Three Kinds

My last ride was a winter ride on the spur of the moment. I managed to wrangle a playdate for my four-year-old son. He bounded into the home of a friend and I bounded out to my road bike dangling from the back of my car. I wore my riding clothes to the drop off, set my internal timer for one hour and headed off. It was a fairly warm day, no snow or ice. I wore my wind breaker and I was glad I had because the wind was brutal. I road with it at my back for the first half of the ride, knowing full well that kind of leisure had a price. As I road a fairly familiar route I let my mind wander. I started to think about obstacles.

When you're riding on the road there are three fundamental categories of obstacles. 1) Things you know to avoid (e.g. car doors, dead animals, road grates that run parallel to the road) 2. Things that with some experience and skill you can go over (e.g. curbs, large branches or debris) and 3. things that make you say, "oh shit this is going to hurt". The final category can be surprising and can overlap with the first two and (as a much more experienced rider put it, "will change as you keep riding."

There isn't any way to ride roads or trails without obstacles. Hell, part of trail riding and mountain biking is bigger and more technical obstacles. In order to enjoy all the benefits of riding you have to be willing to get hurt. One of the nice parts about riding in a group is that a rider in front of you will flap a hand at an obstacle to avoid. The warning reminds me of flocking birds. My memories of group rides are filled with the hum of wheels and flutter of hands.

As I road that day I thought of all the things in life I avoid because I don't apply the biking obstacle logic to the rest of my life. The black top road stretched out ahead of me. I pushed into the wind.

Not Riding, Not Writing

Over the last two months I've been buying a house. It took me an abnormally long time to commit. Until now, I would have never characterized myself as someone who has trouble committing. But I do realize that when I use the word commitment the first image that pops into my head is of a mental institution. Nonetheless, I've come to think of that free association as just that, an underlying belief that my sanity is tied to freedom. So, I seek things that make me feel freer and teach myself that committing is also a way to be find freedoms not obtained without the initial commitment. For example, a relationship with one lover for much freer than a series of dates if only because eventually you can fart in front of each other. This whole idea runs so counter to a lot of what we have been led to believe.

Committing to this home also means that it's mine. However, the committing has been cutting into my writing and riding time. Which ends up making me feel a little crazy (somehow coming back full circle to that institution image...) I long to get back out on the road or trail. I suspect that the roads are easier this time of year, it's cold as hell most of the time, but you don't get wet or run into slick patches as often. But I just can't seem to be making it happen as often as I need it to. Between the house, my son and my new--yes I'll just admit it---boyfriend I'm completely committed.

Not riding is no excuse for not writing. I'm not sure I can strap another commitment on, but perhaps it will make me more free if I just commit to writing something everyday. To close this post, I'll include the bike-ku from my last ride:

Quick, cold ride through town

Get a movie and head home

Earning some couch time

Uncharted Territory

Last Friday all I wanted to do was ride. I've been working too much and when I've got the time it's raining. I'm not opposed to riding the roads in the rain, but for some reason the roads are always tremendously congested when it's raining and the ride ends up feeling more dangerous than it's worth. To my amazement last Friday was beautiful!

My cycling life is filled with sages, inspired men who inspire me to ride further and harder. I'm not a great rider by any stretch, but I'm plucky and don't give up easily. Jason is a long time mountain biker who is at ease on a bike. He appreciates that I'm not a chatty rider and I appreciate that he'll wait up for me when I'm trailing far behind.

We drove about an hour south to a place near Hot Springs. The trail we were set to ride was an easy one. We planned on taking easy, having a picnic and then heading into town for a soak in a mineral bath. On the way we saw a swath of white smoke marring the deep blue sky. It ended up being a controlled burn near the trail we were going to ride. The Forester who stopped us said he didn't know of any other trails. Another wonderful thing about Jason is that he doesn't give up easily. We turned around and headed up the other side of the mountain. At the top of an extremely winding road we found a trail marker and so we suited up. Tungsten, J's Alaskan Husky, is always ready to go and so am I. Jason has a few pre-ride rituals that we tolerate. Tungsten is most vocal before a ride you can almost hear him saying "come on, come on, come on" .

We head up the trail that is not too steep, but over grown and leafy. The leaves create a slickness and the grass is mushy. Riding up this trail is not unlike running in sand. Tungsten is far up ahead and Jason is keeping a good pace. I'm trailing behind. At one crest, I see the blur of a black bear climbing down a tree. Jason motions for me to stop and I do. I also turn my bike, just in case. The bear runs to the other side of the gulch and Tungsten heads him off at the pass letting him know that today we hold the trail. This is not an area frequented by bikers or hikers it appears.

We ride up into the sunny spot. It's beautiful, but so overgrown its hard to completely enjoy the ride. Nonetheless, it's lovely that not many come this way. We are on the road less traveled.

After the ride we happen upon a rare finding, an open fire tower. It's a jack pot. From the boughs of the tower we can see 360 degrees of forest and it's as though we're in a hot air balloon above these wonderful mountains. We eat a bite and drink from our growler. It's a good day.

Paths you thought to take

often times are obstructed

go with it, in joy

Reading about Road Riding

So, after hearing the interview with David Bryne on NPR's 360 (check out what David is into here: http://www.davidbyrne.com/) I ran right out and bought a copy of the "Bicycle Diaries". It's a lovely red book that, in its hardcover version, does away with the awful dust jacket. Thank you David.

Here's the quote from the introduction that articulates this thing that is so essential about road biking, "the activity [riding bike] is repetitive, mechanical, and it distracts and occupies the conscious mind, or at least part of it, in a way...that allows some of the unconscious mind to bubble up."

That's the space where a bike-ku will come to me. I also find myself thinking about physics and love. Mountain biking on the other hand (which is what I've been doing more of these days) is different. Trail riding occupies your whole mind. It's much more like zen to road biking's transcendental. When I'm on the mountain bike I'm so focused on the trail, the obstacles it presents that I can't let my mind wander at all. There's no bubbling. I would suspect that if you do, even the most experienced bikers will end up off the trail, or face down in the dirt. David's book is about road biking.

Bicycle Diaries is good, but sometimes poorly paced. He manages to be entertaining and to really unpack the places he visits via two-wheels. However, don't go to it expecting a lot about actual cycling. This is to say that it is not the cycling version of Murakami's "What I talk about when I talk about running." which manages to distill the love, laughter and purpose of running. Byrne's book is more like Byrne's music or perhaps, Byrne himself, it's meandering and complex--haunting at times, but never too serious. There is something to be learned from it and a bit to just let wash over you. For what it's worth, I recommend it.

Ride 5

So, one of my life rules (I'm hating this phrase because of Oprah, but it's apt so I'm using it) is to try things at least five times before throwing in the towel. This last weekend was my fifth mountain bike excursion. I've been so lucky in the endeavor, mostly because my riding mates have been extremely tolerant and committed to supporting my burgeoning biking. Each ride has had its own challenges and I have to get excited about the baby steps because when you're an adult and you're doing something new it's easy to get disheartened by how long it takes an old dog--dig?

I've been riding bent creek, but I've yet to be on a solo ride. Jason tucked a map into my camelback and gently told me I can ride these anytime on my own. Like a little fledgling bird he pushed me out of the nest. I haven't had the chance to find out of I can fly yet--rain will keep me in today--but I will.

Standing at the edge

mass of tangled roots, ride these?

you must be kidding.

Jumping the Log

Apparently I'm pretty serious about Mountain Biking. I just bought my own bike. Paying as much as one does for a mid-range bike on my income is a commitment. For me it is a commitment to conquer my fear.

I've never really thought of myself as a cautious person. My past is riddled with things I have done with wild abandon. I'm sure I can't find a person--'cept Jason-- who'd describe me as cautious. Here are a few things I've done with wild abandon:

• marry a man in February that I met in September
• Go to Hollywood California at 15 with my 18 year old boyfriend
• Jello shots
• Move to Michigan, Jersey, Texas and North Carolina
• Fall in love
• Parenthood

So, the idea that I'm a cautious person is foreign to me. I certainly fear pain. Part of the compassion sutra shares with us that compassion comes from the understanding that everyone fears pain. We work to avoid it at all costs. So when I'm on the trail and I look down a steep, rooted decline I can only think, "will I make it?" And even though I know that the odds are pretty good that I will make it, I don't always try.

I don't always try because I know that once I've been derailed by fear it's actually more probable that I will hurt myself. On the trail one of the hardest parts is keeping fear in check. It does have a place, but that place is not to ruin the ride. I didn't think once, "why did buy this freaking bike?" because there are these transcendent moments that answer that question before I even have the wherewithal to ask it.

And today I learned how to jump a log--or rather roll right over it. Not a big long, just a little one, but I watched and learned and then found the girl who does things with wild abandon and jumped. It wasn't hard at all. Something about jumping the log gave me the confidence to ride harder and more fearlessly than I had previously.

Days of pouring rain

New bike, untouched wait to ride

these washed out trails, flow

Comfort

When I commute to work by bike people comment. And when they do they most often comment on aspects of comfort, mostly weather. There's a widespread notion that it has to be a nice day--not too hot or cold, it certainly can't be raining or snowing--to ride a bike. My commute is a mere 5.5 miles one way. It's mostly up hill, but can be heart breakingly beautiful. It can also be a real thrill ride--kinda like frogger--during rush hour traffic. My favorite days are the foggy or misty ones. The clouds rise from the rivers creeping over the bridges like moss on rocks. There are times when I want to call out loud--sound my barbaric yelp, perhaps.

When I first started riding again after years of not being on a bike, I was thrust back into thinking about comfort. My first ride was hellish. I made it, but could barely breathe. My ass hurt. But, once I was off the bike, landed at my final destination, I felt amazing. A little discomfort had a big pay off. Over time my idea about comfort has shifted, I'd rather be riding than driving. I like myself better on a bike. In a car I'm distracted--annoyed by drivers. On a bike I'm free and focused.

When I'm hurting on a ride, I try to just sit with it. I don't try to escape. I hear my friend Mike in my head tell me, "soft peddle, who cares how long it takes." and I settle in to the idea that maybe I'll be going up this hill for the rest of my life. Rather than hold out until its over I just settle in for the ride.

Riding the Trail

Recently I started trail riding. I used to call all non-road riding Mountain Biking, but I'm learning that when you live in the Mountains a lot of road riding is mountain biking and a lot of mountain biking is trail riding. Anyway, I started trail riding with Jason a wonderful man who sets off on his bike with a kind of comfort and ease I can only imagine. The first trail was Tsali.

I was told Tsali was "flowy" and mostly a beginner ride with a few "technical" spots. That seemed doable, right? I had sprained my ankle two weeks before, but I told myself I could tape it up and ride. I had just accomplished half an Asheville on Bikes road ride. Of course, I had no idea what was in store for me.

I had to borrow a mountain bike and getting used to it was a whole new thing. At one point Jason had to remind me that, "he knew I was a strong rider". But I wasn't feeling very confident at all. We headed out toward the trail. It was unlike anything I had experienced before. I spent so much of the ride in shear terror. The trail was thin and bordered by a cliff on one side and trees on the other. Jason waited up a head for me to catch up. I was slow and had to "push" some of the time. In the end I was glad for the new experience, but weary that I would catch on. At one point I got hung up on a root and went over. I was bruised, but managed to not re-injure my ankle. The only way for me to get through it was to talk my way through it. I kept telling myself to let go and just ride. I survived my first trail ride.

I promise myself I will do everything five times. If after that I get bored, lose interest, or just can't quite swing it I move on to something else. After the Tsali fiasco I got a mountain bike book to read. I learned about sitting back on the bike to balance my weight. I learned about using the brakes in a way that allows for front wheel mobility. I learned how to keep my feet ready to peddle out of tight spots. I was ready for our next adventure.

I scheduled a day trip to Wilksbrough. There's a dam near there that features trails developed by mountain bikers. A few are great for beginners. Jason went with me again. He brings his dog Tungsten on the rides who, when he's running along side you, makes you feel incredible. This trail felt more manageable. The one major piece of advice I got was, "don't look where you don't want to go." Okay, that makes sense, so I hit the trail feeling empowered. I'd read the book and I certainly wasn't going to look where I didn't want to go. But then I came to hair pin turn after hair pin turn. I'm thinking, as I'm going freaking 20 miles per hour on rough terrane, "how'my supposed to look where I want to go if all I can see is a freaking tree and a cliff?"

There we have it. The best life lesson. Everyone will have these pithy bits of advice, but when you're in the moment, there's always some glitch that prevents them from being meaningful. How can we use the theory in the real world? In that ride I realized that I had to just look in the right direction just as far as I could and that the rest of it was well...faith. Faith that the people before me who created this trail wouldn't leave me hanging. That Jason was somewhere up a head waiting and that in the end I would be okay.

I'm on my third trail ride and ready to actually buy a mountain bike.

Enclosed in these woods

up ahead clearing to sun

let go, hold on, free

Waking Up

9-21-09

It's simple, really. One morning I woke up in Jersey at the bedside of my best friend in a coma. One morning I work up in Asheville, North Carolina with a husband and a baby. One morning I woke up and could barely get out of bed. This morning I was woken by my four year old son. This morning I'm a single mom living in Asheville and working for an education Foundation.

Along the way, I found a bike and a new way of looking at the world. I started writing about the transformation I underwent as a result of cycling. Some of it was physical, most of it was spiritual. I'm not an expert at cycling nor am I some kind of self proclaimed guru of the two-wheel. It's just that every ride has opened my heart.

Also, I'm not a cycling bad ass. I'm still trying to get up a few hills in this town without passing out. I don't race or even commute every day. I ride when I can and work to challenge myself. This summer I've been trying my hand at mountain biking. I've just been collecting the reflections that come to me while I'm soft peddling up another insane hill. I started writing bicycle related Haiku because it just seemed like what I should do. I started writing these reflections because it seemed like the only way to stay sane.

I'm not the first person who has had their life saved by cycling. I've asked and will continue to ask friends and other cyclists to contribute thoughts, reflections and the occasional bike-ku to the mix here. Some of my reflections are about the ride and some are evidence of the perspective only available to the rider. Like these:

New morning river

Fog drift opening to sun

I no longer need

I went to the road

while riding it disappeared

No road, no bike, breathe