Two Laps and a Band

When you are convinced that all the exits are blocked, either you take to believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird.  The miracle is that the honey is always there, right under your nose, only you were too busy searching elsewhere to realize it.  The worst is not death but being blind, blind to the fact that everything about life is in the nature of the miraculous. - Henry Miller in the Zen Calendar (April 14, 2001).

May you live all the days of your life. - Jonathan Swift in the Zen Calendar (October 4, 2002).

Day 354.  It just occurred to me that tonight's post may get 45,000 hits because the title looks like it has something to do with weight loss.  But it doesn't.

For the first time ever, I rode two consecutive laps at Draper.  The feat in and of itself isn't that remarkable; I've ridden 20 miles at a time on the mountain bike many times.   What was remarkable was the stellar Zen moment on the Red Trail when I popped into Nirvana without ever leaving my saddle.  Way cool.

On a typical day, I am not a fan of the Draper trail.  Too close to home, too crowded, too repetitious, the sight of one of my more expensive crashes (for body repair - the bike emerged unscathed).  Today, however, Draper sizzled.  My partner and I were pleasantly surprised to see teammates Ted and Sam pull  into the parking lot just as we were strapping on our helmets.  This is my dream team.  The four of us have had some amazing mountain bike adventures.  With a recent episode of "The Dog Whisperer" still echoing in my ears, I couldn't help but recognize the calm, assertive energy of our "pack."  Cesar would have been proud. Ted was pack leader, and a fine job he did.

A new section of the Red trail at Draper was added just last year.  It was obviously designed to help riders practice the technical skill of navigating tight, narrow twists and turns at rocket speed.  The trail is fairly flat and smooth, but twists in and around itself like a nest of snakes riled up by Indiana Jones.  To ride the section fast, a fair amount of technique is required.   Generally, I pretty much suck on this piece of trail.  Because of the close, consecutive, and relentless turns, a rider is constantly shifting her weight from side to side and (optimally) using her waist, balance, timing, momentum, and  refraining from touching the brakes to smoothly navigate the tricky terrain.

The curvature of my spine is never as apparent as on this particular stretch of trail. Rather than sitting on the saddle with my weight evenly distributed, allowing an even split of 50/50 to divide between left and right curves, I am off by (this is an educated guess) about 8 degrees.  To accomplish the smooth curves required to maintain speed, turning left requires 42 percent of what my brain and eyes tell my body to do, leaving the right turns requiring 58 percent of the effort.  Yes, I was literally doing numerical acrobatics in my head as we raced through the Red section today.  I was behind Ted, who flowed effortlessly, like spring melt to the sea.  I chopped along behind, like a boulder ricocheting off tree trunks.  My calm assertive energy was replaced by rigid, agitated tension.  I was so far up into my head it's a wonder my cycle socks didn't leak out my ears.

Suddenly, my haggard forcefulness stopped.  Of its own accord.  One succinct thought fragment wafted through my mind before all cerebral movement ceased:  You Don't Have To Be In Your Head.  And just like that -- I wasn't.   I have  previously written about magical glimmers of Zen while on the mountain bike, but this was eons beyond those experiences.  I wonder if this was the Big E.  Enlightenment.  On the bike.  Mind and body fell away.   It was splendid and sublime - the easiest, most effortless minutes of my life.  It was everything and nothing.  Bliss and perfection.  Entering the now such that none of me remained.  I flowed like Original Flow -- the essence of flowingness.  Movement the way it has always been and always will be.  The way movement was intended; the Reality of Movement.   Everything about it was in the nature of the miraculous.  I had been searching for "this" all year.  And the sweet, sweet honey of simply stepping out of my cranial space was there all along.  Right under my nose.  I had been too busy searching for it elsewhere.

Cesar Milan says, "Life is easy."  He repeatedly encourages pet owners to learn from their dogs how to be in the moment, because that is the only place dogs dwell.  Amen and take a bow.  After the Miracle Ride, my partner and I ate, showered, and headed to the Plaza District in Oklahoma City to watch my nephew play in his band.  The kid is 17, and talented beyond belief.  His band consists of he and another high school senior who plays the guitar.  They play Math music - a genre I was utterly oblivious of until tonight.  I watched them play their five songs in the back room of a super cool thrift shop on 16th Street, sensing that these two wonder teens have some stuff figured out that I, at the ripe old age of 50, didn't get.  Until today.  My nephew is the drummer. He rocked out.  I have a sneaking suspicion he Wasn't In His Head.  He couldn't be, not while slinging drum sticks like he was.  He played the drums like I flowed through the Red trail.  It was a good night for Enlightenment.

Everything about life  IS in the nature of the miraculous, including throbbing drum sticks and flowing through trees on two knobby wheels.  Let Life by easy.  It wants to be.  It is.  So live all the days of your life.  My advice for finding Enlightenment:  Take Two Laps and Listen to a Band.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc