While Cycling I Thought of Nothing At All

These days, I’m like a squirrel when I’m reading a book.

I think I’ve only actually finished two books in the last year. But I’ve started several. And so I started “Two Wheels Good” by Jody Rosen a few weeks ago. I got pretty far, considering my circumstances as a dad and a husband and a journalist and an amateur cyclist.

It’s OK. Eventually I finish them. I set them down somewhere, typically it’s my bedside table, and then pick them up again when the time is right.

I’ve started another book. I don’t remember how I heard about it, but it’s one of those books that is such a classic that cyclists just assume all other cyclists have read it, or at least heard of it.

“The Rider” by Tim Krabbé is widely revered and the people who read it are part of a secret, underground club. There are people who go and ride the race that is written about in the story.

It’s fictional, but also autobiographical. It’s a loving tribute to the art and sport of bicycle racing. And so I didn’t think it would be for me, since I’ve never raced on the road. I also didn’t think I would be eligible to read it. Have I earned my stripes as a rider? Will I understand the jargon?

Maybe not.

Then, I found this passage.

When I withdrew to Anduze in 1973 for my first period of cyclo-literary hermitry, I believed that, while cycling, I would come up with thoughts and ideas for the stories I’d be writing the rest of the time. Fat chance. The rest of my time I spent jotting in my cycling logbook and keeping statistics on my distances and times, and while cycling I thought of nothing at all.

On a bike your consciousness is small. The harder you work, the smaller it gets. Every thought that arises is immediately and utterly true, every unexpected event is something you’d known all along but had only forgotten for a moment. A pounding riff from a song, a bit of long division that starts over and over, a magnified anger at someone, is enough to fill your thoughts.

He said “cycling.” Not racing.

Hm.

Sometimes people ask me what I think about when I’m riding. I think they’re expecting some beautifully articulated thought to flow out of me, especially after spending such quality time with the bike, my muse. I feel this pressure, being a writer.

I never know how to answer that question. I often say, “I don’t know” or “Just … life.” And then I laugh nervously, hoping the inquirer moves on to another curiosity.

But on the bike, my mind jumps from topic to topic. Things I’ve forgotten to ask people. The caterpillar inching along the road. Tasks that need to be done. Memories from my childhood. That perfectly round rock. Songs I’ve not heard since middle school. The time. The pain in my legs. The owl staring at me from an overhead oak branch.

So, although I’ve thought about “nothing at all,” I’ve also thought of everything.

Next time you ask me what I think about, then, and I answer “Just … life,” you’ll know what I mean.

Then again, you probably won’t.