A French Bulldog Makes Connections

With some time off around Labor Day, I packed my bike in the back of a $137/week (including tax!!) rental car and headed out for a Taoist weekend in Yogaville. It was a spur-of-the moment decision. I had wanted to go to my usual “spiritual home” – the Himalayan Institute in Honesdale, PA. But I’d hoped to share the 5-hour drive with my friend Gayle. Gayle is hard in training for the New York to DC Climate Ride in three weeks and didn’t feel she could take the time off from her rigorous schedule. As a side note – Gayle is 65 years old and has been doing 60, 70, even 90 mile bike rides to get in shape – so, GO GAYLE!! But I couldn’t face the long drive alone and decided to go to Yogaville instead – a much shorter 3-hour trip.

I arrived a day early, getting there in plenty of time for a pre-dinner yoga class. The next morning – after another yoga class – I was determined to spend the morning writing. I’d lost all the edits I’d done while in Minnesota and, well, let’s just say it hasn’t been a highly productive summer for writing.

But I was distracted by mournful howls penetrating the stillness of my room. I peeked out and saw that, across the way, a lonely French Bulldog was parked in the window of another room, wailing for its human companion. I went over and talked to her through the window, reassuring her that someone would be back soon. It seemed to calm her down and I was able to complete the edits on one essay. I then took a laughing yoga class, which definitely cheered me up, went for a post-lunch bike ride, and had a massage – not a bad way to spend a day.

As I left my room the next day, the little Bulldog came running over to me (the door to her room was open). I don’t think it’s anthropomorphism when I say she wanted to thank me for my visit the previous day. Her gratitude was so great that, when I started walking to lunch, she insisted on following me. I went back to the room and found her owner – letting her know that Naima (I’d read her nametag) was about to take off with me.

The rest of my stay at Yogaville was filled with learning some of the lovely practices from the NI family style of Qi Gong: the Dao-IN and The Eight Treasures, as taught by Paul Olko. After eyeing each other throughout the 4-day workshop, another participant and I finally realized that we had known each other through mutual yoga buddies many years ago and we had a good time catching up on old friends and memories. As a counterpoint to the quiet Qi Gong sessions, each afternoon I took a bike ride in the sweltering heat. What a joy to ride on gently rolling country roads with hardly a car – even though the heat wore me out.

On Sunday afternoon Naima was outside again and, as I went over to pet her, her owner asked if I was from New York, and did people tell me all the time that I looked just like Jane Goldberg? I’m not from New York, and I don’t look like Jane Goldberg – but I do know that she’s an awesome tap dancer because Sarah, one of my oldest friends, used to dance with her in New York. As we started connecting the dots, it turned out that Naima’s human was Connie – a good friend of Sarah’s. The two of them had performed as The Doily Sisters at La Mama in New York more than 30 years ago. What a small world it turned out to be.

Connie was at Yogaville for a different program and we never would have connected, had not dear little Naima brought us together. We only had a short time to talk, but Connie and I were delighted to find each other. It seemed the hand of fate guided me to Yogaville.

Guest Blog from the Cyling Yogi ...being about Kundalini Bliss, Google Maps and the Male Ego

[Note from Biking Yogini: Although the Cycling Yogi is no longer my partner, I am sharing his (somewhat lengthy) musings  - despite my very different thoughts about the value of "inner peace," which is, IMHO, more compelling than ecstasy. But readers can decide for themselves.]

It was four years ago this week that BY was to me just a face on the computer screen.  What intrigued me were her vivid accounts of two kundalini experiences (she had no trouble naming them).  I wish I could say that what I experienced was sympathetic joy or the curiosity of the expanding mind, but in truth what I felt was more like I WANT THAT.

Peace, IMHO, is overrated.  I’m not speaking of the cessation of war, which is the highest, most transformative social and political movement toward which we can work.  I mean “inner peace”, by which we often mean “mindfluness-based stress reduction,” not to be confused with numbness. We want our sleep to be less troubled.  But if that’s all we get from our practice, we’re selling ourselves short.  Ecstasy - State of Wonder - Rapture - Cosmic Thrill - Explosive Joy - Abiding love - now that’s more like it!

What I really want is not to dispel my anxiety but to transmute it into spiritual rapture.

Some time in the last two years there began to appear in my Inbox twice-weekly emails from the Night Sky Sangha. This is a small, loose group of seekers that meets in Doylestown, 20+ mi north of me, under the chaotic charismatic choreography of Jeff P. (Jeff asked me not to put his name out where Google might find it, for fear of misunderstanding by the clients of his day job, where he specializes in accounting for government contracts.)  Jeff likes to write about escaping the illusion of ordinariness, embracing a radical vision of Things As They Are, which he calls by the name “This”.   Here’s a sample:

The reason enlightened people have an advantage is because they have become completely inebriated with the radiant nature of pure and abiding consciousness and know this fractal wonderland of WTF as themselves - thus there is no fear or bracing against unpleasant circumstances occurring to their person or body, since they have veritably transcended or seen beyond. They are easily and perhaps always immersed in the core intimacy of direct understanding that they are God - not as a willful or choice-burdened creator, but as the engine of creation, expressive dreaming, and awareness / sensorium of all permutation as a non-durational singularity.

Inspiring stuff.  Jeff is a poet.  Once before, I bicycled up to Doylestown to meet him and join his group.  I’d been corresponding with Jeff after posting on Daily Inspiration last week his explosive dismissal of the Four Noble Truths.  Last night I was tempted to plan a trip to Doylestown for his Sunday 9AM meditation group, but I didn’t feel quite enough juice.  I like my regular Sunday ritual: an hour of kundalini yoga, centered around a 10-minute headstand, followed by meditation and discussion group at my own local sangha, less than ¼ mile from home.  But by 6 AM, I was wide awake and I could feel the electric pull of Night Sky growing in my hara.  Perhaps I was influenced by a swimming buddy who

told me about meeting musicians in Rittenhouse Sq, getting to know them and inviting them home.  Isn’t openness my credo?  Isn’t it new people, new experiences and new ideas that keep me alive?  And the day dawned 68 degrees with clear blue above.

So I packed and got on my bike.  For my haste to leave, I had but two regrets:  I didn’t take time to plot out a Google Map route on small roads.  I can take Easton Rd to Willow Grove, and from there York Rd = Rte 273 goes straight to the Pebble Hill Church where Night Sky gathers.

Even though it’s a 4-lane commercial road, I figured that at this time in the morning the traffic would be tolerable, and it would cut off a couple of miles, eliminate stops to check the map, and get me there on time.  (I might have just used the Google Navigator app in my Droid phone, but the App stopped working.  I’d seen this same symptom once last month, and had finally (after missing a doctor’s appointment in the swamps of South Jersey) solved the problem by un-installing the automatic G-map update, reverting to the version that’s hard-wired into the phone.  But I felt I had no time to do that today.)

The other thing I didn’t have time for was my headstand.

So the bike ride wasn’t beautiful, but it was efficient.  The most interesting thing that happened was about ¾ of the way there, beginning a straight, seemingly vertical stretch of road, I heard “On your left!” and a thirty-something sportster zoomed by with his razor tires and carbon fiber spokes.  He wasn’t lean, but his calves meant business, and they flashed tattoos as he left me in his wake.  Well, I’m not free of the Male Disease.  I started churning the pedals, huffing and puffing. I stayed with him all the way to the top of the hill, and when he stopped for a sip of water, I couldn’t resist announcing, “On your left!” Yes, he passed me again a few minutes later, but I stayed within sight of him and his buddy until I turned onto Sugar Bottom Rd, off the highway and into the Night Sky.

I made the trip in 92 minutes, about 4½-minute miles.  I was pumped.  I was much earlier than I expected, the doors were all locked with not a meditator in sight, so I found a soft spot of grass and indulged my 10-minute headstand after all.

 Jeff looks like a balding, middle-aged accountant.  You’d never guess.  The group was pretty tame, it seemed.  But I’m here for an experience of wonder and mystery and bliss, and it is my expectation, my coming to meditation with this intention that will make it so.  It was a good meditation.  I have no complaints, except that I spent a lot of it writing this blog post in my head, turning present awareness into a story.  I suppose there are worse things to do.  Some time toward the end I had the thought: I’ve already had the experience I seek.  I probably have this experience regularly, maybe nightly, and I don’t remember it.  I don’t remember it because it’s not of this world.  It’s a pure state free of thought and sensation, and I routinely forget it because it has no connection to the concerns of my waking life.

After meditation, I was going to turn around and bicycle home, but Jeff extended me a personal invitation to join the group for breakfast in town, so I threw my bike in back of his van and accepted a ride.  At breakfast, Jeff got to talking about This again.  For improvisational poetry, it wasn’t bad.  He found a hundred ways to knock us out of our ordinary, to remind us that there was a reality radically separate from the thoughts in our heads.  

We don’t dwell in philosophy or conjecture or abstraction, we simply go directly to the curious nature of present experiencing and peel it back to see its nature, to peer into the present evidence of the nirvanic/samsaric disposition of having no condition imposed upon us.

That’s how you wake up, you just wake up, and wake up again; eschewing the predilection for turning unobtainable mystery into something you can have an opinion about.

But there was, I thought, a disconnect between the form of what he was saying and the content.  He wasn’t exuding joy and wonder.  He was taking center stage, absorbing attention, dominating a group of 6 people sitting around a table.  I couldn’t help wishing he would elicit his disciples’ personal truths and inspirations, instead of telling us what to think.  Sigh.  This is what’s wrong with men, you know.  

I tried a couple of times to subvert the protocol, to get us away from the classroom model where the teacher lectures and responds to questions, addressing one student at a time.  But I got the impression that others around the table were comfortable with what they were getting, and it’s what they came to breakfast for.  I quietly slipped over to the cashier and paid everyone’s tab.  (It wasn’t a gesture of generosity so much as a reminder about random acts of kindness and senseless beauty.)  Jeff interrupted his lecture to say good-bye as I put on my helmet and backpack.  I thanked him for his poetry.

I figured out how to delete the updates to G-Map, and on the way home, I followed the voice directions for bicycle.  G-Nav took me way west of the route that I had travelled earlier.  She introduced me to a bike path along the side of Rte 202, which was new and smooth and just a bit too close to the traffic noise.  She kept me mostly on shady country roads and off heavily trafficked commercial routes.  She slipped a bit at the end, I thought, dumping me onto Bethlehem Pike for the last 7 miles into Philadelphia.  This isn’t quite as awful as it sounds, because this stretch of the Pike is parallelled by Rte 309, a limited-access highway that relieves most of the fast, long-distance traffic.  Nevertheless, it was less fun than the rest of the trip.

 Approaching Philadelphia, the Pike climbs 300 ft straight up to the city line, with buses and cars too close for comfort as I’m hyperventilating up the hill.  G-Nav offered Montgomery Ave as an alternative, but by that time I knew where I was, I knew the straight route through Chestnut Hill, and I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t be taken far out of my way.  Now, consulting the map, I see that it looks like a less-traveled road that I didn’t know about.  Next time, I’ll try it.

I’ve been a big fan of GPS navigation since it was first offered in my Verizon dumb-phone 6 years ago.  Unless you’re a programmer, you probably don’t realize how much harder it is to find the best bike route than to find the best car route.  For cars, the algorithm is to steer you from wherever you are to a major road that goes in the right direction, then to get you off the highway at the nearest exit, and to guide you on smaller roads to your destination.  There are many more options to choose from if the goal is to use the smallest possible roads rather than the largest.  In fact (even more esoteric), it’s a famous unsolved problem from theoretical computer science to find an efficient routing algorithm for the general case.

I made it home in under two hours, a slightly longer route because of the car ride into Doylestown.  It was not as fast as the morning trip, but still quite respectable, especially since I had no competition to egg me on, and there was a steady headwind as I went south.  (Funny - I never noticed a tailwind in the morning leg.  I won’t attempt to make that into an aphorism.)

I think my idea of enlightened bliss is a little more rooted in my body and my mind than the one that has been presented to me.  I figure I’m on this planet, incarnated in this form for a reason, and there will be plenty of time for the more abstracted version of samadhi when I’m dead. But maybe that’s just the male ego talking.

I wrote to Jeff and asked if he ever puts out his poetry as poetry, and sent him the most relevant expression from my own slim poetic output, a piece that was written 3 summers ago with advice and very helpful suggestions from BY.

This is the moment for which all your life has been a preparation

Shed fear. Sprout wings. Leap out from arbitrary time.

Transmute the ordinary; prospect the sublime.

Twirl till you collapse, exhausted;

Taste ambrosia; scale the frosted

Himalayan peaks, where fingers tingle,

Senses sparkle, shutters from their hinges fly.

Invite the icy wind to ravage every single

Nerve and singe the savage soul that yearns to cry

Out with a fierce intensity

I’m free!

– JJM August ’10

My New Toy

            I remember my first time. It felt a little risky, but then I gave in to the burst of joy and thought: I’m gonna keep doing this! No, not that…I’m talking about riding my bike with earphones, letting upbeat music help me sail along the path, time flying by with the miles. And so, for several years now I’ve used music as a biking companion – first the playlists on my I-phone and then the happy discovery of Pandora. Even though I always keep the volume low enough to remain aware of other sounds, I’ve had a nagging feeling that it’s not really safe to ride with earphones.

            So I was excited to try out the Tigra bikeconsole, especially since I got it free of charge from bike2power to review. (There, full disclosure.) I requested the I-phone 4 case and here’s what I found. The waterproof case slides easily on and off the compact handlebar mount, although I had to take the mount to a bike shop because I couldn’t figure out how to attach it to the handlebars. I confess I have zero mechanical ability, confirmed when the friendly young cashier at Big Wheel Bikes in Arlington looked at it, puzzled for a moment, and then proceeded to attach it in about 60 seconds – no charge.

            On Tuesday I biked to work, I-phone securely encased in the bikeconsole. My initial concern was whether it would go flying off when I hit one of the many bumps on the Custis or Mount Vernon trails (those pesky tree roots!!) But it held steady – no worries. The sound volume, however, was a challenge. Once the case is closed completely, it muffles quite a bit of the sound, and I had to set the I-phone to its maximum volume. It was adequate for quieter parts of my commute, but much of my ride is near busy roads – and then I really couldn’t hear a thing.

            Even though I know my way to work, I decided to try out the bike navigations apps I have on my phone. First I tried BikeNav, and – so long as I wasn’t in direct sunlight – I could easily read the turn-by-turn directions while the phone was held in the mount. Also, the phone’s touch screen operated perfectly through the case. But, to my annoyance, a message quickly appeared on the screen asking whether I wanted to “cancel keystrokes.” I switched to the BikeRoute app: same problem. Apparently the little bit of jiggle while the phone is in the case upsets the sensitive feelings of these apps. Still, if I was in a situation where I really needed directions, I would keep “canceling” the message and appreciate having the phone mounted where I could read the directions.

            For the last third of my ride, I turned to Strava – an app that calculates time, speed, and distance. Although I’ve had the app on my phone for several months, this was the first time I’d used it. I’m now in danger of turning into a stats geek – as I delighted in watching my speed, mileage, and time on the display.

            On the way home, I received a phone call while I was on the Pennsylvania Avenue cycle track. I was able to answer my phone call, put the phone on “speaker” and have a short conversation while riding, then returning to my music. I was rather astonished that even in the midst of traffic I was able to hear and be heard.

            I used the bikeconsole again on Friday, this time with headphones. The device has an earphone opening, so I suspect it’s intended to be used this way. I also tracked my ride on Strava, discovering, to my pleasure, that I average about 12.5 miles per hour – even with traffic stops. So I’m not such a slowpoke as I’d thought (though hardly a speed demon). On the way home I decided to try music through my I-phone’s play list, rather than Pandora – wondering whether the volume would be adequate without earphones. Sadly, it wasn’t. Later I looked at the bikeconsole box and, reading the fine print, noticed that one can attach a “nano speaker” to listen to music without headphones. However, when I searched on the Web, I didn’t find anything that looked compatible. I might try a visit to the Apple store or a bike shop, since I expect to use the console regularly.

            The bottom line: bikeconsole is easy to use, holds the I-phone securely, and is a convenient device, both for navigation and music. I probably will continue to use earphones but I may try out a speaker, if I can find one at a decent price.

            

Pedaling a Pooch in a Pannier

            Many life lessons are learned on a bike, and last Friday’s ride reinforced a common theme: you may start out expecting one thing and find that life has something entirely different in store for you.  I’m still in Minneapolis, and accompanied my cousin Miriam to her weekly yoga class – a strength-building vinyasa-based session at the Center for Performing Arts, taught by Arles – a skilled and permission-giving instructor.

            In the late afternoon, her partner, Amy, and I biked to Minnehaha Falls – the area I’d gotten lost in three times on Wednesday. With Amy as my Sherpa, we easily found the falls, following the Minnehaha trail for an easy 5-mile ride. Amy filled me in on the local history: tributes to the poet Longfellow – whose epic Hiawatha was reputedly inspired by the falls and, in turn, was incorporated into Dvorak’s New World Symphony. The steps and stone walls that facilitate viewing of the falls were a 1940 Works ProgressAdministration project – a reminder of the many useful government-funded efforts of days gone by.

            After viewing the falls and some surrounding areas, we were heading home, riding a somewhat deserted section of path along Hiawatha Avenue (also known as I-55) when we spotted a small white dog scampering in the grass. There were a few parked cars, and I assumed the dog’s owner was watching it. But Amy, wiser and more compassionate than I, insisted we investigate. In fact, the cars were empty, the dog had no collar, and there were no people around. The friendly little fellow was only too happy for us to scoop him up and go for a ride in Amy’s pannier.

            But the afternoon was hot and, after a couple miles, the little white dog managed to jump out. We called Miriam and asked her to meet us at a designated point where the bike path intersected the road. For the next mile or so, Amy cradled the pooch in one arm, and impressed me with her ability to ride one handed to the pick-up location. While Miriam drove the lost dog home, Amy and I stopped to pick up some dog food and enjoyed delicious homemade ice cream cones from GrandOle Creamery.

            Back at Miriam and Amy’s, we were quickly besotted by “our” new dog. We tried to figure out if he was a Bichon, or a Malti-Poo, or some other breed. He appeared to be well taken care of, but Miriam’s daughter, Rhea, gave him a bath with Aveda shampoo and we pulled out an assortment of toys left over from their departed dog, Yofi. The plan was that, in the morning, Amy would take the dog to a vet to see if it had a microchip, and call local animal shelters to see if there was a missing dog report that matched his description. However, I think that everyone harbored a secret hope that he would become part of the family, as he was a delightfully charming, affectionate, and well-behaved little fellow.

            I went up to bed around 10:00 but my concern about the dog was nagging at me. I pulled out my I-pad and did an online search: “Minneapolis lost small white dog” – which quickly took me to Craig’s List. Less than 2 hours earlier, a listing for a “multi-poo,” lost near the Minnehaha dog park had been posted. It included a photo of a dog named Cooper, clearly the same little fellow who had so quickly won us over. With some sadness, but knowing it was the right thing, we called the number – which turned out to be the owner’s irresponsible girlfriend who had been caring for the dog. We said it was too late to pick the dog up that night, but arranged for the owner to call early Saturday morning.

            Miriam and I left Saturday morning to take a workshop on “Writing Family” at the Loft Literary Center where she studies. Thus, we missed meeting Cooper’s daddy and the bittersweet goodbye to the little charmer. Amy reported that Cooper went wild with glee when his dad arrived, so we rested assured that we had performed a mitzvah – a good deed – by rescuing Cooper and finding his rightful owner. He turned out to be a Maltese-Shitsu-Poodle mix, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some similar dog eventually makes its way into Miriam and Amy’s home.

            Miriam and I both enjoyed the workshop, ably taught by Laura Flynn and then walked around the neighborhood, in which I saw many people on bikes. Minneapolis is clearly a very bike-friendly community. We went into the new Guthrie Theater and walked out onto the viewing area to see the “endless bridge” which crosses the Mississippi river and is closed to automobiles, making it a lovely crossing for pedestrians and bicyclists.

            This morning the rain has begun, and thus, I may have taken my last bike ride in the Twin Cities, for now. I will enjoy just hanging out with family for the last full day of what has been a wonderful visit. But I look forward to future trips to Minneapolis, and the chance to explore more of the city’s beautiful bicycle infrastructure.

Twintastic Bike Cities

            

 I’ve read about Minneapolis being one of the most bike friendly cities in the U.S., so I was eager for my visit to the Twin Cities and the chance to explore on two wheels. The first step was to check out my cousin Miriam’s neglected bike, which was hanging from a hook in her garage, waiting patiently for someone to ride it. It’s a perfectly good bike, but it needed air in the tires and a quick stop at their local bike shop, Charlie’s Tangletown Bikes, to tighten up the seat and lube the chain. The shop featured an enticing selection of nutcase helmets in the front window and Charlie himself fixed up the bike for a very reasonable $5.

            
My cousin and her partner, Amy, took me for a little tour (in the car) of the bike paths around some of Minneapolis’s many lakes. The first thing I noticed was the luxury of paths that are separated for pedestrians and cyclists. Many of the local paths are split and clearly signed, so these two very different types of users don’t need to compete with each other. I have never had this luxury and it felt like bicycle heaven. On a Sunday afternoon the bikers were out in force, but the most unusual rider was the fellow pictured below, who sported a white dove perched contentedly on his shoulder.

            
Monday evening Amy and I headed out after dinner – the temperatures still warm and humid, but not bad compared to D.C. – and the sun was almost setting, so the ride was shady. We could get on the Minnehaha Trail just half a block from their home and rode it 2.5 miles to Lake Nokomis. It’s another two miles to ride around the entire lake, making for an easy, flat, seven-mile ride.

The sun made a brilliant red circle when we got to the lake and the ghostly half moon was midway up the sky ahead of us. What a perk: biking around Minneapolis’s lakes allows the rider to go swimming if s/he gets too hot. There are many swimming beaches on the small lakes, and plenty of folks take advantage of them.

But my big adventure was planned for Wednesday, when I had a meeting with my long-time colleague, the director of the Minnesota AARP office, located near the state capitol in St. Paul. I scoped out the 13-mile route, following the Minnehaha trail to the Mississippi River which I would cross into St. Paul. From there I would go north to Summit Avenue, a shady residential street with bike lane the whole way till I was practically downtown.

The trip went smoothly. I missed my river crossing closest to the Minnehaha, but rode north along the river to the next crossing (Marshall), which only took me a few blocks out of my way. Because I planned to get to the office around noon, I was riding in the heat of the day and – yes – even Minneapolis is having a 90+ degree heat wave. I took a water break on Summit and decided to try out using the GPS on my I-phone, as there were quite a few twists and turns from the end of Summit to my destination. I stopped when I got a view of the capitol building and using the GPS worked well. I arrived just in time, thirsty and drenched in sweat. After a quick clean-up in the restroom I changed into the work clothes I’d carried in my backpack (no rack/panniers on my cousin’s bike). My colleague, Michelle, took me out for a tasty Japanese lunch (vegetarian bento box with spinach, miso soup, salad, tofu, rice and pickles…yum!!!) and we spent four hours talking business and catching up on our personal lives.

I’d originally planned to just put the bike on the bus for the return home, and had mapped out a good route. But, for some insane reason, I decided to bike home. I wanted to try a different path – in part because I’d missed seeing Minnehaha Falls on my way out (because of the missed turn) and thought I’d try the river route from St. Paul instead of the city route. And thus began my long, hot, thirsty voyage during which I got lost many times and had to depend on the kindness of strangers to find my way back. Fortunately, other bikers generally tend to be helpful , and it’s true that Midwesterners are especially friendly and glad to help.

            My first wrong turn came at Fort Snelling, where I missed a turn and ended up on a path that took me along I-55, where I made a long crossing of the Mississippi. I know I shouldn’t go over the river again and, indeed, I had to turn around and do it again, but an especially nice cyclist went out of his way and guided me to the spot that would lead me to the right path. However, once I got to Minnehaha Park, the intersection of several paths was very confusing. By then, I’d been riding 2 hours in the extreme heat and had consumed every last drop of my water – probably losing half my body weight in sweat. So when I saw a Dairy Queen, I went in for a mango smoothie and 20 minutes of air conditioning. Even so, I got just as confused at the intersection, and ended up on the wrong path, going north when I wanted to go west. I recognized my mistake pretty soon, but – rather than chance a third mistake at the dreaded intersection – I decided to take the easy-to-navigate city streets to a place that I could see would make a clear connection back to the Minnehaha trail that goes to within a block of my cousin’s house.

           
 I was desperate for salt by the time I reached my destination, and fortunately my cousin had a jar of pickles – the cycling yogi’s remedy – of which I consumed many, including a glass of the salty juice!

            But – on the positive side – I saw many parts of the twin cities and found an amenity that the DC-region should embrace. There was one section of trail that required going down and then up a long flight of steep stairs for making a bridge crossing. As I was about to lift the bike and carry it, I noticed a steel bike ramp which I was only too happy to use. Despite having good bike maps for Minneapolis and St. Paul, as well as an I-phone, my lifelong struggle with directional challenges made for a very long bike ride home in the hot sun. On the other hand, I felt the accomplishment of navigating an unknown city, and my physical stamina was more than up to the task – the only real challenge being dehydration and heat.

            Today will be a day of rest, or swimming, but another bike adventure is in the works for Friday, which is predicted to be cooler. Even more important, I will be accompanied by Amy, who will be my trusty bicycle Sherpa!

"Biking" in the Water

            I couldn’t get the hang of kayaking until I applied my biking skills. You might wonder how a predominantly lower-body activity could inform one that uses the upper-body – but it was the feel of cycling that helped my body “get” the rhythm and movement needed to kayak.

            I’ve been vacationing north of Minneapolis on a lake that shall remain nameless – lest its pristine beauty become overrun by tourists. My host, Ruth, wanted to show me Cuyuna recreation area – a series of six interconnected lakes that were created from extinct iron mines.

            We headed to Cycle Path & Paddle to rent kayaks. While waiting to be transported to the lakes, I explored this very friendly store – which also (as you could surmise from its name) rents bikes. I spotted a couple Surly bikes with the most enormous tires I’ve ever seen on a bike, and was told they’re good in the snow – of which Minnesota, of course, gets plenty.

            I also was intrigued by the T-shirts sporting “Shred the Red” slogans. The mountain bike trails around the mine lakes are called “the red” because of their color – derived from the iron-rich earth. So mountain bikers who tackle the 25-mile trails around the lakes are said to “shred the red.” The tires of the rental bikes showed plenty of red residue ground into them.

            But this was to be a kayak adventure. I have kayaked only occasionally – each time feeling clumsy and awkward, if not downright incompetent. Ruth tried her best to instruct me (as others have tried in the past) but my body just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. And then I took a few strokes and said – with revelatory joy – “It’s like riding a bike!” More like a hand-cranked bike, but that body connection was all I needed to begin gliding gracefully along the water. As the day progressed, I had some moments that felt full of ease and with all the pleasure I get from riding fast on a bike or swimming with flippers: movement, momentum, freedom, joy.

            We paddled through several of the lakes until we found a peninsula onto which we could pull the kayaks. The day was breezy but quite warm, so we were eager to dock the kayaks and swim. The water was perfectly clear – its temperature refreshing without being frigid. There were multitudes of small green fish – two to three inches long – that we glimpsed through the lucid water. I picked up a few iron-rich rocks from the bottom near the shore (which then dropped off quickly to deep water). The rocks instantly stained my hands a rusty red from their iron.

            After swimming, we ate our picnic lunches and reminisced about long-ago boyfriends, our conversation meandering aimlessly like the lakes through the forest. We swam again before getting back into the kayaks to return to our starting point. Despite my improved kayaking skills, paddling into the wind was not easy! But I felt the satisfaction of good exercise and was happy to return to the cottage for a quiet remainder of the afternoon.

            To our surprise, the cottage had lost power – perhaps a casualty of the gusty winds. But it stays light here until nearly 10 p.m., and by the time it’s dark I’ll surely be ready for bed.

(Postscript – my blog was handwritten to preserve battery power in my laptop. A few hours later, power was restored and we were able to cook our dinner and flush the toilets without having to haul buckets of water from the lake.)

What's the Connection Between Cherry Pie and Biking?

This blog has nothing to do with bike riding, unless you count the fact that I whacked out my back yesterday and, consequently, would do no biking today (no great loss, given the 90+ degree heat and humidity). But I also did not feel up to teaching my usual Sunday morning yoga classes, which was a great loss, especially since it was the first week of the summer session, and I hate to miss the first week. But I’m leaving for vacation on Wednesday, and wanted to give my back another day to recuperate so that I’d be in good shape for vacation.

The result was that I decided to treat myself to the Sunday papers – NY Times AND Washington Post, since my Sunday morning teaching schedule ordinarily leaves me no time for what once was a cherished ritual: Sunday papers in bed with coffee and (if I was lucky) a love interest. Going out early for the papers meant walking past the Westover Farmer’s Market and, wouldn’t you know – it happened to be that tiny window during which sour cherries are in season.

Even though I’ve been totally off sugar for over a month, making fresh cherry pie once a year is a must. Maybe it’s the memories of climbing the sour cherry trees in my grandmother’s back yard, picking the tart fruit for her to make pie. Besides, the fellow I’ve recently started dating made the most extraordinary statement after we’d watched the fireworks together on the 4th. He said he’d observed that women our age (early 60s) who are too thin look bony and haggard – not sexy. No one would accuse me of being too skinny, and his statement made me feel very good about my well-toned, NORMAL-sized body. And, therefore, I will eat a piece of cherry pie this evening without a shred of guilt!

So, here follows my cherry pie making technique, honed over years of experience and experiment. I hope there are some pie-lovin’ bike enthusiasts out there who won’t mind hearing about pie instead of bikes for a change.

My generous quart of cherries numbered 156 and took about 14 minutes to pit, which, using my great computational skills, I figured comes to about 11 cherries per minute…or just over 5 seconds each. After years of overly runny filling, despite trying every technique in several books, Internet sites, and word-of-mouth, I now prepare a baked pie shell and cook the filling on the stove.

And, after years of failure, I have mastered the baked pie shell. After forming my all-butter crust in the pie pan, I prick it all over with a fork and freeze it for at least a couple hours. Indeed, it makes a difference to bake it on the top shelf of the oven (at 450 degrees), and I check it every 3-5 minutes (more frequently at the beginning) to make sure it isn’t puffing up and threatening to slide down the edges of the pie plate…giving it extra fork-pricks if needed. For this morning’s pie, I decided to make a top crust by using cookie cutters to make shapes for the top.

 The filling is simple. The cherries and their juice go into an enameled, cast-iron pot with a cup of sugar and ¼ cup of cornstarch. A dash of salt and the juice from half a lime give a little extra zing. The filling thickens up in less than 10 minutes, and I add a few drops of almond extract. After it cools a bit, into the shell it goes, to be decorated with the top crust.

I had enough crust to make a mini-shell, so I cooked up a couple peaches for the baby pie, grating in a bit of fresh ginger. Peaches and ginger are so lovely together.

I went for a nice swim this afternoon, loosening up the back, and now look forward to this evening’s pie delight, and with luck, at least one good bike ride before I head north to Minnesota for my vacation.