Dog Days
These are the dog days of summer… and most definitely the dog days of my adventure.
This is a feat of endurance. I’ve been on the road since July 7 and riding since July 12, and while I don’t feel that the whole thing is getting old, it requires more effort for me to get out of bed in the morning and get the day going. Some of this I attribute to the fact that, after riding almost 2,300 miles, my body is tired. But I think there are two primary reasons why I feel that these are “dog days.” The first is that I am no longer riding in the dry air and stunning vistas of the west. Frankly, I don’t have that same joyous sensation riding through humid air for miles past corn or cattle ranch pasturelands. The second reason is the little child’s voice in my head, nagging, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” I’ve come so far and, apparently, part of me just wants to arrive, already. Likely because, like I said, I am so tired. And, OK, I get it…. there’s a lot of friggin’ corn in Iowa.
This trek is not just about the physical accomplishment of pounding out the miles. Success begins with intention and coherence of thought and energy. And understanding myself, particularly, what my mind is doing through the ups and downs.
Yesterday was a good example of how my mind responds to the dog days and, if you’ll indulge me, how I respond. Yesterday I was fortunate that the morning’s route was primarily on bike trails. At mile 14, I picked up the Chichaqua Valley Trail, a 26-mile rail-trail through Polk and Jasper counties, northeast of Des Moines. The trail provides a lot shade, and the trees double as shelter from the wind. I was making good time, and after days of riding against the wind, it felt good to move at a quicker pace (with the added benefit of not having to deal with any traffic). As I was making good time, I found myself thinking ahead to arriving in Columbus and got busy mentally with all sorts of future (i.e., not real) events. And like Leonard Nimoy’s portrayal of Mr. Spock, I found myself uttering the word, “Fascinating,” for I realized that I was no longer paying attention closely to the trail but was, for those moments, living in the future. Yes, I am aware that entertaining thoughts about the future is “natural,” but I was fascinated how my desire to get home removed me from the present moment. And, on an adventure such as this, I know it is best to be aware and alert in the present moment. For my safety. For my mental health. For appreciating the journey. (And getting home is not the end; I will still have about 600 more miles to ride from Columbus to the Atlantic Ocean.)
After a pleasant morning’s ride, I knew that the afternoon would be equally unpleasant as I was leaving the trail, its shelter from the wind, and would now be riding, exposed, directly into the wind for over 27 miles. Sure enough, as soon as I set out from the town of Baxter and headed east, the wind threw its fury at me, and I crawled along. The roads were not heavily trafficked, but there was no shoulder and I had to be super alert. Unlike the now infamous 8/14 ride in Nebraska where I faced headwinds on the flats for 76 miles, yesterday afternoon’s route covered steep rolling hills. And while I had to climb short, sharp ascents I gladly received the gift of, for short periods, not having to do any work as I rolled down equally steep descents (mind you, I never built up the speed I could have because of the wind’s resistance). And though I was not mentally fighting the fact that I had to work hard to earn every foot of those 27 miles, I could definitely hear myself thinking, “OMFG! What if I have to fight winds like these every day for the rest of the trip?!?” And then, a split second later, I heard myself say, again, “Fascinating.” I had once again left the present moment, but this time I occupied an unreal negative future space, one based on distress and fear. Dogs days, indeed. Thankfully, I recognized the childish pattern my mind had engaged in. What helped me move past that fear was recalling a quote about fear from a Swami whose name I can’t remember. He said, “Fear is taking the past and shitting it out into the future.”
And this is how I tame the dog days. Be alert to the patterns of my mind. Then bring my mind back to the present moment. Let the anticipation and fear evaporate with the heat. To get “there,” be “here.”
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Speaking of dog days (literally): I took a lunch break in the shade of a tree at the side of the road by some remote farmer’s yard. I had just finished a sandwich and was stretched comfortably in the short grass, enjoying how the breeze was cooling my body. I was engaged in reading an article about the Taliban on my mobile phone when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what I can only describe as a moving mass of white. I looked up to see a large white dog, smiling and then immediately licking me, sniffing around my body, clearly interested in my the second sandwich in my bag. Within seconds, the dog was in my lap, on its back, with its paws in the air, looking for affection. It hung around for about 5 minutes, sniffing and pawing me as I provided the love he was seeking. Rest assured, the timing and symbolism of the dog’s visit was not lost on me.
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I’ve been riding into the wind for over a week now, and all the time it’s been screaming in my ears not once did I hear it cry, “Mary.”