How many great ideas have passed through my head while training? I really can’t say. Used to be that when a stroke of brilliance announced itself mid-ride I’d hit the brakes, straddle my bike on the side of the road, whip out my iPhone, remove it from its protective baggie, and record a voice memo, archiving the idea that was sure to float away into the ether had I kept pedaling. There was also a time when I’d fill my iPod with playlists carefully designed to keep my energy and morale up during long days in the saddle. Threading the headphones’ long thin wire from my right rear pocket up through the inside of my jersey and looping the earbuds meticulously around the arms of my sunglasses was part of the routine, adding another layer of protection and isolation from what I was about to endure.
The thing is, I never listened to any of those voice memos. My brilliant ideas continue to lay dormant in digital hibernation. And though music is my profession, when I’m on the bike I’m actually trying to pedal away from it.
These days, I’m content just hearing my tires grip the asphalt, the whir of my freshly lubed chain as it propels me forward, the steady rhythm of my breath creating an infinite loop of inhales and exhales, and soon the crackling of autumn leaves. Molly asks, “What do you think about when you’re riding?” She wonders because I don’t tend to talk much afterwards. It’s natural to imagine that when someone is communing with the elements, enacting the narrative conflict of man against machine, and spending hours quietly alone in the company of one’s thoughts that revelations and epiphanies must abound. Sometimes they do. My dusty collection of audio files confirms that. But I’ve made myself let it go, embracing the ephemeral, cleansing my mind.
The idea of the mind as a blank slate is a central concept in Zen Buddhism. It is a lifelong and limitless pursuit that attempts to undo what has already been done. Shunryu Suzuki, who penned a classic book on the subject, says: “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, in the expert’s mind there are few.” When I studied improvisation with Yusef Lateef, I came to realize the more one practices—the more patterns you learn, the more solos you transcribe, the more musical knowledge you gain—the harder it becomes to truly improvise, to create something completely and utterly spontaneously. When I arrived at this conclusion during one of our lessons, Yusef, the sage, replied, “You understand.”
Another reading of the Japanese term translated as “beginner’s mind” is “correct truth.” Great ideas can occur at any time, not just during the hours I’m riding my bike. Truth, however, is more elusive. As I turn the pedals and log kilometer after kilometer thoughts and ideas, both brilliant and mundane, are fleeting occurrences that flicker in my mind like fireflies in a field just after sunset. I acknowledge their existence. I let them disappear. I keep pedaling. I think of nothing.
