Flowing in Paris

Stop. Stop. Do not speak. The ultimate truth is not even to think. - The Buddha (probably somewhere else first!) but also in the Zen Calendar (January 22, 2009).

Day 80. Greetings from Paris, Texas! I am thrilled to be at the Holiday Inn Express, where they have a computer that is a gazillion times faster than my dinosaur back in Oklahoma. They also have killer cinnamon rolls. I wonder if the staff would notice if I blogged here for a week or two . . . .

We are attending the Southwest Tandem Rally, and so far it has been a haven of competency and camaraderie. It is effortless to feel Zen in this environment; everything has been reduced to Eat, ride, eat, sleep; eat, ride, eat, sleep. We rode 48 miles this afternoon, and will ride 75 more tomorrow. I paid extremely close attention to the scenery during today's ride so that I would be able to blog about it. Ready? Green fields, cows, cows, green fields, cows, green fields, horses, cows, cows, green fields, green fields, really big unfenced dog, cows, green fields, green fields dotted with brilliant bluebonnet flowers, pond, field, cows, horses, field, cows, field, field, field. There! Pat Conroy has nothing on me when it comes to descriptive imagery!

I was perched there behind my captain, pedals churning, stoking for all I am worth, and wandering around in my mind for blog material. There was none. That is two nights in a row. I haven't even sat zazen for 100 days yet -- my mind cannot possibly be this empty! I know nothing has fallen away, because the Monkeys still chatter idly about irrelevant frets and worries. Clearly, I have not surrendered all attachments.

The terrain here is quite flat, there is essentially no traffic, and for the first 20 miles today we didn't see a single other bike (this was a day to ride at leisure as you arrived in Paris -- tomorrow there is a mass start at 9:00 a.m. that will be magnificent.) The rhythmic cadence, serene scenery, and isolation lulled me into a meditative state possibly deeper than any I have experienced on my cushion. Apparently the Monkeys didn't come along for the ride. Bless them for staying behind.

My captain and I don't talk very much on the bike, though we are constantly communicating through the nuance of our bodies and breath. It can be quite intimate, except for those bizarre moments when I hate him for no discernible reason. He is a flatliner when we ride: smooth, stable, constant, and reliable. If you graphed my mood swings, however, the profile would resemble the most jagged section of the Himalayas. Usually, I die a thousand deaths on long rides. Not so today. We bumped the ultimate truth. We did not speak. We did not even think.

I've always been intrigued by the psychological concept of flow, because it seems to parallel the experience of deep meditation. In both, you lose yourself. You become the moment, become the motion, and merge with the Now so that nothing else exists. If you try to flow, you never will. Flow has to creep up and over you so that it can wash you away. Flow was propelling us down the road today. It rained, we got wet. The sun shone, we dried off. We flowed up gentle inclines, and flowed back down gradual descents. Scenic images flickered across my visual field and rolled on by - my brain didn't bother to activate to actually perceive anything. But somehow I know it was all lovely.

I believe I will flow on up to my room and sit. Tomorrow I have plans to eat, ride, eat and sleep. Talk about lovely.

Gassho,
CycleBudddhaDoc