Carousel riders on the storm

It's one of those classic Indiana summer evenings.  Folks are at the county fair, sloshing through the mud from the storm that went through an hour ago, watching the western skies for the next storm that is looming on the horizon.  Food vendors who make their living selling elephant ears and lemon shake ups are experiencing the storm in terms of lost revenue.  Carnival workers are reveling in a few moments of quiet while the games and rides sit still and motionless.  Teenagers are absentmindedly sitting amidst the cows, pigs and horses they've worked hard to raise and prepare to be showed.  A few young people are forlornly wishing that the storms wouldn't have kept them from riding the carousel with a newfound love--or at least a newfound "like-a-lot."

Although I enjoy the fair, I'm not at all disappointed that I'm sitting at home watching the storms roll in on the western horizon.  I've always enjoyed storms and the thunder and lightening that often accompany them.  As a child I would sneak out the upstairs window onto the second story porch of our farmhouse and sit in the rain, letting it drip down my face and into my eyes and mouth.  As an adult, I sometimes stand on the patio while a storm rolls in and practice yoga, facing into the wind and raindrops as they come.  It's easier to be present in the midst of a summer thunderstorm.  I simply love a good storm.

I was raised in Coatesville, Indiana.  Coatesville's only claim to fame is that it was nearly completely destroyed by a tornado in 1948.  Many people raised in Coatesville, especially those old enough to remember the tornado, are deathly afraid of storms.  My great-aunt Gracie was known to lock herself in a closet or bathroom when a storm was coming.  She would cover her eyes and ears and simply panic while the storm passed through.  She was terrified.

I don't know what caused my great-aunt to be so afraid of storms.  I suppose it was the tornado.  I don't know why I love storms so much that I will often sit in a lawn chair in my open garage, letting the wind whip my hair and the rain fall on my toes and legs.  I suppose that a good summer storm is a little reminder of the recently forgotten harsh winter weather--weather that keeps us from going about our daily plans.  I also suppose that a strong storm is one of the few ways that we are all forced to deal completely and, often suddenly, with the brute forces of nature.  A storm doesn't choose a bad neighborhood or immoral people on which to exact its forces.  No one in the area is exempted and we all face a common threat--but not the threat of an enemy.  We face the unlikely threat of harm and loss of our homes or belongings.  We are completely unable to control our destinies for the duration of the storm.  Aside from our ability to predict, be warned, and hide in a closet with our eyes and ears covered, we must simply be present and endure.

I love a good storm in the summertime--even if it means I'm going to miss a ride on the carousel with my sweetie.

Meditating Across Indiana

I'm sitting on the living room couch, a little sore, a little tired, but with a feeling of accomplishment.  Yesterday, I awoke at 4am, prepared my ritual bowl of oatmeal and headed out to Terre Haute, Indiana.  My bicycle was cleaned and polished, my water bottles were full, my lunch was packed and I was well-trained and ready for my fifth consecutive Ride Across INdiana (www.RainRide.org).

Riding a bicycle long distances has been an important part of my weight loss journey (www.HowILost100Pounds.com) over the past several years.  People who know me well know that I spend many of my free hours on a bicycle, alone.  In most years I average over 2000 miles traveled by bicycle.  Sometimes I ride in organized events.  Sometimes I go on cycling tours with others.  Most of the time, however; I ride by myself--many times more than 100 miles in a day.

I'm not sure whether my obsession with solitary cycling was an early sign of my need to meditate or whether I've fallen so in love with this activity because it's a natural way to meditate.  As a Buddhist practitioner who practices primarily alone, I meditate, sitting seiza style (on a bench) due to my inordinately tight hips.  I meditate, typically once or twice a day for about twenty minutes.  I've never done walking meditation, but I've read that it's a completely legitimate way to break up long hours of seated meditation.

In the past year or two, since my meditation practice has started to more fully develop, I've realized that long distance cycling is a very powerful form of meditation.  Long hours alone, with only the sounds of my wheels turning, the wind blowing, and occasional birds chirping provides a perfect setting for prolonged meditation.  Before becoming more determined with my meditation I used my time on the bicycle to solve problems, contemplate the future, and reminisce about the past.  Yesterday, I rode 160 miles in eleven and one half hours.  During that time, I mostly focused on my breath, the feelings in my constantly pedaling legs and the 'sickish' feeling in my stomach.  (The heat and one-too-many protein shakes took their toll on my innards.)  A few times during the day I found myself thinking about work or family or other issues.  With those precious few exceptions, the entire day was spent focusing on the present--breathing in, breathing out, noticing the trees, pedaling, shifting gears.  I found a remarkable peace that seemed to be consistent whether I was climbing a hill, sweating profusely in the afternoon sun, or stopping to have my water refilled.

Although my body is sore and tired from the day-long ride, my mind was, and still mostly remains, clear and calm.  I've read about many types, styles and traditions of meditation.  I'm not sure if distance bicycling has ever been explored and cataloged by the great Zen masters but, for me at least, it's a great way to clear the mind, enjoy the out-of-doors and stay healthy.

Not so good vibration

I've recently experienced episode of "phantom vibration."  I've been walking, sitting, riding in my Jeep when I feel a vibration in my pocket or on my hip, reach down to grab the offending device, only to find it's not vibrating.

I'm not exactly sure what to make of this phenomenon.  I've carried a cell phone for years, pagers for years before that.  On my person, at almost all times are three devices capable of an inorganic vibration.  I carry my phone on my belt next to my insulin pump.  My continuous glucose monitoring system is usually in my hip pocket.  Two of these devices routinely vibrate to let me know that my diabetes needs some attention.  My phone rings routinely to let me know that someone else needs attention.

The phantom vibrations tend to happen when I'm at work, between tasks during a busy day.  Most of my days are busy.  On the positive side, the phantom vibration causes me to be mindful of my diabetes and, by extension, my health.  That's not so bad.  On the other hand, it's fairly annoying and, frankly, makes me think I'm a little nuts.  At this point, I've not found a lesson in this weird occurrence--it's just weird and a bit annoying.  Perhaps there will be more on this later...

Stages

I have been a serious recreational bicyclist for over five years now.  In a "good" year I'll put between 2000 and 2500 miles on my various bicycles.  Most of those miles I ride by myself.  This weekend I will participate in my fifth consecutive Ride Across INdiana or RAIN ride, in which over 1000 cyclists ride over 160 miles, across the state of Indiana, in a single day.

As part of preparing for the RAIN ride, I've spent the past several weekends increasing my mileage.  I start with 30-40 mile rides in the spring and by this time of year, I'm usually getting in a "century" (100 miles in a day) most weekends.  Last weekend I rode 120 miles from my home in Danville to West Lafayette, Indiana.  The route I took wasn't particularly scenic, hilly, or interesting.  In fact, at one point, I realized that after I turned left onto a four-lane state highway, that I would be riding 30 flat miles without any turns, hills or any place to stop for water or supplies.

After a mile or so, I found myself focusing on my breath.  I occasionally noticed a car passing a bit too close or a bird flying through my field of vision, but mostly I focused on my breath.  When cycling, my breath is a little more labored--not extremely so, but it's still a little more than when I'm walking or at rest.  Several minutes later, I realized that I had ridden several miles without realizing that time had passed.  I wasn't asleep or unaware of the road during that time, but time didn't pass as it normally did.  In fact, at the end of the ride, which took almost ten hours, I realized that the time passed very quickly.  It made me think about the types or "stages" of meditation that I have studied.  It made me wonder if I had experienced a type of "samadhi," one of the points in meditation in which you become intensely focused and the mind becomes still and concentrated.

Although I'm not a huge fan of bicycle racing, the Tour de France happens to be going on at the same time that I'm training for the RAIN ride.  In "The Tour" each day is called a "stage" and is made up of a different type of riding.  Some days are mountainous, some days are made up of "time trials" or sprint-type races.  Each day is focused on a different type of riding, demanding different skills and strengths from the riders--all of which are challenging.

All of this made me realize that I've been retreating to cycling for the past five years or so as a source of retreat.  Prior to cycling, I was an avid gardener.  Prior to gardening I enjoyed fly-fishing.  Each of these activities happened in solitude and took several hours.  I think I have been using these activities as a meditative retreat, for many years, without realizing it.  I think that, although I've only been formally practicing Zen meditation for a year or so, I've actually been experiencing something very similar for all my life.  Not too long ago, I disclosed my Buddhist practice to my sister.  I sort of expected a surprised reaction from her.  However, her reaction was not surprised at all.  After I explained a few of the key components of the practice, she said "Bub, I think you've been a Buddhist all your life and you're just now realizing it."