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On a good ride, one almost achieves a state of meditation. You breathe in and out, push and pull with your legs, nudge your hands and shoulders. The body is engaged in simple rhythmic motions. Your eyes may be focused on the path in front, and you hold your head to block the sun or the wind or the bugs.
But your mind, your mind can be anywhere, doing anything.
At the very best times, I feel as one with the bike. Nothing strains, nothing twinges, and the endorphin rush that comes from pushing one's self hard lets me float effortlessly down the road. The body reacts without my conscious mind to guide it, avoiding roadkill and ruts, bumps and cars. I can bunnyhop a curb without tensing up, I can stop on a couple of dimes (okay, I've got fat tires, make it quarters) and not fishtail, the me/bike barely recognizes the reality of the ride. I can, and have, thought about almost anything at those times, but mostly I'm utterly in the now, having a Good Time.
Oddly enough, I achieved that sort-of-zen moment frequently when I was living in Boston. My last months there I would commute to work 3 or 4 times a week (Cleveland Circle to the Navy Yard for those of you who care), and I'd mingle with traffic on some of the most traveled streets in the city. Cars? I recognized them, they saw me, we didn't bother each other.
Here in Ann Arbor, when I'm not watching out for the imperious grandmothers (one cut me off, one nearly ran me down, within 10 minutes of each other), I'm dodging the Other Pedestrians, most often clueless students who treat this town as their personal playground (sans rules). Which is likely the biggest reason why the drivers here look at me funny when I signal turns, cede the right of way, and recognize stop signs.
But I'm starting to adjust to the paradigm of rudeness here, and I nearly reached that sort-of-zen on the ride in to work yesterday morning. And a local club runs a series of low-traffic early morning rides along the Huron, which sound like something to try and make. So I've got some hope.
But your mind, your mind can be anywhere, doing anything.
At the very best times, I feel as one with the bike. Nothing strains, nothing twinges, and the endorphin rush that comes from pushing one's self hard lets me float effortlessly down the road. The body reacts without my conscious mind to guide it, avoiding roadkill and ruts, bumps and cars. I can bunnyhop a curb without tensing up, I can stop on a couple of dimes (okay, I've got fat tires, make it quarters) and not fishtail, the me/bike barely recognizes the reality of the ride. I can, and have, thought about almost anything at those times, but mostly I'm utterly in the now, having a Good Time.
Oddly enough, I achieved that sort-of-zen moment frequently when I was living in Boston. My last months there I would commute to work 3 or 4 times a week (Cleveland Circle to the Navy Yard for those of you who care), and I'd mingle with traffic on some of the most traveled streets in the city. Cars? I recognized them, they saw me, we didn't bother each other.
Here in Ann Arbor, when I'm not watching out for the imperious grandmothers (one cut me off, one nearly ran me down, within 10 minutes of each other), I'm dodging the Other Pedestrians, most often clueless students who treat this town as their personal playground (sans rules). Which is likely the biggest reason why the drivers here look at me funny when I signal turns, cede the right of way, and recognize stop signs.
But I'm starting to adjust to the paradigm of rudeness here, and I nearly reached that sort-of-zen on the ride in to work yesterday morning. And a local club runs a series of low-traffic early morning rides along the Huron, which sound like something to try and make. So I've got some hope.
