A GENERAL SENSE OF BEING

The sense of being can’t be one solid thing. It moves constantly. It projects out and in, and it is very fickle. Nevertheless, there should be some attempt to relate to the overall situation, to a sense of the whole. It is like looking at a string of beads or an animal’s tail. When a lot of little beads are strung together, you have a mala or a necklace; hundreds of small hairs put together become a tail. So there is a general sense of being, made out of lots of little things put together.

  — From “Being and Projecting,” in TRUE PERCEPTION: THE PATH OF DHARMA ART, p.77.

“Compassion has nothing to do with achievement at all. It is spacious and very generous. When a person develops real compassion, he or she is uncertain whether he is being generous to others or to himself, because compassion is environmental generosity, without direction, without ‘for me’ and without ‘for them.’ It is filled with joy, spontaneously existing joy, constant joy in the sense of trust, in the sense that joy contains tremendous wealth, richness.”

From “The Open Way,” in CUTTING THROUGH SPIRITUAL MATERIALISM, page 99.

  — Chögyam Trungpa (1939 - 1987), Tibetan Buddhist teacher.

BASIC SANITY

In contrast to the traditional medical model of disturbances, the Buddhist approach is founded on the belief that basic sanity is operative in all states of mind. Confusion, from this point of view, is two-sided: it creates a need, a demand for sanity. This hungry nature of confusion is very powerful and very important. The demand for relief or sanity that is contained in confusion is, in fact, the beginning point of Buddhism. That is what moved Buddha to sit beneath the bodhi tree twenty-five hundred years ago — to confront his confusion and find its source — after struggling vainly for seven year in various ascetic yogic disciplines.

Basically, we are faced with a similar situation now in the West. Like Siddhartha before he became the Buddha, we are confused, anxious, and hungry psychologically. Despite a physically luxurious prosperity, there is a tremendous amount of emotional anxiety. This anxiety has stimulated a lot of research into various types of psychotherapy, drug therapy, behavior modification, and group therapies. From the Buddhist viewpoint, this search is evidence of the nature of basic sanity operating within neurosis.

From OCEAN OF DHARMA: 365 Teachings on Living Life with Courage and Compassion, number 34.

  — Chögyam Trungpa (1939 - 1987), Tibetan Buddhist teacher.

LIVING ON THE RAZOR’S EDGE

Nowness is the sense that we are attuned to what is happening. The past is fiction and the future is a dream, and we are just living on the edge of a razor blade. It is extraordinarily sharp, extraordinarily tentative and quivering. We try to establish ground but the ground is not solid enough, because it is too sharp. We are quivering between that and this. … This razor-blade quality is something more than psychological irritation. Life as a whole becomes penetratingly sharp — unavoidable and at the same time cutting. We could say that is the living description of the truth that life contains pain. According to Buddhism, life or existence is defined according to the truth of suffering, which is the razor blade.

From “The Razor’s Edge,” in ORDERLY CHAOS: THE MANDALA PRINCIPLE, pages 18 to 19. All material by Chogyam Trungpa is copyright Diana J. Mukpo and used without permission.

This article, in its original form, appeared in the final edition of the Bridgestone Owner’s Bunch (BOB) Gazette, in 1994.

What is the most frustrating thing that can happen to a cyclist?

I think one of them is being forced to walk. One weekend, late in the summer of 1994, I had that experience.

Since my weekly mileage had been rather low, I felt the need to push myself, and went on an 80-miler. I left my Nob Hill apartment about noon, made my usual stops at Il Fornaio on Union Street for paninis and at City Cycle (across the street) for Gu while on my way to and through the Presidio to the Golden Gate Bridge. From north end of the Bridge, I dropped into Sausalito and rode through Mill Valley, then climbed Camino Alto to drop into Corte Madera.

By then, the weather had warmed due to the Bay Area’s lovely microclimates, so I took off my arm and leg warmers and stuffed them into a jersey pocket.

I worked my way through Fairfax, around Nicasio Reservoir, through Samuel P. Taylor State Park, and several small towns you haven’t heard of unless you live in the Bay Area, and eventually reached what is locally called the Paradise Loop, around the peninsula that forms Tiburon.

That day, Paradise proved to be anything but. It was almost 6 o’clock, and the fog was starting to roll back in, so I reached back and discovered that my my arm and leg warmers had disappeared.

“Not a problem,” I thought. “It’s a short loop. I’ll finish before it gets really cold.”

Climbing the first short hill on Paradise Drive, I began to hear a “tick-tick-tick” noise coming from my rear wheel. After stopping and looking vainly for the source, I hopped back on my bike and continued on. A few miles later, I was riding a flat.

“Still not a problem,” I thought. I whipped out my spare tube, wrestled off the tire and replaced the tube, and off I rode, discarding my old tube. A mile or so later, I had another flat.

I know, I know … it’s never a good idea to discard a punctured tube, especially not mid-ride. And no, I didn’t just toss it on the side of the road … I threw it away in one of the garbage cans at the end of a driveway.

“This could be a problem,” I thought. I remove the wheel, wrestled with the tire again, and removed the tube. I had forgotten one of the cardinal rules of flat repair and didn’t check my tire for sharp objects. This time, I found a wire embedded so deep that I had penetrated the tube twice. The “tick-tick-tick” noise was the wire hitting the brake calipers as the wheel turned.

I patched both holes, replaced the tube, and off I rode.

Psssssshhhhh…

“This is definitely a problem,” I thought. Again I removed the wheel, wrestled with the tire, and removed the tube. This time I was looking at a valve stem partially torn away from the tube. I was 20 miles from home, with no spare tube and a useless patch kit, and I was at least 5 miles from payphone (this was in 1994, before the now-ubiquitous cell phone).

I took off my shoes and socks and started walking.

Mmmmm … barefoot walking on asphalt, when it’s in the 60s and temperatures dropping by the minute. FUN!

Around 7 o’clock, it got foggy and windy. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, after several people passed without a second glance-even a few riding (gasp!) Bridgestones-a guy on a titanium wonderbike (again, still a relative rarity back then) rolled by and asked if I needed help.

“Yeah! Gotta spare tube?” I shouted back.

“No patch kit?” he asked. So I told him what happened.

“Hmmm,” he replied. “I only have spare sew-ups. In a pinch you can stretch one on a clincher rim, as long as you’re careful cornering. Want to try it?”

At that point, I would have tried a mountain bike tire and a Band-Aid if there was a chance it would get me home. He gave me a brand-new Vittoria CX, which we stretched over the rim. Sure enough, it worked, and off I rode.

While heading up the other side of the Tiburon Peninsula on my way back towards Mill Valley, my saviour passed me going the other direction, turned around, and joined me.

“How’s it holding up?” he asked.

“Pretty well, so far,” I replied, so we continued to ride and chat for a while. I promised to send the tire back to him, and eventually we went our separate ways.

At this point, I had been out for about eight hours, had three flats, and had lost a layer of clothing. The Bay’s famous fog and winds were out in full force, and I couldn’t face the climb back up to (and then the ride across) the Bridge; luckily, I still had time to catch the last ferry from Sausalito back into the City, and made it home without further incident.

Who was my benefactor? His name was Chris Cameron, then an advertising director for Mountain Bike magazine.

Sure hope he doesn’t mind having his name put out there, some 13 years after the original incident; and I wonder what he’s up to these days. Still riding, I hope.

I’ve always felt that BOBness is an attitude, not limited to cyclists, and is definitely not acquired just by joining the Bridgestone Owner’s Bunch or becoming a member of Rivendell Cycle Works.

To me, a BOB is a person who understand there are more important things about cycling than just the latest equipment (or the rejection of same) and training times.

Cycling is not about racing; it’s not about how quickly you can climb your local mountain; it’s not about how far you can ride; it’s not about fenders and 32mm wide tires and matching Carradice bags; and it’s definitely not about what kind of bike you own, be it lugged steel, aluminium, titanium or even carbon fibre.

The most important thing about riding a bike is simply that … just riding. As individuals, we shouldn’t let magazines (not even the Rivendell Reader) dictate our attitudes about equipment.

BOBness is part of the psyche; part of the soul

Among other things, it’s a willingness to help a stranger without expecting any more than a thank you in return.

In my opinion, Chris’s actions that late summer afternoon in 1994 epitomize this attitude.

Recent experiences in other parts of my life make me think back to that day; and one thing that I’ve come to realize is that there was almost an almost Zen-like (or at least my interpretation of Zen) quality I once had towards bicycles; a quality I’d like to rediscover.

I’ve been giving some thought to resigning my position with my current team, to just going back to riding for enjoyment. When I joined the team 3 years ago, it’s because the attitude was of having fun … riding bikes and drinking beer; and it really didn’t matter how we did in competition. It seemed for a long time that there was a slot saved in second-last (or NQDFL) for a Cutthroat rider.

These days, I’ve lost my joy of riding. The team is doing better at races, people actually train, and it seems like much of the fun has gone out of it, especially for me.

For the past couple of years, I’ve not ridden my bikes much at all … a lot of which has been due to dealing with various life issues, such as depression and divorce, but also because it just isn’t as fun as it once was …

Most of the time I do ride, it’s by myself; because I don’t have to worry about holding people back, or the ride turning into a mini-race.

There is a time and a place for racing, but does racing or training to race have to be a part of every ride? I don’t think so …

On the other hand, I know people who totally reject racing as well … for them cycling is still all about the equipment, but in the opposite direction of the racers; cycling is about fenders and bags and wool and seersucker, or about fixed-gears and brakes (or no brakes).

And it really shouldn’t be about any of it … or it should be about all of it.

Oh, I’ll still ride cyclocross (since what I do can’t really be called “racing”), simply because it’s such a blast … and I love that the Utah Cyclocross series is a situation where I can have a positive impact by helping make it possible for those who want to race to do so.

No decisions about the team just yet … just a long ramble.

Addendum: Call me a hypocrite if you will, but despite all the above rambles, I still think that recumbents are sick and wrong.

Author unknown, but I first heard it from Grant Petersen, of Rivendell Bicycle Works … I don’t remember if he told it to me, or if it appeared in one of the old (Bridgestone) BOB Gazettes or in the Rivendell Reader. The original source really doesn’t matter; but rather what the story illustrates.

A Zen teacher saw five of his students returning from the market, riding their bicycles. When they arrived at the monasteryand had dismounted, the teacher asked the students, “Why are you riding your bicycles?”

The first student replied, “The bicycle is carrying the sack of potatoes. I am glad that I do not have to carry them on my back!” The teacher praised the first student, “You are a smart boy! When you grow old, you will not walk hunched over like I do.”

The second student replied, “I love to watch the trees and fields pass by as I roll down the path!” The teacher commended the second student, “Your eyes are open, and you see the world.”

The third student replied, “When I ride my bicycle, I am content to chant nam myoho renge kyo.” The teacher gave praise to the third student, “Your mind will roll with the ease of a newly trued wheel.”

The fourth student replied, “Riding my bicycle, I live in harmony with all sentient beings.” The teacher was pleased, and said to the fourth student, “You are riding on the golden path of non-harming.”

The fifth student replied, “I ride my bicycle to ride my bicycle.” The teacher sat at the feet of the fifth student and said, “Ahh…. I am your student!”

People ask me why I don’t train as I should if I want to be a competetive racer, especially for cyclocross since I love it so much … somewhere along the line I realized that cycling to me is not about being competitive; it is simply about riding the bike.

I love cyclocross; I love that it’s about bursting a lung, while your heart is pounding, pounding, pounding in your chest, and the entire contents of your abdomen from neck to gut feel like their about to eject from your mouth … “oh look! there’s my spleen!”

Riding cyclocross is not about winning for me. It’s about having fun. It’s about riding my bike.

So why didn’t I ride yesterday’s race up in Heber? Multiple reasons; first and foremost is that I have been recovering from a back injury, and am completely out of shape … and I don’t believe in inflicting pain on myself in such a manner that will keep me off the bike (or off the ski slopes) even longer.

I also enjoy watching watching cyclocross; I enjoy seeing other people experience the same sort of exhilarating pleasure of suffering that I get … and if enabling others to experience that same thrill means that I must sacrifice, then that is what needs to be done.

There is a full season of cyclocross ahead … I guarantee that I will hack up my spleen and kidneys at a few of them.

Buddha with a Cell Phone

The dark sky opens and it starts to rain. I go outside
to stand in the stream, the longed-for gift of water
where it hasn’t rained for so long. I shout and dance
with the dog, who puts his ears back and licks my nose.
When we come back in, he shakes and I do too,
a few drops flying off my hair. I notice the Buddha
sitting on my desk. He’s a rubber Buddha
in a yellow robe. If you squeeze him he squeaks.
He’s got a radiant smile on his face, his eyebrows
happy half-moons over his eyes. As I stare at him
my wife walks by and with a cheery Buddha-like glint says,
“It’s raining.” In his right hand the Buddha’s got a cappuccino
and in his left a cell phone pressed to his ear.
His lips are closed so I know he’s listening, not talking.
One more thing—I pick up a little kaleidoscope
lying next to the Buddha and lift it to my eye to look outside.
I thought it would make the raindrops glitter
through the autumn-dry corn but instead what I see
looks like the ceiling of a great cathedral.
I whirl around and am presented with the image
of a thousand rubber Buddhas, each one
a drop of rain, falling, ready to hit the ground

  — David Romtvedt (b. 1950), American Poet; Poet Laureate of Wyoming.

Surf Buddha

There is a sandalwood Buddha on the desk that has my stomach
and I don’t suppose to call myself a Buddha
or even pretend to know much about Buddhist whirlings
but Rachel gave me the thing and it’s got my belly
the one my father has got
and the one his father had
and I know this bulge the way I know my name,
and can’t believe I’ve become the language of fat
that the boys in my family have kept quiet.

but the days have been glorious and people die in truck crashes
and men beat their wives and flowers bloom purple
and the cardinal I’ve named Jack always comes around my way at this time,
4:40 in Baldwin on the Island,
Wes Montgomery on the Sony
and I don’t know if it’s his song Cariba or the wind on my swollen toes
that makes me pick up the little guy, stick him in my mouth,
swirl him around between teeth and cheek,
place him on the edge of my tongue and let him surf there,
through the neighborhood of my white heat,
on the curl of my pink waves.

  — Matthew Lippman, American teacher and poet.