The Middle One

"This is the middle one. Don't hold anything back on the middle one." - Chris Carmichael in the Time Trial DVD from his Train Right Video Series.

Day 233. Full moon. Be kind to shrinks, clergy members, and E.R. docs. It has been a very long week.

For the record, I am cognizant of how frequently I reference my cycling training DVDs on the blog. It's a bit scary, since I only own three of them. They are well worn. Perhaps that is why my mind meanders into blogville while I spin the pedals at whatever cadence Mr. Carmichael is demanding. The videos are so familiar, I can keep up without paying any attention whatsoever. I go all out on my indoor trainer, so I am highly motivated for a distraction from my screaming legs. My thoughts inevitably end up in blogspace. It's a foolproof diversion from my pooling lactic acid.

The beginning segment of the Time Trial video includes three intervals of extremely rapid spinning. The goal is to go anaerobic, or as Chris says, " . . . beyond your lactaid threshold . . . at a pace faster than you could sustain in a time trial." During the first one, I have fresh legs, feel excited about pedaling a challenging workout, and the pain is bearable. During the last one, I know the pain is about to end, the bulk of the major suffering is behind me, and I feel smugly superior about my perseverance. During the middle one, I want to get off the bike, shovel in some ice cream, and turn on a sit com.

I am in the middle of my sit/blog year. The excitement, novelty, and anticipation of where the blog will lead has waned. The final push for completion, and whatever feelings accompany successfully reaching my goal, lie in the distant future - beyond the holidays. This is the hard part. The doldrums. Seventh inning. Three weeks left until Spring Break. Twenty-sixth week of pregnancy. Two and a half hours in to "Gone With the Wind." Mile fifteen of a marathon; mile sixty of a century ride. Hell, ages 45 to 60, as far as this analogy goes. The middle of things is difficult. It is a time to remain steadfast. To grapple with tedium. To fend off the legitimate urge to call it quits and jump ship. To sustain, weather, and endure.

It isn't fun right now. My keyboard hasn't smoked in a long time. Writing feels forced and efforted. Creativity gets displaced by a monotonous sense of duty. The avalanche of inspired ideas for my future cascaded over a ledge and dumped anticlimactically at the base of Mt. Reality, melting atop my mortgages and a certain college bursar account. I no longer get a rush when I hoist my thesaurus! Most nights, sitting is just that: Sitting. No thought no feeling no expectation. Even the Monkeys have mellowed. The middle part is trying, indeed.

As luck would have it, there is nothing that could better sustain me through The Middle of this year than zazen. I now know that there is no beginning and no end to my Zen practice. I suppose that is why it is called Practice. There is no Opening Night. The big game never comes. The season doesn't end. The championship will never be decided. I just continue to get my butt on the cushion. Day in and day out. Consistent, constant, continuous.

I suspect that on the evening following my 365th blog post I will bow deeply toward my cushion and away from it, sit down and fold my legs into a half lotus, side stretch three times in each direction, bow to the front, sound my chime, set my timer, fold my mudra, straighten my spine, and breathe. Lather, rinse, repeat. And the day after that, and the day after that. I won't hold back on the Middle One. Because, in zazen, there isn't one.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc