Last week I had a major work setback. I submitted something that was not up to snuff, and it got sent back with scathing commentary. I can resubmit. And, I am, unsurprisingly, worried about whether I can do a better job, because now I’m in the vicious cycle of doubting myself.
So, I woke up on Saturday morning weighed down by the blues and decided the antidote was to do the hardest mountain bike ride I did last summer. As my second ride of the season this year. A trail that starts at the far edge of Canmore Nordic Center and plunges into dense forest on its way to Banff.
The blues-fighting ride I decided to do is rocky and root-y to an extreme. Last year, it was raining and cold (4C/40F), so the roots were all the more slippery. I walked my bike. A lot. My phone went into SOS mode from the cold. When I decided to do it this past Saturday, my reasoning was this: Physical effort aside, the trail requires the particular intense mental focus that I love about mountain biking. That dance between laser attention and allowing the bike to flow with the landscape. The dance of vigilance and letting go. The ride would be an exercise in trusting myself, just at a moment when I wasn’t. Also, I had barely gotten reacquainted with my mountain bike the morning before. So my bike and I were still re-establishing our trust.
No matter. I needed some rock and root therapy. I needed something that demanded my attention and, as a double and triple bonus, passed through breathtaking landscape and wrested me out of my looping thoughts and into my heartbeat.
When I finished my morning meditation, the mountain outside my window was sun gilded. Auspicious. The weather was a balmy 7C/45F. No rain in the forecast. Long story short. My bike and I found our mutual groove. The drier trail meant more grip over roots. Together with a more aggressive mindset, the kind of mindset that seeks to purge toxic thoughts and relocate in the here and now; I rode 80% of what I walked last year. Okay—that’s a wild guesstimate. And it sounds so official, I couldn’t resist. I walked my bike. Very little. My teeth were not chattering, my phone did not retreat into its SOS mode, and I was mostly dry when I arrived in Banff. Plus, quadruple bonus, the shuttle back to Canmore was sitting at the stop, as if waiting for me.
When I got home, I sat on the front porch in the sun and bathed my spirit in the rocky mountain filling my eyes. I thought about how hard it can be sometimes to enjoy the moment, to be here now. What more did I need right then? A mischievous part of myself chimed in that she could make a list of things I needed. Then she quieted. And let me just be. I spent the better part of the afternoon lying on the couch reading Samantha Harvey’s transcendent novel, Orbital. Yes, from time to time I thought about the work setback and what I needed to do to rectify. The challenge felt more surmountable after several hours of dancing with the forest terrain. The setback was not gone, of course not. Simply mitigated. Reframed. The shift in perspective offered by rock and root therapy, bringing me back to the here and now.
I tell myself stories all day long. Stories to soothe. Stories to motivate. Stories to console. Stories to provoke fear and anxiety. Stories of success. Stories of failure. And, as hard as it is for me to believe at times, I can rewrite any of those stories at any time.
Here’s one. It is a story that’s ostensibly about mountain biking. And, as with all our stories, it is a story I’m telling myself about myself. Where I used to mountain bike in the California Sierras, most of the trails l rode were longtime friends. I knew exactly where the tricky spots were. I assessed my ride by how many times I touched a foot on the ground, how long I stayed on the bike during a treacherous or super steep stretch and how many times I got off the bike. I told myself stories about my focus and strength and resilience, which were not always supportive.
This summer I was in new terrain, as I am with so much of my life in this moment. The mountain bike trails were unfamiliar and challenging in different ways, a lot more slippery giant tree roots, for example. I was off my bike significantly more often than I used to be on my longtime trails. At first, the story I was telling myself went like this: You’ve lost your mojo and finesse, maybe your fitness, too. You are too old to mountain bike. That I had a sprained ankle didn’t help, though my ankle was surprisingly cooperative when I was riding and even when I was hopping off to walk the bike for steep uphill stretches, a water feature or a tree root festival.
Then one day, as I was walking my bike through difficult terrain, berating myself for my weakness, lack of talent and age, I suddenly thought. No. This is not the story! I decided on the spot to rewrite the narrative. To tell myself a new story. Wow, Mina. Impressive transitions getting on and off the bike with such speed and grace. Never mind all the effort of the hopping off and on, even carrying the bike over some obstacles. I didn’t even stop there with my new version. All this on and off requires more strength and agility than just riding. Great functional fitness benefits, especially as you age. Rockstar.
The story of my shortcomings morphed into a story of grace and resilience, of healthy aging. Was I lying to myself with the new story? No. The stories are nothing but interpretations of these neutral facts: I was hopping on and off my bike on a mountain trail. The story I tell myself to make meaning of that experience is up to me, as it is with every story I tell myself about what’s happening in my life.
My life could benefit from any number of rewrites these days. Without becoming delusional, I want to tell the stories that support me into the future, rather than the stories that mire me in sadness and fear. I’m not talking about stories that negate what is. I mean stories that help me make sense of what’s happened, without stopping me cold in my tracks.
Here’s an example.
Version 1 of The Story of My Addison’s Disease: You failed to manage your stress. If you had been better able to manage the fear, sadness and distress of your relationship breakdown (or if you’d not failed at your relationship in the first place), and, also, if you had better managed the grief after the loss of your mother, your cat and your home, plus a suddenly financially precarious situation, then you wouldn’t have this disease. You brought this on yourself. You have only yourself to blame.
Can you hear the brakes squealing in my life, as I run aground in the quagmire of depression and hopelessness this version of the story engenders?
Or there’s Version 2 of The Story of My Addison’s Disease: Shit happens. And, in your case, a lot of shit happened all at once. Also, way back in 2016 your potassium was already elevated and your egfr was low, but after seeing a kidney doc, the conclusion was that you were in excellent health. When those pre-existing fragilities, along with some viral load that is also common in Addison’s Disease, then combined with the perfect storm of stressors (which any normal person would have found difficult to live through), they triggered the onset of the Addison’s. And how amazingly lucky are you that it wasn’t worse? That you are alive. That, even as much as you’d like to heal and get off your medication (a work in progress), the medication works beautifully, and you have the energy to be your same old exuberant and enthusiastic self. Hallelujah.
Version 2 is a story to dance to. I need dancing way more than I need brakes. I need to celebrate getting off my mountain bike to walk through tough obstacles, not criticize myself. Also, mountain biking has always felt like dancing on a bike, so I want to open space for the full pleasure of that experience. Side note: I’m loving that the women mountain bikers at the Olympics were so huggy at the end of their race. That’s what dancing on a bike can do for you.
My goal: More dancing (and more hugs) and less blaming in the stories I tell myself about myself.
Last month I wrote about healing rollercoasters. I had planned to write something less turbulent this month. Instead, I’ve gone from rollercoaster to washing machine.
As I write this, over the holiday weekend in Canada, I am surrounded by the Rockies in Canmore, Alberta. I’ve been looking forward to this sojourn for months. The gift of looking up from my computer to see mountains outside my window. And to get out on the trails every day, to trail run, hike and mountain bike.
My fourth day, finishing up a run, I sprained my ankle. Badly. I watched it swell as I hobbled home crying, as if my ankle was being inflated by a bike pump. The physical pain was eclipsed by my mental anguish. Really? Was I going to be imprisoned inside, when just out my door there were miles and miles of forested mountain trails?
What was the universe trying to tell me? What message was I supposed to receive?
I was devastated. Here I am, trying to rebuild my life and instead of three weeks of heavenly nature immersion, I was going to have three weeks of psychic torture and physical pain. Here’s the first message I received: You, Mina, are a detestable person who deserves to be knocked down, repeatedly. Your ongoing, excruciating divorce is not enough. Nor is your financial precariousness, nor the Addison’s Disease. You have still not been punished enough. Yes, even as I was hearing this particular voice in my head, I was fully aware that whether or not I was going to engage with this psychic torture was in my control. Or at least theoretically. It’s easy to say that our state of mind is a decision we make. It’s harder to actually exercise that control.
I have been trying hard to control my mental condition. And for those of you who have read previous posts from me, you know that I was already fully immersed in an effort to visualize my future health (I am actively exploring the potential to heal my Addison’s Disease with a functional medicine practitioner). In that context, injuring my ankle felt like the universe just being plain mean. Understanding that the universe is not personal was my first bit of mental jujitsu. This is not a punishment. I was trail running. And as my friend Kim reminded me, ankles get twisted. This did not happen because I am a bad person. I realigned expectations.
I put flat pedals on my mountain bike and imagined riding around very gently on the flattest ground I could find with the hard plastic sprain boot on my foot. I have some experience with sprained ankles. I’ve also broken my foot, cracked ribs and done quite a number of other things to myself. So, I’m familiar with the healing trajectories. I was calm. Or resigned. It’s sometimes hard to discern the difference. I knew what to expect. A lot of streaming Pilates at home. A sore hip from wearing the hard boot, which makes one leg longer than the other. Enforced stillness. Restlessness.
At the same time, I redeployed the Gladiator Therapeutics far infrared wave device I’d been using to heal my adrenals, and am now wearing it night and day around my ankle. While I have no idea if it’s actually working for my adrenals, I know it’s been working for my ankle. How? Because, as incredibly swollen, ugly and wildly-colored my whole foot is, including my toes and my lower leg, I have experienced little pain. Certainly, there’s discomfort when I walk, especially down stairs. My ankle is stiff when I get up from sitting or lying down. And, I can walk on it, progressively more each day. It’s only been 9 days, as I write this and I went out for a 30-minute walk today (wearing flip flops). And I can ride my bike. On anything. Wearing a small ankle compression support and regular running shoes.
On my bike with the Three Sisters in the background. Inspect before riding sign, which made me laugh and was also accurate. And a surprisingly gentle section of the Rundle Riverside Trail.
I have never experienced ankle healing this quickly before. So, now what is the universe trying to tell me? What message am I to receive?
I feel like I’m living in a washing machine, being savagely bounced around from one emotion to another. I am realigning expectations almost daily.
At this very moment, I am not hiking in British Columbia with my work colleague and friend, Michelle, who I’d planned to meet in person for the first time this holiday weekend. I was so excited to be with her. Michelle was going to drive from Nelson, B.C and we were to meet up in the middle, in Invermere. Instead, I’m alone in Canmore, nursing the enormous disappointment of not connecting with her. And then the washing machine flips me around, and I’m simultaneously ridiculously grateful for the grace of being able to mountain bike and get outside in the mountains, when I thought that would be impossible. Every turn of the pedal, every technical trail section I walk my bike, every mud puddle I splash through, I’m filled to the brim with the sheer unexpected pleasure of communing with nature.
Daily, I spin through a cycle of emotions, from devastation to elation and back again. I keep hoping to be rinsed clean, to spin into stillness, to be hung out to dry in a gentle mountain breeze. I am searching for meaning in what’s happened, for a story of why. I wonder, is the universe offering me evidence that I can heal? To shore up my faith for the steeper climb to health I’m facing with the Addison’s? Or is the message more straightforward, simple—be grateful for what you can do, it’s not nothing, in fact, it’s a lot of something pretty joyful.
Maybe that’s the story. Or maybe not.
Michelle, my Nelson friend, reminded me of this Taoist story: An old farmer’s horse ran away, so the farmer could not tend his crops. His neighbor said, how awful, to which the farmer replied, maybe. The next day the horse returned, with three wild horses. What good fortune, the neighbor said. Maybe, the farmer replied. The following day, the farmer’s son tried to ride one of the wild horses and was thrown off, breaking his leg. What misfortune, the chatty neighbor said. The farmer replied, as always, maybe. Not long after, war broke out and the army came around to the villages to draft the eligible young men. Not the farmer’s son, who was healing from his broken leg. The neighbor, always quick with his take on any situation, said, well aren’t you lucky. Guess what the farmer replied … Maybe.
The story isn’t over. There’s no clear message. Maybe. In the meantime, I can try to minimize the frustration and be grateful for my body’s (or is it my mind’s?) capacity to heal and move.
I’m in my mountains. Truckee, California. I call them mine, because I’ve been coming out here for three months a year for the last 14 years. And, usually, they are my happy place. A chance to slow down, to be more connected to nature than usual. To be on trails—running, biking or cross-country skiing.
But things are different this time.
I’m in the house I own with my ex. Filled with memories and my failure. What’s wrong with me, that I could not hold my 28-year marriage together? The house, with its lovely mountain view, is also a reminder of what I do not have anymore—financial security (I wrote about that back in March here). The house will either be sold, or my ex will keep it. In either event, I will, at least temporarily, lose the connection to nature that has nourished and sustained me for so many years. Yes, I acknowledge that I lived with great privilege. And, I wish I were a better person, a black belt in non-attachment and gratitude, able to move on with ease. I’m not. Instead, this is all depressing.
And there’s my health. A new diagnosis of Addison’s Disease, which continues to involve increases in my medication, as my potassium does not seem to want to settle down into normal range (I wrote about that last month here). My energy has returned, but the ongoing stress of regular blood tests, bad results and worried doctors is also depressing.
And it’s October—normally I would have come out to the mountains in the summer (and then again in the winter), but I couldn’t bring myself to come this past summer. My failed relationship felt too raw. Now I’m here, and I see that I have not healed enough. The grief rushes in, threatening to drown me. Plus, it’s cold (2 degrees Celsius) and dark in the mornings (we did a group post about the challenge of fall dark here). This past weekend was not only cold, but also a drizzly grey.
So, getting off the couch has been hard. I feel glued to the familiar, sun-faded fabric, where I used to spend easeful hours reading with my cat curled up close by. I lost her in April. Instead, now I’m watching endless Netflix, clicking on whatever the next show is that the algorithm proposes to me, too lazy to even choose. Reading feels too hard. My attention flees the page with restless lethargy.
As for getting outside in the mountains? Why bother? All this supposedly healthy outdoor exercise and I still ended up with a disease. An inner critic tries shaming me off the couch. You lazy piece of crap, you’ve got nothing better to do. Another voice in my head tries berating me off the couch. Just get the f*&%#k up. Fruitless.
Except.
Then there’s a quiet, gentle voice, barely audible at first. You will feel better. I promise you. You love the mountains. It’s never been about the exercise. It’s about joy. I retort that joy is impossible. Yes, the gentle voice says, that’s true. I won’t promise you joy. But being out there will be a tiny bit better than being glued to the couch. You don’t have to go for long. You don’t have to go hard. Go outside. Take some breaths of fresh air and be with the trees you love. Netflix will be here for you when you get back.
The gentle voice convinced me on Saturday. I went out mountain biking. My first day of the season, which is barely the season anymore. I felt less tentative than expected, given my sticky bum, so recently unglued from the couch. If I was in a better mood, I might have said that I felt bolder than expected. But I didn’t feel bold. I just didn’t feel scared, as I’d anticipated. There were even passing moments of almost-joy. Moments I overcame obstacles. Moments of flow. Moments when I danced with my bike. There were the trails, too. Familiar. Beautiful. Peaceful and wild. That’s enough. For now. A glimpse of the possible. In the future.
Given my experience on Saturday, I thought it would be easier to get out on Sunday. It was not. The glue set hard overnight and the couch would not let me go. A new voice in my head had all sorts of excuses. It’s foggy, rainy and cold, it could be dangerous on Castle Peak. There might not even be anyone else out there. Extra risk. It’s a whole different world now if something happens to you. A medic-alert bracelet isn’t much help if there’s no one to find you in the first place. Plus, there won’t even be a view. Why bother?
Again, the gentle voice intervened. She made several deals with me. I could finish my latest television binge first. I didn’t have to run the trail, if I didn’t want to. I’d take extra medication with me. I could listen to my book, Entangled Life, by Merlin Sheldrake, about all things mushroom. I’d turn around if it seemed dangerous, no shame.
Toward the top of Castle Peak in fog and Mina at the summit.
My bum had racing stripes from tearing away from the couch. I worried it would re-affix to the car seat and I wouldn’t get out when I got to the trailhead. Even as I got out of the car, I had doubts. Tears hovering in the wings. The first comfort were the cars in the parking area. The benefit of having been couch bound and coming hours later than I normally would. I wouldn’t be completely alone. I set off at a hiking pace, promising myself that I’d only run when I felt like it. Which turned out to be within 100 meters of starting. Every so often on the first half of the ascent I’d scale back to a hike, only to find that my bodymind wanted to keep running. Running felt better. As I reached the final steeper sections of the ascent, I moved into a fast-hiking pace, which is all I’ve ever really done in those bits, since it’s faster (something I learned when I was doing long trail events). At the top, the fog closed in on every side. There was snow on the spindly trees and shrubs still clinging to the rock at 9,000 feet. Unusually, there was no wind, so I could hear the ticking sound of small clumps of snow falling to the ground. Looking over the edge, the drop down to the valley below seemed even more precipitous than usual, because there was nothing there. I was inside the clouds I’d seen from below.
My last day on Castle Peak and I could see no further than a few feet in front of me.
The perfection of the metaphor was somehow comforting. I told myself that I was going to be okay, even if I had no clue yet how that would happen. I lingered on what I could see. As I listened to Merlin Sheldrake talk about the complexity and phenomenal resilience of lichens, I took in the bright green lichen on the rocks, geological time made manifest. My life, a blink of an eye.
Then the chill overtook me and I knew it was time for me to head down. I started at a slow run, re-discovering my agility as I went, recovering my confidence with every step and every misstep I navigated, until I hit cruising speed. Again, there were brushes with joy. Grief rinsed through me, too. I got back to the car with a sense of energized calm. I will be okay. It will take time. I will be okay. It will take time. I will be okay. It will take time.
Back home, the couch was cleared of glue. I could sit and read a novel. I know this is a cycle. I hope it is a spiral, in which each time I’m glued, I can remember sooner that getting outside helps clear a tiny portion of the clouds of depression. And even the itty-bitty-est more ease is something, after all.
The voice in my head, who I’ve named IO (pronounced ee-yo), doesn’t like the T-word. She says, “Don’t use that word to describe certain events in your life (such as being sexually assaulted by a tennis instructor). You’re going to get all fragile and breakable. All boohoo about shit. You’re a strong woman. I don’t want you to be defined by trauma. Also, nothing that’s happened to you begins to compare to what other people have experienced. What’s happened to you are only flesh wounds. Comparatively. Worse—they’re psychic wounds, which are literally not flesh wounds. Calling them wounds begins with the same letter of the alphabet as wallow.”
IO’s rough assessment is what led to a recent text-versation with a friend, in which she told me that she felt disconnected from me, “in the realm of trauma, because you have let me know that you don’t believe you are traumatized and find the word pathologizing.” She went on to say that she didn’t feel safe or free of my judgment in this context. Her words stung. I felt like a heartless ogre. The next morning, I woke tired, feeling fragile, questioning my relation to trauma—other people’s and my own, which is how I found myself thinking about my tennis instructor while riding my mountain bike.
I was riding up a trail I call True Grit 4. The trail has some steep bits and three short sections on which it’s always questionable whether I’ll make it or not (here making it equals staying on the bike). Questionable section one (QS1) went off without a hitch—smooth and still surprising each time I make it through the steep, sandy S-turn. QS2 was wonky. On a sharp left uphill littered with rocks, I rode up the wrong line, riding over rocks, instead of finessing between them, and almost abandoned hope. But I told myself I could still do it. And I did. A second surprise.
Mina on her mountain bike on a trail that’s not True Grit, but nearby
After two successes, I was feeling confident about QS3, so I let my mind wander to the tense text exchange from the night before with my friend. I started thinking about a pickle ball clinic I’d taken the week before. It was the first time I’d been on a tennis court since my long-ago lessons with that coercive instructor. Playing something similar to tennis. The first 15-minutes had brought back a rush of unease that swirled my stomach. IO was in top volume denial, telling me to get over it. As I pedaled, I thought about why I do not want to name that event as a trauma, even as my body was re-experiencing the self-disgust and shame.
And … I whiffed QS3. Normally, I’d just continue with my ride. But this day I was not going to accept the situation. I got off my bike. Hoisted it around on the narrow trail, walked it back 10 meters. Pointed it back up the trail. Gave myself a talking to. Gently. The voice of my centered, compassionate Self said, “You can ride this. Yes, you have every right to feel uneasy on a tennis court and we’ll talk about that. But this is not the moment to think about tennis.” This voice’s name is JG (yes, I name a lot of the voices in my head, because it helps create the distance that I need to get perspective on what they are saying).
I had barely enough time to clip back into my pedals before I was navigating between the rocks on the short steep turn that is QS3. I reassured myself it was okay if I didn’t clip back in. Lots of people ride mountain bikes now with flat pedals, not clipless. I was so focused on relaxing and not worrying about my pedals that I rode up with ease. I wasn’t thinking about tennis.
Later, I checked back in with IO. She told me that since the word trauma was on my mind she had been hitching on my shoulder for the ride. But when I got off my bike to try QS3 again and JG showed up, she went up the trail to watch my second try. IO said, “You looked great, by the way, relaxed and determined.” I was so surprised by her change in tone, I almost didn’t hear her.
On the mountain bike, in that moment on QS3, my psyche and body felt the difference between pushing away the name of trauma and accepting what is with empathy. Psychic or physical, our pain is real, not only a flesh wounds. Oh, and by the way, flesh wounds can be fatal. Why would I discount trauma? Life hurts. Life is not only a flesh wound. It’s a near fatal blow some of the time. Yes, I’ve been lucky, in the grand scheme. I won the lottery in my birth situation. But … my life hasn’t been a cakewalk either. When I insist on thinking of it as a cakewalk, I beat myself up about not being enough. Look at all those people who have overcome bigger obstacles than me to become great fill-in-the-blanks (artists, leaders, entrepreneurs). Why haven’t I done more with my life?!?!
JG says, “Compare and despair. Just stop. You are enough. Keep going, just as you are.”
JG says, “Yes, the tennis incident was hurtful and horrible AND you can keep going, not in denial or minimization, nor in wallowsomeness or exaggeration, but in acceptance and empathy, with confidence, with a spring in your step, with lightness and the grace of heated steel. You are under construction, not broken, and the scars not only make you stronger, they make you more beautiful. Wabi Sabi.”
That my traumas are not as big T as other people’s, does not relegate them to an offsite storage unit. The name of trauma is not in and of itself pathological. My wounds are part of me. Undeniable. Impactful. The key to flow in my life is finding the suppleness of empathic resilience. That’s what got me up QS3. And what got me home with joy and the zeal to write this. That’s what will open my heart to myself and other people. That’s what will get me up the mountain of life. Today and for the tomorrows.
I love mountain biking. In these COVID-times, with all the additional stresses, the sport is a meditative source of grounding, focus and joy.
This was not always so. It took me a lot of years to arrive at the relationship I have with the sport (and my bike). I dabbled in mountain biking for many years; i.e. a couple of decades. The first time I tried out mountain biking was more than 30 years ago. I bought a mountain bike to replace the city cruiser I had, figuring that it could do double duty—replace my dilapidated cruiser and be a source of off-road fun exercise too. I couldn’t quite achieve the off-road fun bit. I didn’t trust myself or my bike. I was so frustrated by my lack of skill, that I could never relax enough to develop the skills. I spent a lot of time walking my bike, while simultaneously cursing my ineptitude.
Then about eleven years ago, we bought this place I’m at in the California mountains that’s a stone’s throw from a huge network of fabulous trails. I ride out the driveway and I’m on single track trails within 2 minutes. I started riding once a week, as an off-day from trail running (another love). I still walked my bike a lot, but I improved. Very. Slowly. Then, when various running injuries forced me to reduce my mileage, I started to ramp up my time on the mountain bike. Well, hello, turns out when I ride more than once a week, I actually improve. Noticeably. And that’s a pleasant virtuous cycle—the more I improve, the more I enjoy the sport. I’ll come back to what I mean by improve in a moment. Then 5 years ago, as solace after my father died, I bought a new mountain bike. And holy cow, was I shocked to discover that all the new bike tech really did notch up my potential. For the first time I really felt like I was riding with a partner and friend—my bike, that is. I painted a flower on her crossbar with green nail polish, in thanks.
Mountain biking in an aspen grove in Vail, CO and leaning against an abandoned farm fence on my old mountain bike in the Euer Valley, CA
This year I’ve been riding a lot. Not because I can’t run, but because I want to ride. In a period of such pervasive anxiety (societal anxiety fuels personal anxiety and around the merry-go-round the anxiety goes), mountain biking demands my complete presence and attention. When my mind strays, I get knocked off my bike. When my mind focuses, I make it over, through and around obstacles I thought were impossible. Over and over again on my bike, I get an up close and personal look at how my mind either obstructs my progress or harmonizes fluidly with the world. In the best moments, I feel like I’m dancing on my bike. Pure woohoo joy (yes, I shout out loud, the happiness is too much to resist). In the less harmonious moments, I can usually see exactly how my own thoughts interfered.
There are, for example, certain obstacles I only “make” on some days—a steep sandy uphill, a hairpin over rock clusters, a pincer gap between two boulders. The days I don’t make them, it’s most often because I’ve started talking myself out of it before I get there. I’m thinking too much about whether I’ll achieve. The days I stay on the bike, I find the flow between going for it and not worrying about the outcome. So, when I mentioned above that I have improved my bike skill, that’s the skill I mean. Not whether I can ride over, around or through an obstacle, but whether I can find the right mindset. In other words, my mountain bike rides feel like an object lesson in learning to find that harmony between effort and no effort that allows us to feel in flow with the world. I liken this harmony or flow to what Taoism calls wu wei, or effortless action.
Being in flow on my mountain bike certainly doesn’t mean that everything is possible. There are still obstacles that are objectively not within my skill set. Yet. Or maybe ever. Staying open to the flow and noticing its ebbs, enables me to see more readily where I can do more and where I should stay humble, get off my bike and leave that steep rock drop off for another day.
One more reason why mountain biking works as a meditation—because, even as my skill evolves, every previous challenge has stayed fresh in my mind. Even if the last time an obstacle stumped me was a decade ago, I am grateful each time I meet it with ease. There’s no complacence in my developing skill. Going around rocks, whooshing through gulleys or popping over fat tree roots, I remember that they used to stop me in my tracks and I take an extra breath of thanks. Gratitude fortifies my ongoing curiosity and seasons each new skill I acquire with humility. Inside this sport, I am present with the delicate balance between acquiring and acknowledging my own expertise, while simultaneously staying curious (without judgment) to what’s new or changed.
The more I can learn to notice these subtleties in my rides, the more I can see how the same patterns play out in my life off-the-bike. How can I foster the harmonious coexistence of expertise and curiosity? Where can I find more flow? When am I giving up too soon? What can I let go of?
In meditation practice, being in the flow is what teachers describe as finding the calm below the turbulence of the waves in an ocean, or letting the silt settle to reveal the clear water in a glass. These are the metaphors for a clear, uncluttered, unobstructed mind. More than any other activity in my life (including my longstanding meditation practice), when I’m on my mountain bike, I get robust glimpses of the power of my clear mind. Again, meditation teachers tell us that the more familiar we are with that space and its possibilities, the more readily we can access our clear mind again.
I have found that to be true, on my mountain bike (and in life). The difficult part is that it takes constant curiosity. I was going to say hard work or vigilance, but those are such effortful terms. Just like peace is not achieved through violence, finding the flow of effortless action is not achieved by forced labour. What’s needed is expansive, open-hearted curiosity. Over and over. Staying alive to possibility is challenging. I want to do better. My mountain bike meditations help, but I’ve got a long road ahead. But then again, if the journey is the destination, to bowdlerize Ralph Waldo Emerson, well then, I’m doing okay.
How about you? Where do you find flow most easily in your life?
A friend of mine and I like to joke that if you’re buying women’s athletic gear (that is, workout or sporting gear targeted toward women), your only colour options are turquoise and berry, a certain shade of sort-of-pink-and-sort-of-purple. On a good day, you might be able to find something in lime, too, but that’s it! Those are your options! Whenever we see any gear in these colours, we send photos of it to each other.
A screenshot of a Facebook message. One participant says, “I actually don’t understand why EVERY brand seems to think women should only have these colours as options” with a crying-laughing emoji. The other participant says “Right???”
Here are some ski helmets she showed me:
A photograph of an online shopping page. Two ski helmets are displayed in profile side-by-side. One is berry coloured with grey straps, and the other is turquoise with grey straps.
And some socks I got for free with a recent hiking boot purchase:
A pair of hiking socks still in the package. The socks have thick black, purple, dark pink, and turquoise stripes. The brand name “Bridgedale” is partially visible on the cuff of the socks. The tag is grey and reads “Bridgedale Special Edition Striped Hiker.”
And look at the huge range of options on these Vasque hiking boots. I would go for the turquoise, but there’s always berry if turquoise isn’t your thing. (Admittedly, the berry option here is more purple, but the colour is actually called “Blackberry,” so I think it technically counts.)
Two hiking boots displayed in profile. One is black, grey, and turquoise and the other is black, grey, and purple. The turquoise boot has three semicircular turquoise accents along the side of the sole. The brand name “Vasque” is visible next to the laces on each boot.
And some maximally lady-suitable Dachstein hiking boots, if you don’t want to decide between turquoise and berry:
A single hiking boot displayed in profile. It has black and berry-coloured uppers with black and turquoise laces. The sole of the boot is black with a turquoise stripe. The brand name “Dachstein” is displayed next to the laces.
And some ski jackets, available in both lady colours! (“Silver/teal” is highlighted in this photo, but the other option is called “Berry/coral”.)
A photograph of an online shopping page. Two ski jackets are displayed. One is light pink on the top half and one sleeve and dark pink on the bottom and on the other sleeve. The other jacket is turquoise on the top half and one sleeve and light grey on the bottom and on the other sleeve. The turquoise and grey jacket is selected and above the images is text reading “Colour: Silver/Teal.” A mouse pointer is displayed below the jackets.
As with most gendered things, the problem isn’t the options themselves. It’s the restrictions. With women’s athletic gear, the problem isn’t the colours themselves. If you like turquoise (which I do), great. If you like berry (which I do), great. If you like lime (which I do), great. The problem is in the limited range of options, as though all women (and only women, as it’s hard to find men’s gear in these colours) will only like these colours. Where is the burnt orange? Olive green? Smoky grey? Dark red? Of course, sizing and fit and assumptions about women’s bodies when it comes to clothing are another issue altogether!
Here I am in my most turquoise/berry workout outfit, complete with berry backpack and turquoise shoes, with socks that are berry and turquoise and lime. (I’ve also got a turquoise iPod for working out. But I did that to myself.)
A 29-year-old white woman taking a selfie in a mirror. She is wearing a pink tank top, blue knee-length leggings, a black knee brace, and turquoise, berry, and lime socks. She is holding a berry-coloured backpack and a pair of grey and turquoise runners.
And another of me on my turquoise mountain bike with berry shorts, with a grey helmet with turquoise and berry stripes, and a grey shirt with turquoise accents.
The same subject as above riding a turquoise mountain bike. The rider is wearing a black knee brace, berry-coloured shorts, and a grey shirt and helmet. She is rounding a bend on a gravel and dirt trail, and is surrounded by ferns.
How about you, readers? What do you make of the colour options available for women’s gear?
Ledge surfer trail with cholla in foreground, saguaros on the hills
GPS weighs me down, physically and mentally. I pick my way up the technical rocky climb with more rocks on my right and prickly pear cactus on my left. I’m on my mountain bike, riding a route with about 50 others, to raise money for the Arizona Trail. AZT is the cross-state trail from Mexico to Utah.
It’s called a Jamboree, but right now, it’s no party. The 50 riders are spread over time and space. My riding buddy Lee and I started late and we’re following the designated route, but might bail out early.
I’m way too much in my head, and not enough in my body. GPS is on my mind. Later, when I plug the unit into the tracking website I will see how fast I went, distance, competitively compare myself to other women who have ridden designation segments along the route. I have an outdoorsy GPS unit, no sleek pocket-sized cell phone clone is tough enough for me. My unit is made for mountain biking or wilderness hiking or whatever adventure the burly rubberized shell transmits through the palm of its aspirational owner.
I’ve stashed the bulky unit into my backpack’s exterior pocket.
So I wonder about how fast I’m going, where’s the top of this climb? And we reach two young women, one of whom holds records for the Arizona Trail and the Great Divide Ride—she’s been fastest across the state and across the continent. Oh, and she’s riding a single speed bike, no need for all those extra gears to make things easier. Intimidation sets in. They stopped to take pictures, we all chat. I watch them ride away, easily pedaling and picking their way through stone drop-offs and twists of this trail nicknamed “Ledge surfer.”
I take a couple pictures with my GPS unit, and continue riding and sometimes walking with Lee. It’s a big cocktail party of a ride, we meet up with people going both directions, chat, and I know I’m not going to be top ten of any segment.
Later in the ride, I reach for the unit again to take picture of a perfect Arizona winter landscape: saguaro cacti, red rock cliffs, deep blue sky.
My GPS is gone! It bounced out of my pack somewhere along the trail. So I’m mad because it’s expensive to replace, and I can’t track myself anymore. But that’s also a relief. Now it doesn’t matter how fast I ride because the ride will never be posted on the website.
Soon after, the Jamboree route designers catch up to us on the trail. They are also legends of bike-packing in Arizona and the Great Divide. Lee knows them well and we chat briefly as they bounce down another rocky trail that I am hike-a-biking.
But then, sweet relief: a flowing trail where we weave in and out of a cholla cactus forest, up and down small rubbly hills. I follow the orange backpack ahead of me and enjoy the ride, the late afternoon sun shining on distant mountain ranges across the valley.
I’m riding with my dream team of local mountain bikers, we’re all just biking. Just being.
We head back to the trail head, through a “snowbird” RV resort. It’s one hundred or so sardine-parked RVs from the Yukon, Wisconsin, Minnesota and the rest of the frozen north. We hit the asphalt road for the final couple miles to the trailhead.
I’ve forgotten about GPS, I don’t care how far I’ve ridden or how fast. I just spent six hours biking on awesome trails, outdoors in my beautiful desert, in the sunny January of the Tucson Mountains.
Here’s the Arizona Trail Jamboree 2016 map and gpx routes if you ever want to ride 25 or 35 miles east of Tucson.
Okay, maybe not this. I don’t think I’d like this. Mostly because I’m sure it would involve my death. Death in a scenic location, but death, nonetheless.
I even blogged about my “big tent approach” to cycling here.
And it’s happening again.
May is the month of London’s Second Tweed Ride and the Springbank Road Race. I’ll be riding in one (in tweed!) and marshalling at the other (keeping geese off the 2.2 km race course).
1. Tweed Ride
Tweed Ride: The (Second Annual) London Tweed Ride is Saturday, May 9, 2015, and it’s time to register now!
It’s free!
It’s fun!
It’s for everyone!
And the first 100 to register on eventbrite (and ride) will be entered in a draw to win a bike! Sign up now and tell your friends!
On ride day, check in starts at 11:00am at Queens Park, site of the OEVCA Healthy Hearts for Spring Festival. We ride at noon, exploring London’s neighbourhoods and stopping for tea at Meredith Park in SoHo before returning to Queens Park by 2:00pm.
The London Centennial Wheelers are proud to present the 47th annual Springbank Road Races, to be held on Sunday, May 3, 2015 in London’s beautiful Springbank Park. This OCA sanctioned event will be held on the same closed 2.2 km course as in the past and offers over $4,000 in cash and prizes. The width of this fast and technical loop varies, combining a narrow paved path on the back of the course with a wide and flat finishing straight, and makes for exciting and spectator-friendly racing. This year the Springbank Road Races will again be part of the O-Cup, Ontario’s premier road cycling series.
Important: riders are asked *not* to pre-ride the course on the Saturday prior to race day. We have in the past had some rider/pedestrian near-misses, and would like avoid that this year. It’s bad publicity for the race, and puts a strain on our relationship with the City of London.
Online pre-registration will be available on the OCA’s webpage, and sign-in opens at 7:30am on the day of the race.
For more information, or to volunteer your time, please contact Chris Vlemmix (Race Director) via email at chrisv@speedpro.com or by phone at (519) 702-6022.
Finally, please note that the information provided on this website is for informational purposes only. In case of a discrepancy between this site and the official Technical Guide, the latter shall be taken as correct.
