Cycling

27 Nov 2016

Last night, I had the naked dream.
You know the one…
There was a funny twist.
I was speaking at some random theater. Unbeknownst to me, some scandalous photos on my phone somehow projected onto the enormous screen behind me. You can imagine the panic when I realized these pictures were being projected for everyone to see. Instead of trying to hide myself, like the standard naked dream, I was in a futile struggle with my phone. This super sized techno-abomination was at war with me. I was unable to do the simplest of tasks as though I’d never before seen an iPhone, and I lost full control of my seemingly disembodied thumbs.
You know how these dreams go,
Your subconscious wants you exposed.
Curious, right?
Feel free to psychoanalyze if you’d like, but my immediate take away is that the dream stems from some level of insecurity.
Insecurity is a zinger.
I wonder if there is an equivalent to a Kinsian type scale for insecurity?
A scale that identifies your insecurity somewhere between the range of relatively harmless and devastatingly destructive?
I think all of us struggle with insecurity at some level.
What I’m interested in is how insecurity manifests into destructive pathologies and how to effectively reveal and heal these deeply damaging aspects of our psyche.
My own insecurities were deeply, maybe even pathologically, connected to worrying about what others were thinking of me.
The root of this insecurity was attached to a lack of concrete personal identity. It was through exhaustive self analysis that I was able to break through this identity crisis and see my destructive shadows.
My insecurity lead me on a manic quest to create an image of myself that projected pride via the persona of an endurance athlete.
This was all relatively simplistic, but yet, effectively intoxicating.
Peddling images of grandeur.
Excessive cycling and xc skiing also became an opiate of sorts for me. I could crush my pain, whether it be anger or anxiety, with physical pain. Pain that was almost euphoric in comparison to the complexities I was processing.
Many of those moments, dipping into the well of sadistic euphoria, were also remarkably positive; supplying me with hours and hours of meditative contemplation. This level of extreme exercise opened me up to experiences that I would never have had. Insights that exposed me to non-physical realities. Realities that taunted me into exploring the non-physical realms some refer to as spiritual.
I’d argue all of this made me a smarter and better person. In ways, my mental health was stabilized by these activities. A mental health that wasn’t all that healthy.
But my dirty little secret always lurked right around the corner.
My pride was out of check, and I was becoming all too aware of it.
Every accomplishment was tainted by the deep desire to exploit it.

Social stations, fixed by maintaining future fixes.

This realization, I discovered, was intertwined into every facet of my being.
Revealing a plethora of Pandoras and her boxes.
These revelations toppled towers built on fragile foundations.

So, here is the thing.
This is what we all do.
We tell stories to ourselves and others layered with profusions of projections.
We are owned by ego.
An unhealthy relationship with ego is the root of our dis-ease.
It’s the root of lust, gluttony, and greed.
It’s the root of wrath, envy, and pride.
It’s the sloth we succumb to.

Insecurity is something we all could do with a little less of, don’t you think?
It’s certainly something I’d like a little less of.
I hope to dismantle the divisiveness that divides us.

Recognizing the root of insecurity is the best place to start.
Ego postures itself as security.
Ego and insecurity go hand in hand.
Insecurity and ego are the dis-ease.
If you can fathom this, our stories and our truths are our greatest enemy.
Even though we believe them to be our fiercest friend.

Insecurity stems from a nagging notion,
Down really, really, deep,
We all know,
That none of us really know.
All the while, we masquerade as though we do.

There are those who will go to great lengths to prove their platform. People will cite great scholars and their beloved histories. They will cite their gods and glorious scriptures proclaiming theirs to be the sole and rightful truth. Accredited scientific doctrines will be cited as absolute truths and be presented as proof of their position. Some will even wittingly employ half truths and junk science to support their claims.

If your triggers are being touched,
If you’re feeling anger,
Or if see yourself pointing fingers,
That’s ego.
The more driven we are by belief, the more likely we are to encounter destructive pathologies and oppositional characters.
Insecurity discourages openness to alternative possibilities.
Insecurity bolsters errant beliefs and self-righteousness.
Insecurity refuses to entertain or accept change and growth.

This can be remedied,
If we dare
Release our grasp
Of our beloved
Beliefs.

Understand ego…

18 Sep 2016

“Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it’s not fish they are after.”

~Henry David Thoreau

I’ve heard many people over the years talking about yoga as a way they center themselves. Some tell me that as they are going deeper into their practice, they are experiencing altered states of consciousness. I know people on the fringes of society are using psychoactive chemicals and plants and isolation tanks to access a variety of altered states. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the author of Flow, suggests that these states are not only for those that explore the more esoteric realms. He suggests that everyone can experience them in a multitude of ways. He speaks of a factory worker who consistently worked at a heightened state of consciousness, which he refers to as flow. I have a coworker that works within that flow space; he is nothing short of remarkable. My wife falls into this state somewhat regularly; it’s magical. People in this state are on another plane. Like a highly trained ballerina, they float through the air defying physics. They exude grace, precision, and ease; flow. I think most will agree, these altered states of consciousness are remarkable to those that witness them and arguably more so for those that experience them.

I’ve experienced deeply altered states of consciousness that radically reshaped my world while doing long distance bicycle races. Ironically, the first experience left me feeling isolated and mildly embarrassed. The distance and time on the bike were so unusual, people asked how I was able to do it and what it was like. Because of my lack of context and experience with this sort of thing, my immediate response was, “I saw God!” I honestly really felt like I did. It was that profound. But I had also just gotten off my bike and was still consumed in a fog of euphoria. It was clear by the responses I received that my comments were misunderstood. Likely, because I didn’t fully understand what I was saying myself. My community of cyclists didn’t discuss altered state of consciousness; at least that I was aware of. Needless to say, I didn’t receive any help or guidance with this before or after this event. I was on my own. The simple reality is, when it happened, I was a changed person from that point forward. I had experienced something that was so far off the charts and so profound that I was left simply in awe. It literally took me years to understand and articulate these experiences with any fluency.

Now, I assume the following:

That others have had equally profound experiences.
That others have found the ability to replicate these experiences with some relative predictability providing semi-regular access to these states.
That these states resonate at a frequency and level that is very personal and special to the practitioner.
That there is a certain dogmatism with your relationship to these states of consciousness.

I understand, these states and realizations do not come easily. They come from a diligent and likely, very personal practice. They provide access to what some would refer to as a spiritual realm. It’s not a mistake that nearly every religion has some sort of practice or tradition that brings about these states. These states provide a physical experience that can be used to support the validity of the desired ideology.

I would like to suggest something to think about.

If you’re like me, the desire to re-attain these states are, or were, a consistent thought and allure. But I had made a mistake. I thought enlightenment was a permanent, altered state of consciousness. I later learned that enlightenment is rather an evolving stage of consciousness. Ken Wilber, a contemporary philosopher that specializes in integral philosophy, articulates the distinction between states and stages of consciousness. A state of consciousness is non-abiding and temporary. A stage of consciousness is abiding and permanent. An example of a stage of development would be when a woman becomes a mother. The broadness of her concern has permanently expanded beyond herself to the child, from egocentric to ethnocentric. A state of consciousness would be the euphoria of finishing your first running race, the buzz from a glass of wine, or an emotional response to a movie. All of these are non-abiding, and not permanent. I understand that there are exceptions to these examples I gave, but I’m just trying to get across a general idea.

Getting back to these heightened states of consciousness. Many people have heard the eastern traditions (Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism) concept of enlightenment or awakening. The western traditions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam) allude to this idea, but it’s not widely recognized or acknowledged. Our world is filled with tales regaling those cultural icons who have attained these heightened stages of development and set the precedent for man kind. Joseph Campbell wrote a book called A Hero with a Thousand Faces to illustrate this point. Every culture and ideology has that special iconic figure. They are central characters in the ideology’s spiritual and enlightenment saga. All of these people are perceived to be special for a reason. They have developed an elevated stage of consciousness that is remarkable within the culture they live. What’s worth realizing is that these stages of development are attainable for you too. You have everything within you. The hero’s journey is for you to undertake. Joseph Campbell is talking about finding the hero within yourself. He is alluding to a stage shift in consciousness that transcends the egoic perception.

The state experience gives you that valuable glimpse of the nonphysical, or spiritual. This takes these concepts out of the abstract realm and places them into the tangible. It’s stage development that will bring forth and reveal an abiding awakening or enlightenment.

Evolve…

“Furthermore, we have not even to risk the adventure alone, for the heroes of all time have gone before us. The labyrinth is thoroughly known. We have only to follow the thread of the hero path, and where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god. And where we had sought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves. Where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence, and where we had thought to be alone, we will be with all the world.”

~Joseph Campbell

11 Sep 2016

Ya know those moments that sit with you?
I was fairly young, in my late teens, maybe early twenties.
I was in a mountain bike race.
It wasn’t my first, but unbeknownst to me it, would be one of the most significant.
Why?
I quit.
The race was three laps.
The irony is, I fancied myself quite the mountain bike racer,
I wasn’t.
I had raced before, but that’s where my credentials ended.
I was surprised to see my sister’s ex boyfriend there. I didn’t know he raced. I thought he looked like an amateur.
It was within the first mile or so that I knew I was in trouble. The course took us over a rutty farmer’s field. Within a short amount of time, I was off the pace. My sister’s ex was well ahead of me.
Immediately, my ego was formulating excuses.
By the second lap, I was beaten. My head had gotten away from me. I was so far behind that I was fairly certain the leaders were going to lap me. I bumbled through the trail like the amateur I was.
I was not having fun and to make matters worse, I was embarrassed.
At some point, it hit me. I was going to quit.
My plan was rather than going out for my final lap, I’d ride to my car, throw my bike on my rack, and drive away as fast as possible.
The irony was, the idea of quitting gave me a boost of energy.
I was rejuvenated.
I was filled with a vigor and punch I hadn’t had minutes earlier just at the thought of being done with the race.
An irony that was lost on me in the moment.
I remember riding through the parking lot; trying to keep a low profile and manically looking to see if anyone could see me.
That was my biggest worry.
As I drove away, I felt like I had gotten away with something.
Little did I know…
What’s the moral of this story?
What I failed to realize: it was my own personal sense of integrity I had violated. The integrity we have with ourselves is the basis of our reality. Because I copped out, I became a copout. I didn’t give myself the chance to know or understand my own potential or power. I didn’t give myself the opportunity to fail. I instead gave in to apprehension. I reinforced a willingness to buckle when things got hard. I learned to believe in myself less. Our personal truth is forever in a state of flux. Being relentless with your resolve is the basis of a foundation built on a personal sense of integrity.
That race changed me.
If I started, I finished, for better or worse.
Years later, I put that resolve to the test in a way that today, I find interesting.
I raced a 58 kilometer cross-country ski race with the flu. The first 30 kilometers, I raced strong. The last 28 kilometers, not so. When I hit the wall, I was soaked with sweat from pushing so hard. Cross-county ski racers wear thin spandex suits with lightweight long-underwear underneath. It was a few degrees above zero. You stay warm when you’re working hard. When I slowed down, I quickly started to freeze. As my energy faded, so did my coordination. I started to miss my pole plants, and then I started to trip and fall. In hind sight, I’m sure the falling looked desperate and sad. I could have quit. Arguably, that may have been the smarter thing to do, but I didn’t. Each time I fell, I laid in the snow a little longer in a delirium that would nearly overwhelm my body. Every time I got up, the delirium would leave a bit more of its after affects with me. To the point, it soon consumed me. Friends would ski past me and say “you look awful. What are you doing!?” Determined, I pushed forward, only to fall again a short time later. Each time, dizzily pulling myself up from the ground. After nearly two hours of this agony, I was near the end. The last kilometer of the race, you ski off of a frozen lake up a small incline they call Bell Tower Hill. Again, I missed my pole plant and fell with the full force of my unrestrained body. My head and right shoulder hitting first with an equally violent force. My ears ringing from the blow to my head. I remember looking across the ground from this horizontal perspective trying to make out the fuzzy landscape. A sweet woman dressed in a colorful Swedish folk dress bent down to look at me in the eyes and said, “Don’t worry sweetie, you’re almost there.” Slowly, I sloppily pulled myself to my knee and wobbly, found my way back on my skies. In an altered, almost robotic state, I found my way across the finish line.
When you cross the finish line of these marathon ski races, there are often people there to hold you up. I was alway curious about this because I never needed it. That day I did. I fell into their arms with a dead weight that surprised them. It took two to stabilize me. I vaguely remember them telling me that I had bad frost bite on my face and was likely hypothermic.
My friend who had finished well before me had long since changed. After waiting so long, he had begun to worry. He had moved his truck next to the finish line and left it running to keep it warm. When he saw me finish, he came to help me. In one arm, he took my skis and poles, in the other, he supported me under my arm.
Slowly, we walked to his truck.
I know cold. I was born and raised in Minnesota. This is my home.
I’ve swum in water with ice on all sides of me many times.
I’ve raced in temperatures that were double digits below zero with 25mph winds.
I’ve been soaking wet in below zero temperatures more times than I can count.
I’ve been frost bit more times than is reasonable.
I know cold.
The depth of this cold was like none other.
I was so cold, it took me at least a half hour to begin shivering.
It took another ten minutes to start shaking uncontrollably.
I don’t remember getting warm.
What’s the moral of this story?
The idea of failure is a misunderstanding. There is trying and not trying.
Every failure, every bit of pain, every moment I struggled; has provided me with profound wisdom. Life cannot be lived half way. Every action has a consequence.
You can’t hide from yourself. Wherever you go, there you are.
You have either finished what you started, or you haven’t.
These experiences are the basis by which we learn to believe in ourselves or not.
It’s pushing beyond what you think you’re capable of that will allow you to discover hidden aspects of yourself.
Be willing to fail and find success.
Be willing to let go of idealism and find grace and humility.
Be willing to let go of ego and discover your path and your essence.
It’s pushing beyond yourself that you’ll discover self.

5 Jun 2016

“You’re better than you think you are you can do more than you think you can.”
~Ken Chlouber (Founder of the Leadville 100. An ultra distance mountain bike race and trail run.)

Is that the secret? Pushing through? Is doubt a natural process of realizing fuller aspects of yourself.
What can’t you do?
That’s an interesting question isn’t it?
How is it that we come up with these ideas of what we’re not good at. What tilts the scale towards emphatically declaring something as a talent or a deficit? Are your declared deficits just detractions keeping you from realizing unknown potentials?
It’s interesting that many of my gifts have been hidden under long held insecurities.
I hated gym. Couldn’t catch, kick, or throw. Not surprisingly, the more I obsessed over these ideas, the more I manifested these insecurities. Gangly and awkward without full control of my limbs, I was at the bottom of the pecking order.
Sport became my nemesis.
Years later, sport became a central axis of my identity.
I pushed through my insecurities, my limits forever changing. I’ll never forget this realization. Given consistent food and water, I could ride my bike for distances that would break my body. I was capable of going beyond what I was physically capable of doing. Disregarding every signal my body gave me to stop. This was a stunningly powerful realization. A transcendental experience that transported me from the flesh. My biology was weak but my spirit was indomitable. I was no longer confined by the physical.
Distracted and uninterested in school, writing was something I learned to loath. Reading, an activity that was expected of me. I spent more time trying to get away with not reading than reading. Ironically, I wanted to be a reader, I liked the idea. The allure was there, just not the drive.
I remember the first book I loved. That’s all it took. A late bloomer, I was twenty. Seventeen years later with hundreds of books in my head I was richer and fuller than I’d ever been. Yet, I found myself unfulfilled and lost. With a head full of ideas and doubts, I was searching for truth. It was time to process everything I had learned. To manage this horribly complex distillation and find a cohesive whole.
Enter: the pen.
The pen is, in fact, mightier than the sword.
I found myself unable to sleep because the words were consuming me. I was shocked! Me, writing?
At 1:00am I’d start to bargain with myself. At 2:00am I’d tell myself to go to bed. At 2:30am I’d relent. Unable to sleep, I’d continue to write until my eyes would surrender. Only a few hours later I was up again, writing. The words, an insatiable deluge. Distracted at stoplights, I was writing on gum wrappers. In between clients, writing…
I was sure it would end, after each story was told and idea processed.
That was ten years ago.
The remarkable thing is I’m just now realizing that I haven’t stopped.
My sister, a musician. She can’t not be.
My brother, a photographer. He can’t not be.
Me, still writing. How laughable!
The kid who hated to read and write.

18 May 2016

It’s a beautiful Minnesota day today. They seem rare this time of year. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and people are smiling. It’s an easy day.
My barista asked me, “What’s good?” When I stopped and paused she said, “It’s a philosophical question…” I was relatively quick to then say, “It’s a beautiful day.” But I quickly adjusted my statement, “I love crisp cold days, days when I can see my breath.” An hour later, I had a similar conversation with my client and offered a similar adjustment. “Once I’m wet, one of my favorite things to do is walk in the rain.” My client’s eyes perked up and she responded, “When I was young, that was one of my favorite things as well.”
What is that?
When the temp is tepid, the wind is light, the sun is shining but not too bright. Life is easy but somehow… I loose sight.
When the rain is falling, the wind is howling, and the temp is plummeting it’s all so stunningly clear. I know I’m alive. Resistance brings clarity.
Resistance brings clarity. Hmm…
What is that?
For year’s my friend and I would meet every Tuesday night to ride our bikes. It was always dark. That was a given. Sometimes it would rain or sleet. The amazing thing is, he would always show up. I guess it’s equally amazing that I would show up too. The look of an apprehensive defeat in both of our eyes, somehow welcome.
It was always hard to step outside. Knowing that first uncomfortable drip of water would soon find its way down the small of my back and the wet would soon seep into my shoes. Somehow, surprised, I would always recoil. Onward, we would pedal into the night. Once wet, our heads were giddily held high. My bright light reflecting off of the falling rain and mist pouring from my friend’s jersey. We were unstoppable. Somehow, feeling like the luckiest guys in the world. Like we were getting away with something. These were always the best rides. We would say, “if our fare weather friends only knew.”
What is this?
I remember so clearly the night I walked with my friend around the lake. That night was unique. It wasn’t quite raining but a bit more than a mist. I was beaming, transmitting, transcendent… The rain fell around me and I never got wet. We had almost nothing to say and yet, I remember that walk like it was yesterday.
What is this?
I’ve frozen my face to the point I had ice forming and dripping from my bare cheek. I’ve ridden my bike with gloves that were too thin in temperatures that were too cold. I’ve hiked for hours in the alps, walked the pitchy path to Machu Picchu, and hiked the Scottish highlands in the soaking rain. I remember them all like it’s happening this moment.
So sweet and strangely unique…
I wonder if I’ll remember today?
This beautiful, sun shiny day.

16 May 2016

Cycling…
It all started very innocently.
I had a very natural love for the bicycle.
I think it truly was my first love.
I’ll never forget the absolute wonder and desire I had for these two-wheeled machines.
I’m 47 now and nothing has changed. I still take pleasure in standing back and absorbing all of it. Their clean lines, the colors, the mind blowing simplicity and complexity of its function. I have a race bike that’s 20 years old that is just as beautiful today as it was the day I bought it. In fact, now that I think about it, it’s even more beautiful. Every aspect of that bike I have gone over thousands of times. It should be destroyed with the thousands of hours I spent trying to annihilate myself with it. And yet, both it and I, stand arguably stronger than ever. It now hangs retired in my garage. And I still continue to spin the wheels and admire its form.
It took years for that innocent, uncomplicated love that I had for my bike as a child to evolve into what it was to become. Riding so hard and so long that the rhythm and pain exported me into the ether realm. A realm so alluring and powerful that I spent seven years crushing myself with distances that were once unfathomable. All to understand and maintain this mystical state where the flesh didn’t hold me, where I was free from its pain and limitations.
Was this a form of prayer or sacrifice?
Fledgeling myself before the gods hoping for the secrets of painless bliss to be bestowed upon me.
The ether realm maintained its elusivity.
Although, the prayer was heard.
The countless hours and deeply meditative rhythmic breathing cracked my cosmic egg.
It was in my failure to obtain the mastery of this ether realm that was the key.
The key was letting go.
Letting go of my purpose and desires.
I didn’t intend to hang up my bike all those years ago.
But when I found that I was what I was looking for, the cilice I wore in the form of a two-wheeled machine lost its purpose.
I was free.
Today the distances I once rode are a thing of the past. A form of hysterical prayer that I no longer desire.
My prayers are short today.
The love is still as vibrant as ever.
Riding with my new baby boy in tow.
It’s funny, I see the same utter amazement in his eyes and body when he sees my new gigantically beautiful bike roll up beside him.
His entire body screams with glee.
I see aspects of myself in him.
Bright blue eyes, unencumbered and filled with innocence and simplicity.