Day 290. The son is home! The son is home! I have been in a gluten free baking frenzy for a couple of days (daze?) I experience an unprecedented joy each time I open a box or mix that says "gluten free" in big red letters on the outside. My son was Celiac when Celiac wasn't cool (sing that to the Barbara Mandrel tune). In 1992, when he was diagnosed, a gluten-free diet was comprised of baked potatoes, scrambled eggs, bananas, and hamburger patties cooked at home. Now there is a veritable plethora of commercial gluten-free products from which to choose. Hence, his bread finally costs under $5 a loaf. When I walk down the aisle at the health food store and see gluten free animal crackers, I still almost weep. Where the heck were those childhood requisites when my kid was in kindergarten?
I rode Clear Bay again today, enjoying the privilege of being accompanied by my partner, who is poetry in motion on a mountain bike. I am more like a middle schooler's first attempt at Haiku. Choppy with a lot of dangling prepositions. I rode pretty well though, if I skip the part at about mile 14 when my body got off the bike and lay down in the leaves for a little rest before my mind even registered I was stopping. Guess I was fairly tuckered out. The recent exponential growth of my technical skill is astounding me. Evidently, avoidance of further contact between my ribs and rocks is powerful motivation to stay upright.
In addition to pain circumvention, there seems to be another variable to which I can attribute my mountain bike dexterity. When I come upon difficult sections of trail, I chant. I chant the Japanese chants I printed off from the San Francisco Zen Center several weeks ago. I have been including them as part of my practice, and something magical is happening. They make me fierce. They make me bold. They make me fearless. (And I thought I was those things BEFORE I started chanting!) It is uncanny. Apparently, I will ride up and down anything in dirt if I recite "maka hannya haramitta shin gyo" first. Strange thing is, I didn't wipe out today. Not once, in 18 miles. I had to ride slow a couple of places (and there was that little nap break), but the more gnarly a piece of trail was, the better I pedaled. Weird stuff. And very fun.
I think the phenomena has to do with ritual. There is something wildly empowering about saying the same syllables, in the same sequence, that have been repeated over centuries. I believe, through countless repetition, they gather strength and meaning over time. An ancient sacredness becomes available to me when I utter these sounds. What a remarkable verbal talisman I have discovered.
I have a great deal more to write on this subject, but I must close for now because I have an irresistible urge to sit on my cushion and chant, "Maka hannya haramitta shin gyo . . ." Right after I eat some gluten-free cake.
Gassho,
CycleBuddha Doc
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