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