Near Fitchburg, WI
I had every intention of commenting on Tim Kreider’s insightful editorial, Cycle of Fear, when it first appeared in May. April and May produced their own cycles of fear, however, none of them biking-related.
When I described a recent 40 mile ride through rural Madison, Wisconsin to a friend, his comment – “…sounds like it gives you a lot of time alone with your thoughts…” – reminded me of the piece and my initial reaction to it.
Cycling on a stationary bike gives one time alone with one’s thoughts. Those first minutes drowsing in bed in the morning; unencumbered by responsibility, email, texts or phone calls gives one time alone with one’s thoughts.
Cycling, whether on a downtown street or the shoulder of a rural highway, is never conducive to rumination, however.
My focus pivots constantly between car doors, traffic, small animals, children, potholes, gravel, my route (often only loosely charted out), my leg position, my seat position, the heat, the angle of my neck as I reduce strain on my shoulders, my hydration level, that “crunchy” sound I just heard while shifting gears, my tire pressure, average speed, miles ridden and miles to the next opportunity to rest and refuel. For good measure, I pause to dwell on that persistent ache in my left wrist and whether I remembered to pack my tire lever.
I suspect if I rolled this all up into a zippy chart, the survival component of those thoughts would consume 95% of the pie. Kreider takes it to the psychological limit:
“Your brain’s glad to finally have a real job to do, instead of all that trivial busywork. You are all action, no deliberation. You are forced, under pain of death, to quit all that silly ideation and pay attention. It’s meditation at gunpoint.”
I remember now why I bristled at my friend’s innocuous comment.
Cycling used to be a primary mode of transportation for me in places like Eugene and Portland when I refused to own a car. It was a functional enterprise. Lately, it’s become a refuge. Somewhere I can go for 3 hours and close off the chatter, anxiety and feelings of loss that have swollen that particular wedge of my own personal pie chart of contemplation. Kreider puts it better than I can:
“But it’s at those moments that I become briefly conscious of what I actually am — a fleeting entity stripped of ego and history in an evanescent present, like a man running in frames of celluloid, his consciousness flickering from one instant to the next.”
So the next time someone asks me to join them for a relaxing ride along the lake, I’ll kindly refuse and opt instead for the ego-stripping evanescence of an urban foray or long-haul ride through the country. It’s an incredible way to be truly present and find sanctuary. From oneself.
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