I’ve been a cyclist most of my life. My life has had little permanence, but cycling has been as close to permanent as anything short of my parents. Cycling didn’t care whether I rode or not. My bike never cared if I rode it. So long as I wasn’t blowing off a responsibility, no one cared if I rode my bike.
In that, it was guilt-free fun. While there have been times in my life when I used a bike for transportation, and times when I got on the bike to train, cycling has never needed to be anything other than fun. And even in transportation and efforts so hard I wanted to quit, cycling was still an awful lot of fun.
What I find remarkable today is that when I refer to cycling, I’m not referring to any one thing. It seems like I am, but cycling has taken many forms in my life. When I was a kid, we chased each other on our neighborhood’s sidewalks. When I joined my very first group rides on the road, we rolled aimlessly, didn’t worry about our pace. Then I met people who tore into the same course every Saturday, seeing how far they could push themselves and their friends. I found nirvana winding through narrow trails on a bike of a different sort.
I’ve played on pump tracks with a BMX bike, raced on the road, off the road, on gravel, through mud bogs on cyclocross courses, in rain, snow and heat enough to burn the devil. But that’s not really the point. There is a bicycle for almost any external terrain.
I’m talking about terrain that is internal.
Cycling was one of the first ways I found to expend the energy of pure youth. Through cycling I discovered a way to explore what strength I had. And then it taught me how to grow stronger. Talk about a surprise.
In grad school, long rides after my classes ground me into a pliable vessel. The way cycling wore me out allowed me to read tomes no one chooses for recreation.
There were the rides that got me through breakups. Have we ever heard anyone say that cycling can mend a broken heart? Of all the things we say about cycling, I’ve never heard that, and yet I’ve never turned to anything with more ferocity, never leaned into anything so hard to solve the pain of a lost love. To this day, there are stretches of road and trail that when I roll past I recall the pain of those breakups, and me trying to reconcile the gulf between my desire and reality, my need to be understood and my understanding, how they saw me and how I saw myself.
Did I ever climb on the bike in the midst of despair? Yes. For every time I couldn’t bring myself to get on the bike, there was a time when I was just smart enough and I did roll some miles. To what degree did those rides keep me spinning above the pit of depression? I’m glad to say I’ll never know. They gave me enough of what I needed to want to keep pedaling, to greet each new day. I don’t need more answer than that.
And dear Buddha, let me not gloss the many times I allowed the tug of gravity to pull me straight into an oblivion of flow, a place so devoid of past and future that all I could experience was the moment itself. In as much as I value those moments, I place just as high a premium on the afterglow. The blissed-out smile that pulled my cheeks taught when I finally put a foot down. What is it that feeds? In one way, it feeds nothing other than itself, but in another, it feeds my soul, bringing me a love for this life exceeded only by my love for my kids and my partner’s embrace.
Some of my most deeply spiritual experiences visited me while I straddled a tiny hunk of leather, moments that culled divinity as it rushed through my helmet. And I’ve never thought more deeply about the divine than while pedaling. And that’s the nature of what we find holy, I think. The divine is connection perfected and it reaches us where we most need it.
When I drop into the turn, shift my hips and drop my head, I’m rewarded with the pull of gravity, a feeling familiar as my mother’s voice, and yet I’ve never tired of it. Have I ever loved a food with such devotion? Another person?
The answer doesn’t disturb me. Here’s why: Cycling’s perfection owes to the fact that it has never turned its back on me. It has never abandoned me. It has never responded with impatience or sarcasm. It’s there for me when I choose and when I lose my way, it doesn’t pout.
All I have to do is choose to throw my leg over the saddle and have faith, faith it will feed my greatest need. I’ve yet to go hungry.
I ride for escapism, adventure and solace, too – your article speaks to me on many different levels. For me, i pursue cycling as one outlet for the agony thathas been lifelong déepression sincelosing my parents at a young age – despite having it all, extrinsically as a successful professional and father.
I can also plainly intuit your love for the written word, and its ability to articulate thoughts and emotions, in a way that verbal utterances sometimes fail us. Alas I feel Pynchon and his works have had undue but welcome influence on my and perhaps his readers real life artistic expression – Against the Day was ny first, a mind bending read and as a Brit/Spaniard lost abroad, it was an unexpected treasure, picked out from a San Francisco bookshop back in 2010 !
I agree with the notion that some of your most spiritual moments came while on your bike, mostly because that has been my experience as well. While I am not an overly religious individual, I feel closer to God when I am riding my bike, out in nature, than I ever did in a church.
I ride much less than I would like to, but when I do, it’s a blast. I had a revelation, or maybe just a realization; there is no need to pursue riding fast just for the sake of riding fast. I would never have been fast enough to be a pro, or even a mediocre crit racer. For me riding my bike is all about having fun, the net result being less stress and a sense of wellbeing when the ride is over.
You are spot on in your observation that the bike is always there for you regardless of whether you ride it a little or a lot, but sometimes a little ride can give you a lot in return.