The First Thing That Goes

I have riding friends that somehow, miraculously, manage to talk the entire ride or at least are heavily into chatting the first few miles.  Many of my friends are quite interesting and as long as listening - more on that in a moment - doesn't result in being dropped, I can tolerate it.  But, for some reason, the very first thing that happens when I depart on a group ride - that means 3 or more riders - is that I cannot carry on a conversation.

Peter often talked about music, or photography, or art.  I remember him lecturing on Dylan while spinning along at 28 mph.  Ugh.  Jack was the same way, and with the additional perspective as a law professor, his mental reach was scary deep.  The thing about Jack was that he would start in on a story and would still be working the same story three hours later.  Sheesh.  Troy talks about bikes, bike rides, bike riders, bike technology and starting businesses.  Hmmmm.  I bet that you have friends like that, too.  Chatty.

I am not socially morose by any means, but my inability to carry on a two way conversation on a ride is not from a lack of oxygen or any particular sort of inherent surliness or a desire to focus only on riding.  No, I find that I am simply unable to formulate verbal thoughts after a couple of miles.  My working theory is that the part of my brain that is responsible for speech is the first part that is sacrificed for the operational good of the whole.  I am convinced that I am genetically programmed to shut down my speech center and shunt whatever resources that are spared to some other part of my noggin. What part, who knows?

Riding, for me, involves leaving most of the world behind.  What I am chasing on most rides is a single, uncomplicated state.  If I am doing it right, I feel my body disappear along with my sense of myself.  My awareness extends only to my immediate surroundings.  I sense where the nearby riders are, how they are moving and responding to my movements in the group.  I am aware of the road and how the bike is responding to my changes in speed and line.  My normally nervous hands calm down and the music in my head quiets.  Sometimes even the bike disappears, when I am comfortable and feeling strong.  I can tell whether other riders are fresh or tired, nervous or relaxed, just by how they are on the bike.  It is such a strong connection, that it feels magical, like ESP or something. 

Certainly, others describe the same thing.  When there is so much information being input, that the self disappears and consciousness takes on a new form.  Only the essential remains.  It's risky to bring this up without being accused of being mystical, but once you have experienced the feeling, it's no mystery.  Flow is not new, and it's not just athletes, but musicians, writers, and others that chase flow.  For me, the sense of flow involves the experience of leaving the self behind and a selfless communication with the moment.  So forgive me if I don't seem overly eager to engage in a two-way.

It's perhaps paradoxical that I shut off one form of connection and communication to achieve another.  Achieving such a state or extended moments of such purity is why we suffer on the bike for weeks, months, and years.  Once achieved you want to go there again.  On Saturday.  At 7:30.  Wear your favorite socks or none at all.  It doesn't matter.  Be sure to show up. I want you there because I like riding with you.  Just remember, please, that I am not riding for the stories.