically follow, catching myself a heartbeat before I crashed, and Ted would opt out and take the bypass. Then the guys would patiently stand at the top of the hard section while I tried a second, third (and once, fourth!) time until I got it. Yes, there was bloodshed. Yes, there was triumph.
The ride progressed, and I continued to mudra breathe. At a moment I cannot distinguish, I began to flow. I flowed from the place where I sit zazen: a centered, present, Place of the One. I was out of my head, and out of my mind. We came to the Mother of all Rock Gardens. Ted took the bypass. I followed my partner. There was no trail -- only rocks. Big rocks and bigger boulders. Tricky cracks and irregular crevices lying in wait to take a bite out of a pedal or chain ring. A million different lines, none of which seemed possible to execute. Upon entering, there was no turning back. I considered the options, concluding this was like a Pass/Fail class. I either rode the whole section through, or I crashed and lay there because I could never get back on my bike on such uneven terrain, and it was too hazardous to walk out. I guess the "Fail" option comes with helicopter evacuation. This section of trail is illustrated when you Google "expert technical mountain biking." It seemed to stretch to infinity.
We rode it. Clear through. No crash, no MediFlight. The line just offered itself up, and I guided my bike over it. Except it didn't feel like I was a guide at all. My bike and body just merged and poured over the rocks like water. Instinct, reflex, flow. My mind didn't think; I had ridden out of it. If a single thought had flickered, all would have been lost. I would have freaked out. Like all intense moments, looking back at it comes to me in slow motion, though I wasn't moving slowly. When we emerged out of the garden onto dirt trail, I gave a jubilant shout. Thanked the Buddha. Felt like a bad ass.
I ride best in unfamiliar territory. It's because I can't anticipate dreaded segments and fret about how I will ride; I don't approach anything with preconceived notions. This is where Buddhism is trying to lead us: to approach each moment of our lives with the utter openness and freshness it deserves. No moment like it has come before, and no moment exactly like it will follow. If we live from this "Beginner's Mind" we won't clutter our encounters with debris that doesn't belong. We can be objective, and accepting, and let Reality unfold. We can sail right through the rock gardens of our lives.
I can't speak to what a sitting practice does for anyone else. Oftentimes, I can't even get words to what it does for me. There is just something within me that feels like it is being born and nurtured through my meditation. It's complex and multifaceted. It is also simple as dirt. Breathe. Ride. Flow.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
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