landscape lessons

for the book I'm soon handing over to my publisher (I still love the sound of that!) I'm having to answer oodles of questions that will help their marketing team determine the book's marketing plan.
one of the questions is this, how has landscape shaped you?

I could take that literally and say that climbing up all the mountains I do has put more bulk in my quads and less on my upper body...  but I don't think that's what they mean.

I realized that my answers have a lot to do with cycling, and that they have a lot to do with life in general.  which is, in reality, why I call this blog the tao of cycling.  the way, the path, the tao, of cycling....  which has very much to do with the way, the path, the tao of being.

these are what I listed as my answer, and if you read through them slowly and with thought, I hope it strikes you that you've had similar thoughts, feelings, and experiences.  because we're really all very much alike, as different as each one of us is.

landscape has taught me
to honor who and what I am.
to always breathe.
to remain rooted even when I'm soaring and flying.
to do what it is I'm meant to do.
that when I stop and listen the world around me grows deeper and richer and full of song.
that seasons are inevitable and restorative.
that a circle of mountains, no matter how far away, as long as they're in sight, can hug.
that the sound of even an unseen creek heals.
that peaks and summits are places to pause and celebrate.
that every mountain began as disruption.
to accept the purposefulness of all that naturally occurs.
to work hard and then soar.
to be patient.
to let loose and howl.

honor the deepest you, the one who knows you best and will gently guide you when you pause to truly listen.
namaste.

bananas

I'm pretty sure I've written about bananas before. about how they're called the perfect snack: full of vitamins and minerals and energy, completely contained in their own hygienic package.
about how great they are for you when you're cycling: quick energy, lots of potassium.
about how that would be great if only I liked them.
about how I eat them anyway, while cycling, because they're so great.

but today I'm sharing a different banana story.

it's taoist; it's from alan watts' what is tao, and I find it a perfect fit for cycling-taoist-buddhist-zen-like me. and hopefully, for you, too.

a lot has been said about the process, the journey, the path to a destination.
that the important piece--the meaningful part, the beauty of it--is in this process, not in the end result.
that we often think we'll be happy when we reach a specific goal, but what we find is that the most meaningful aspects of reaching that goal were the experiences we had along the way.
alan uses a banana to describe this concept, and I love him for it:

...if we begin to think about our goals in life as destinations, as points to which we must arrive, this thinking begins to cut out all that makes a point worth having. It is as if instead of giving you a full banana to eat, I gave you just the two tiny ends of the banana--and that would not be, in any sense, a satisfactory meal.

although I love the top of the hill, it's the work, the scenery, the overcoming of doubt, the smells, the rush of wind, the smiles and waves from fellow travelers along the way, it's all of these things that bring me satisfaction, that make me appreciate my destination even more.
the ends of the bananas aren't so great: even to me, one who doesn't care for bananas, I realize that the best part of it is the middle, and that's the part I'm supposed to enjoy.

today as I pedal up a hill not only will I thank the earth for gently lifting me up higher and higher into the sky, I will appreciate every single bite of my banana.
and my journey.

another gift from a snowplow

the other day I read a beautiful thought about climbing.
it suggested that instead of moaning, panting, whining and suffering your way up a hill, you be grateful for the earth's gentle rise that moves you higher and higher until you are standing atop a peak, gazing down at the lower spot from which you came.

from alan watts' what is tao?:
we speak of "the conquest of nature" . . . and of the "conquest" of great mountains like Everest. And one might very well ask us, "What on Earth is the matter with you? Why must you feel as if you are in a fight with your environment all the time? Aren't you grateful to the mountain that it lifted you up as you climbed to the top of it?"

ah. a much gentler way to approach those hills I so love, those canyons, those 9% grades. from now on I will let them lift me up.

unfortunately, the other day I neglected to remember this concept and I fought my way to the top of big mountain, sweating, breathing laboriously, wondering why my bike had so few gears.
when I reached the top, snow dusted mountain peaks visible miles and miles away, I expected to encounter the snowbank at the Morgan County sign, as I'd seen two weeks prior.
it was gone.
that three foot bank of snow was gone, and it was hard to imagine that it melted away during those fourteen days.
so I kept riding, slowly, having crested the peak and beginning to descend onto the back side of big mountain, wondering just how far I'd be able to go. had it really melted? or had the plow come through?
it was quickly apparent the snow mounds on either side of the road were sloped and obviously melting, and just as obviously pushed there, at some point, by a plow.

the hillsides are still thick with snow, shaded by the front of big mountain. the temperature dropped five degrees quickly, maybe ten, and I could feel cold radiating from the great piles of snow all around me. at times the road is narrower than a car lane, perhaps snow has slid across since the plow pushed its way through.
I traveled only to the end of the false summit, a mile and a half down, shivering and glorying in the thrill of being in this beautiful spot of earth I've never, ever seen blanketed with snow. less than a mile from the top is a sharply cut red earth hillside that you curve around, and it was still thick with snow: the deep rusty red earth, the milk-white snow, the rich green conifers, all deep and vibrant.

it's easy to think you've seen it all, you've been everywhere around, you've had every experience out there.
but it's never true.
the gift of the snowplow, this time, was obvious, and gratefully gathered to my heart.