Hitchhiking Monkeys

I don't know. I don't care. And it doesn't make any difference. - Jack Kerouac in the Zen Calendar (June 11, 2004).

Day 161. I know. The quote I chose isn't exactly a warm fuzzy prelude. I was saving it for some extraordinarily profound writing because it is one of my favorites. Instead, I'm just sticking it in here tonight because it applies. There is a good chance we will see it again before the year is up. I wish I was credited with saying it, rather than Mr. Kerouac. It's the ultimate Zen pronouncement.

It was 98 today - in degrees and percent humidity. The weather from hell. I realize it is conducive to growing rain forests; however, it is beyond tolerable weather for riding bikes. At least, when you're prone to that minimally interruptive condition called heat stroke. So I aired up the tires on Black Beauty (the creaking old bike mounted on my trainer), dusted off my Train Right DVD's, reconnected my VCR (with only one call to my son - a mini Peak Experience), cranked the ceiling fan up and the thermostat down, and climbed on. It bit. Hard.

Cranking the pedals around on Black Beauty is never the pristine experience of pedaling the PBJ (my gorgeous, pink, Giant T-Mobile, a.k.a. the Pink Bike of Julie). I was prepared for that; ready to sacrifice some PBJ time for air conditioning and no helmet. I was totally unprepared for the riotous group of primates that hitched along for my ride. Rude, insolent, offensive Monkeys. Busy little buggers that I couldn't shake off.

Riding a trainer affords the opportunity to focus on specifics that evade my awareness when I am on the road because: a) I can't see the numbers on my computer through my sunglasses, and b) even if I could see my computer, taking my eyes off the roads in Oklahoma for even a split second carries a high risk of disappearing into a pothole, running over a barking dog, or failing to swerve when an impertinent driver passes too closely. I haven't been on my trainer for several months, so I was oblivious to ongoing data about my performance. Thanks to the fancy and pricey Garmin computer, the tandem captain had up-to-the-nanosecond data on our tandem rides. After using the Garmin numbers a time or two as sarcastic fodder for the blog, I lost interest. Talk about ignorance being bliss.

As I pedaled Black Beauty, creating a steady stream of quantifiable information on my little odometer screen, the Monkeys went wild. They screeched, they howled, they bellowed. "You're slow! You're weak! Your cadence is barely 100 where it used to be over 110! THAT's the gear you're pedaling in the big ring?! Your average isn't even 16 mph; hell, you used to be over 18! You're slowing down to 13 mph in between intervals - you might as well have training wheels. You've lost fitness; your cardio strength is shot; your legs hurt and they're barely moving. No WONDER you can't ride with the team! Of COURSE they drop you in a heartbeat. You'll never ride outside of your living room again." Rotten primates. Blast them all to hell.

As though that barrage of ridicule and insult wasn't enough, the Monkeys spun out on anger and resentment regarding my months on the tandem. I was stunned by their bitter vehemence. They focused on the differences in "transfer" to the single bike between my captain and I. Since he has control over all executive functions on the bike, he determines our cadence and selects the gears. He is a "masher" i.e. a muscular guy that grinds big gears that are incredibly difficult to push. My quads were rivaling Mary Lou Retton's as the Spring wore on. In contrast, when I can control my own gears, I am a "spinner" - preferring to pedal smaller, easier to pedal gears. This exerts less strain on the leg muscles, and builds greater aerobic conditioning.

The problem arises when we get on our single bikes: he can continue to mash the big gears, which, even in the absence of a high heart rate, enables him to ride fast and keep up with our teammates. I, on the other hand, cannot pedal those gears alone on my bike; I don't have the leg strength. I need to pedal an easier gear at a faster cadence. This means my heart needs to beat really fast. When I haven't been riding in those heart rate ranges for many months, I don't have the cardiovascular endurance to keep up. So I get dropped.

After sitting zazen for almost six months, I was under the illusion that I had mastered Loving Kindness. Not so. Not if you listen to the Monkeys. They generated stinging, hostile, vicious attacks on my captain. Attributed malicious intent where I am certain there is none. Slung imaginary competitive, harsh, retaliatory comments his way. I was dismayed at my inability to curb the wrath. Wanted to do better. Wanted to BE better. Failed. It was like I was heaving Monkey Chow their way. Bearing bananas to fuel their tirade. It was humbling and humiliating.

I can tell you that hitchhiking Monkeys are a force to be reckoned with. They weighed me down, hindered my progress, rained on my parade. It was one miserable ride. I have so much sitting to do. Remember this: Hitchhiking Monkeys May be Escaped Primates. They are dangerous and unpredictable. When you pass them on the side of the road, don't slow down. Your journey is best completed without them.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc