Pool of cool water and the Zen of cycling.

This evening I rode home from work. I stayed until nearly 7, dashing away from an in-house meeting just in time to retrieve my bike before the station locked up for the night. (This, of course, meant a different mix of path-users than the rush hour group dominated by bike commuters just trying to get home, and accustomed to riding.)

A mile into the ride, just north of Chicago Ave, along the lake, I had a wonderful experience: I wish the memory were as good as the original.

As I inhaled the lake air, smelling wonderfully fresh, a really cool breeze wrapped itself around me. The tactile experience, combined with the smell, felt, for a moment, just as though I'd dived into a pool of cool clear water. Then, as quickly as I could recognize the sensation, the breeze shifted, warmed, smelt of nothing, and it was over.

I couldn't help but think of Mother Theresa's breath of fresh air, five weeks of joy amidst a long dark night. Those sorts of moments are so precious, yet so few. Perhaps if there were more, they'd mean less. Perhaps.

The other thing I wanted to write about, for the last days really, is the mindset I find myself in while cycling.

Going in to work, there's little traffic, and nearly all are experienced path-travellers, each in their own world, many commuting to work. It becomes a race against the clock, an endurance activity. Sprint after rest after sprint; my ride starts with a street warmup, some twisty path, then the first of three straight "sprint" sections, each separated by some more twisty (at 20mph) narrow path, then the final run into the city. I know where I'll start feeling fatigue, when I do. The game of coaxing my tired body to perform is entirely mental.

The ride home is a true Zen exercise. The phrase that means "skillful means" comes to mind. There are others; I don't use the vocabulary and can't remember them. The path is crowded at times with pedestrians, casual riders, skaters. Lots of people unaware of their surroundings; I'm the fastest one out there, and watch traffic in both directions, endlessly assessing risk, calculating whether I can pass one roadblock before the one going the opposite direction approaches, observing who might be inexperienced and walk across my path or weave into it, ready on the brakes, with a yell, or a bit of silent avoidance.

(If you've ever been buzzed by a cyclist, chances are that the results of a split second calculation were that more danger would be created by alerting you of their presence than of silently passing.)

The challenge of fatigue isn't there; I'm awake, fed, fresh, ready, with seemingly unlimited power to accelerate off any light or slowdown.

I'm prepared for anything, thinking of everything, at the same time, thinking of nothing, watching, ready, watching, watching. When something happens I move smoothly, calmly, moving with my obstacle as I overtake it.

Similarly with cars, except that if anything goes wrong, I'll end up in the hospital. I am as calm as on the path, but the risks are higher, and the calm seems eerie. Sometimes I ride up Lincoln Ave. Cars do the damndest things; they just don't realize that people are in the bike lane and that if it's blocked, they've nowhere to go. I'm hardly shy about planting myself in the middle of a lane (if cars see me they will not hit me) when that's more likely to keep me in one piece, but I do outpace cars because they wait in line for lights and I march to the front of the line. Green means go.

But there's parallel parking on each side of the street. And it's rush hour.

I find myself with an utterly empty mind, even while I ride hard, analyze my speed, traffic, anticipate whatever I'll have to avoid. And yet, empty mind, utterly alert. It's the Zen of cycling.