Dust Particles in Sunlight

Bend, OR. Being on the road for the past 4 weeks was an interesting adventure. Coin tosses, thunderstorms in the desert, mystery bikes, and the grandeur of Glacier National Park both delighted and exhausted me. After driving for a couple days solid. I landed in Bend, grateful to have a “home base” again, albeit a temporary one.

What I’ve found is I am charmed beyond all reason by the people and the possibilities here. I feel very much at home. The riding is getting kinda sandy and dusty at this point, but it is still pretty damn amazing. Even the Bike Film Festival I attended with my new best Bend friend, Amber was not only hella funny, but reflective of the mentality here. It’s not a scene, it’s not hip. In fact, I would say my impression of the “bike culture” here is that it’s so casual as to almost be nondescript. People just like to ride. There’s no image involved in it.

. . . . .

No seriously, it doesn't hurt... much... yet.

Rode today with a few of the locals. After yesterday’s solo hammerfest, I was pretty spent to begin with and it all went downhill from there. I did my best to keep up but they were a fast group, it pushed me, and we rode a fair portion of the Picket’s Charge XC course next weekend.  A spectacular auger on a technical session where I washed out in a sandy spot resulted in a blood sacrifice. The knee will be stiff on our epic ride tomorrow, but it’s no big deal, just one deep puncture. As my hero Kristin Butcher llikes to remind us, “If yer not bleedin’, yer not tryin’ hard enough!”

Maybe I should go back to training wheels? Or, as I joked before the ride when the guys were teasing me about these shorts, if Ii don’t get any good at mountain biking I could always take up golf. I’ve clearly got the wardrobe for it.

It's just a flesh wound!

Afternoon thunderstorms aren’t doing a good enough job of wetting the trails, so they are fairly dusty even this early in the season, which affects both my asthma/allergies and it’s hard to ride unfamiliar trails through a white cloud of dust. During quieter (i.e. slower) moments, when the lactic acid in the legs forced me to slow and recover a bit, and I was reminded of this wonderful piece of Rumi:

Say, I Am You
I am dust particles in sunlight.
I am the round sun.

To the bits of dust I say, Stay.
To the sun, Keep moving.

I am morning mist,
and the breathing of evening.
I am wind in the top of a grove,
and surf on the cliff.

Mast, rudder, helmsman, and keel,
I am also the coral reef they founder on.

I am a tree with a trained parrot in its branches.
Silence, thought, and voice.

The musical air coming through a flute,
a spark of stone, a flickering in metal.
Both candle and the moth crazy around it.
Rose, and the nightingale lost in the fragrance.

I am all orders of being, the circling galaxy,
the evolutionary intelligence, the lift, and the falling away.

What is, and what isn’t.

You who know, Jelaluddin,
You the one in all, say who I am.
Say I am you.

The yoga of the sufis never fails to call me home. It was a great day to be a humble little dust particle and all orders of being.

. . . . .

Tomorrow, an epic is planned. A nice, easy, mellow epic, with lots of time for re-dos. Then I knuckle down to write the difficult stuff. And plan a Full Moon Night ride next weekend! Not even from around here, but there I go making group rides up already. I don’t mean to be an instigator, it just comes natural. Church of Bike needs a Bend chapter, for sure…

The book is finished! Except… someone else wrote it.

If there is a state where the soul can find a resting-place secure enough to establish itself and concentrate its entire being there, with no need to remember the past or reach into the future, where time is nothing to it, where the present runs on indefinitely but this duration goes unnoticed, with no sign of the passing of time, and no other feeling of deprivation or enjoyment, pleasure or pain, desire or fear than the simple feeling of existence, a feeling that fills our soul entirely, as long as this state lasts, we can call ourselves happy, not with a poor, incomplete and relative happiness such as we find in the pleasures of life, but with a sufficient, complete and perfect happiness which leaves no emptiness to be filled in the soul.
–Rousseau

There is more to say about Vernal. I got to ride a bit more, a little Milk & Cookies mixed in with More Pimps and More Hoes. (I was thinking to suggest to Troy that a super technical trail be constructed and called More Bitches, but that’s just me.) I will get around to a more complete ride report at a later date. There’s no time to do it properly now, and I feel I owe you patient readers something more than just a trail report.

Upon leaving the gloomy rainstorms of Vernal, I decided to let a coin toss determine whether to head west to Klamath Falls or north to Glacier National Park.

Heads, its Glacier.

A long day of hard driving in a hard, driving rain brought me to Missoula. Cool town. And great trail riding, too. More on this later. For you Portlanders reading, imagine 8 Mile, 15 Mile, and Surveyor’s Ridge all mixed together and placed right in the heart of Forest Park. Yup. That good. And that easy to access.

I'm Uma Kleppinger and I approve of this radtasticness.

Upon arriving at Glacier National Park the place was barely occupied. Although the Road to the Sun had been opened the prior week, a humongous avalanche had wiped out several pieces of the road, so one could only drive the farthest western or eastern entrances to the park. Even the campsites were fairly deserted.

As road crews worked to clear the avalanche from the road and make repairs to the road surface, I was able to drive up to a point a couple miles up past the McDonald Lodge along the lake, and then ride the bike up to slightly past the Loop Trail. Conflicting info from a ranger and road signs had me turn around about halfway up, but I stopped a passing ranger for clarification. Doubling back over ground already covered, this time I decided to just hammer up. Road bike is out of commission (broken brake, needs a part) so I wore out perfectly fine knobby tires on the road, riding the Titus along what has to b one of the most scenic drives ever.

It was worth it. No cars. A scattered handful of riders here and there. Some were chatty, but I wasn’t in the mood. Being in such majestic mountains takes me to a place I don’t want to interrupt with platitudes and telling personal stories. I was courteous, said enough to be friendly, and then would ride them off my wheel. Climbing, even! At altitude! Apparently all this time spent over 5K is paying off. Plus I swear those mountains do something to me, something internally. Things get real quiet inside when I’m in the mountains. Quiet and focused. Whereas I feel a little lost in the desert, I feel very much at home in the mountains. They fortify me.

This.

Is why.

I ride.

Words fail me now, so I’ll leave you with a handful of images. They also don’t really cut it, you really do kinda have to “be there” as the saying goes. If you haven’t been THERE yet, go soon. Just tread lightly. It seems I left a piece of heart somewhere there along the Harlequin’s breeding grounds.

. . . . .

Back in Missoula, MT for a few hours of work, upload some files, maybe another ride before I start driving again. It’s time to head to Bend and start to write. Really write. Except that some philosopher (Simon Critchley, actually) beat me to it. NOW WHAT?!? Dude totally condensed my book idea into a short, sweet article published in last week’s New York Times. NOW what am I going to do now?

The mountains beckon. Possibilities abound. New dreams. New friends made on the open road… A new/old, familiar happiness emerges. The inner compass is recalibrated. All is took was…

A coin toss.

Who knew it could hold so much potential? I think I’ll let a coin toss guide me home. Whatever that is. Happy like G*d, indeed.

More complete updates and photo uploads when I arrive in Bend in a couple days(ish).

Vernal, UT: Send Lawyers, Guns and Money

Thunderstorms in desert forced a pause in riding to retreat in cave (top center).
Note the nest in rock at top left. Many small (and not so small) animal bones
littered the floor of the cave. Something was eating very well.

… because the girl is going to snap. If I wanted same-day breast augmentation, apparently this is the place to be, but otherwise, I think I’m westward bound again…

VERNAL, UT: Dinosaur Capitol of the West.

Well, it’s a lot like Portland at the moment. That is to say, wet. Extremely sodden to be exact. In fact it’s been raining nonstop since around 10pm last night. In fact everything between Boise and Boulder is socked in. I thought about beating a hasty retreat to Durango or Bryce, but no… all under water.

I left Moab hoping to escape the rain and explore new trails as featured in the June issue of Bike Magazine. LBS owner Troy has done a great job taking cattle trails and turning them into miles and miles of flowy singletrack. Plus, the man turned down money for love (bike love), a move that choked me up when I read it. So I wanted to meet him and shake his hand, give him a Ninkasi and some of Charlie’s finest and check out the trails.

Lost in the Center of the Universe

They say you never forget your first... The backside of Ancient Art, my first multipitch climb

Arrived Moab on the late-ish side yesterday, having taken the scenic route from Eagle, through Colorado National Monument. Though it is only a short drive, about 30 miles (ish), it took forever to drive it because I was too busy stopping, taking pictures, sitting and squinting into the sun, looking at these amazing vistas, admiring the earth and all its beauty and splendor.

Upon arriving in Moab, I dutifully checked in with friend of friend and owner of Moab Cyclery, picked up my shipment of FRESH coffee from Charlie (THANKS MAN!), then went to find shade in the city park in which to plan my next few days. Maps and guidebooks in hand, I have to say: I’m confused.

I am in the mountain biking mecca of the West, in the middle of Moab, there are epic trails going every which way, but I don’t feel like riding. In fact, I feel lost.

Bye Bye, Rocky Mountain High

Driving through and being in the Rockies always makes me feel conflicted. I love these mountains. It’s hard to put a finger on it. Suffice it to say it is a place where I feel both humbled and awed by the landscape. I feel at home here. Deeply at home. And each time I come back to visit the places and people, when it is time to leave I love I feel the mountain pulling at the hem of my skirt, insisting I should stay.

I chose the scenic route over the expeditious one. After all this is a road trip. The drive up Canyon from Boulder to Nederland is simply stunning. And the road from Nederland to Indian Springs wasn’t too shabby either, passing through quaint mining towns, ghost towns, and a bustling casino town nestled into the mountain so perfectly, it’s as thought it was simply always there.

Typical mountain scene from just about any highway in CO high country. LOVE this.

I’d planned to drive straight through to Moab, but made a connection with my addictedtobicycles buddy Elgee and decided to stop over here in Eagle, CO. Eagle rests in the transition where the high alpine country gives way to high desert. Aspens give way to shrubs, sage and grasses. It’s a pastoral place in many ways, and restful. A good way to transition from these mountains I love so much to the desert solitude I crave.

A mellow dinner, some finely chilled Ninkasi and a LG’s favorite dessert later (I think it’s the rainbow sprinkles more than the ice cream that he loves) we stopped off to catch the very tail end of the Lakers-Nuggets game at the local bar. Needless to say the joint was lit up with rabid fan energy.

Besides being a ridiculously funny guy, LG (otherwise known as Larry) runs a cyclocross race series here in Eagle … In the spring! Larry’s also the Squirt Lube rep for the U.S. If it sounds like I’m plugging LG, I am, kinda. He’s a great guy, and I also like the product too… Though Squirt’s not an official sponsor of mine, I have to admit a preference for their stuff. I’ve used White Lightning before, and this stuff is much better and better for the environment. No hazardous chemicals in this lube. Good for your bike and good for the planet AND water-based wax lube = no gooey black messy chains. What’s not to like?

On the topic of sponsorship, I am also amazed at how few people in my home town still dont know where Cyclepath is. Really? Seriously? I dare you to go there next time you need some parts or stuff or heck… a new bike!… and tell them Uma sent you. It’s a small shop, and for sure rather busy on the weekends, but owners Bill and Joshua and their talented crew are committed to sustainability and minimal environmental impact through the stuff they sell.

And oh yeah. They also sell super wonderful bikes.

I’m off to Moab in the morning. Then Vernal, which BIKE magazine just named as the new Fruita and Moab. I’ll let you know if it lives up to the hype.

Meanwhile. The mountains promise white cloud and thunderstorm dreamin’.

*sigh*

Tribute to a Real Life Guru

Boulder is the center of the Rolfing Universe. Rolfing is a very deep form, often painful (like, make your eyeballs bug out painful) but effective form of bodywork that manipulates connective tissue more than muscle. For someone like me whose muscles are supple but whose tendons and ligaments hold tension and scar tissue, it is an essential piece of keeping this body working.

Of course I took the opportunity while visiting Boulder to get a session with the Master of Rolfing: Til Luchau. Til is like the Rolfer’s Rolfer. My own Rolfer back in Portland, works with him, as does friend Amy who’s sofa I am currently surfing.

Upon arriving back at a Amy’s pad, I decided to pass on an evening mountain bike ride, feeling introspective and quiet, and wanting to be gentle with my body. I opted for a yoga practice instead. I don’t know how I had this sudden intuition, but something told me guruji was dead.

Just as I was going to get my mat out I got the news: Sri K Pattabhi Jois passed away this morning. He was 93 years old.

. . . . .

Pattabhi Jois, otherwise known as guruji to his students, was the founder of Ashtanga yoga, based in Mysore, India. If you have ever been to or seen a yoga practice that flows from one pose to the next, rhythmically, seamlessly, you have experienced the influence of this man, and this form of yoga. Most forms of vinyasa yoga are derived from ashtanga yoga, which is renowned for its strict discipline, its almost gymnastic postures and sequencing, and it’s intense challenge. In this practice heat is created internally, though correct breathing, movement, and bandhas (applying abdominal and pelvic floor exercises). It is a huge practice, and not for the faint of heart, the elderly, or the yoga dabbler. It builds slowly and sequentially, and in many forms is a brilliant structure for teaching yoga asana. Ashtanga yoga requires serious commitment.

. . . . .

Pattabhi Jois is known for pithy broken-English sayings such as: Practice, practice, all is coming. And: Yoga is 99% practice and 1% theory.

Although his teaching methods were very strict, he had a heart of gold, and you knew if he chided you with “Bad Lady, why you skip triangamukhaikapada paschimottonasana?” he wasn’t judging, but gently joking you into remembering: Be conscious. Pay attention. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

. . . . .

I never did go to Mysore to practice with Guruji. I had occasion to practice with him a few times here in the U.S. when he was traveling through the Northwest. I never did fall for the old man the way many of my peers did, but I understood their appreciation and devotion to him. I felt that way about my Western teacher and mentor, until she passed away May 17, 1999. So I could understand when people approached the chair where Guruji patiently sat, receiving students with hugs and kisses, while they bowed and touched his feet (the customary respect paid to Indian teachers).

Callie was my mentor and teacher, Guruji was a legend. I did not learn more from him than I did from her, but I could feel the weight of his experience and the fact that he was singular in his purpose: To show others how to ease their suffering. But although I had little direct teaching from Pattabhi Jois, his influence reaches into every corner of my personal and professional life.

. . . . .

To recognize the deaths of two teachers who either directly or indirectly have informed my teaching and my practice one day apart, is an interesting juxtaposition. Callie’s teaching was about honoring tradition, while allowing for innovation. Pattabhi Jois’ vision of yoga did not include any interpretation other than his own of the classical teachings. He was a traditionalist by any definition.

This is an issue I have struggled with as a teacher of ‘yoga’ for years. Which is better: To uphold tradition at all costs or to embrace innovation?

My early years as a teacher were dogmatic and party line traditionalist. But eventually I came to see that even adhering to a strict tradition has its limitations. Innovation is necessary for growth or change, particularly if tradition isn’t cutting it.

Bottom line?

Tradition is important. It gives us grounding and shows us where we came from. Innovation is also important. It keeps things fresh and alive, and meets our needs when tradition fails.

Both are correct. Both are necessary. Both are good.

For myself as a teacher and practitioner of yoga I strive to honor tradition, while embracing innovation. I do not feel it necessary to reinvent the wheel of yoga. I admit I do not respect “teachers” who take a two-week crash course “boot camp” training and then come out with a “certification” and are not able to give a solid foundation to students, and feel it necessary to keep coming up with new gimmicks. It could seem dogmatic, but really, I’m pretty moderate. I have one foot firmly planted on either side of the equation.

This could explain the difficulty in getting the book done.

. . . . .

The tradition of ashtanga yoga will live on at the Ashtanga Yoga Research Institute, as the torch is passed to Jois’ grandson Sharath, and his daughter Saraswathi.

And of course, the tradition will live on each of us, through our practices.

Rest in peace, Guruji. You will be remembered.

lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu

Fruita Wrap-up

The proverbial THEY say if you’re reading about it, you can’t be doing it, but I say pffft. Yes, you can read How to Avoid the Bummer Life whilst vigorously and emphatically avoiding the bummer life.

SO a friend tells me the place to go in Fort Collins for good coffee and wifi is the hipster joint, The Bean Cycle. Cool joint, decent brew, organic yah. As I roll up (in car, after all, I’m living in it and it and I just came from the desert where it and I were pounded by sand and dirt and beetle dung for days on end… It’s time for a little house/car cleaning) I see the quintessential hipster outside with thin, scraggly, ironic mustache firmly in place. I had to chuckle. Just like home, I mused.