Tag: Type A
Alrighty then is the overarching title I’ve given to blog posts wherein I write about what it’s like to run a cyclocross team with my husband, Richard Sachs. Full disclosure. Unlike Richie, (by the way, you can only call him “Richie” if you’ve slept with him. My rule.) I’ve never raced cyclocross. I had a brief, some might say non-existent fling with road racing when I raced, um, I think once or maybe twice, with the Trek women’s team nearly twenty years ago.
At my first race, I lined up with all the other Type A’s and had an inkling of what racing was about when no one wanted to swap recipes or tell anecdotes while we were waiting for the gun. They’re taking this seriously I thought, and I felt at once intimidated and out of place. When lots of people are gathered together, I consider that a social occasion. Not so on the starting line of a race apparently.
And we’re off! Man, they go hard right at the beginning. What about just easing into it? After all, we’ve got a long way to go. Nope, anaerobic oxygen debt right off the bat. As my heart pounded and my muscles burned, I became uncomfortably aware that other people’s bikes were really close to me. Hope they hold their line I thought, but without much confidence. And why didn’t I have confidence that no one would crash me? Because I don’t know these people, and I don’t know if they can handle their bikes. And why don’t I know them? Because no one wanted to chat and share stories with me when we had the chance, lining up. So there I was, gasping in a pack of really mean looking women, who were looking neither to right or left, but straight ahead with a killer set to their faces that showed full readiness to do battle.
I don’t like battles. At least not obvious ones. And now, much to my dismay, I seemed to be in the middle of one. And what were we all risking life and limb and putting up with a great deal of physical suffering to battle for? This question floated into my naturally curious mind as I struggled to hold my place in the peloton.
The answer came as an epiphany. We are doing this so that one of us can cross a line first.
And now, astute reader, you have no doubt figured out my problem. Because a real competitor would call it “winning.” And “winning” puts a whole different spin on the activity, something that “crossing a line first” doesn’t quite do. Winning is about testing oneself overtly against others in a chosen field. It is throwing all the cards out on the table, in broad daylight, to succeed or fail, for all to see. And at that epiphanic moment, I knew I was not a competitor. At least not with other people.
Motivations duly clarified, I dropped to the back of the peloton where I had some breathing room and found a few other like-minded “racers.” We chatted companionably as we rode the “race.” And just for fun sprinted each other up the final hill climb (I “won.”)
So all this is to say that my perspective on cyclocross is not the racer perspective. I am the observer, the strategist, the big-picture person. And that’s what I’ll be writing about in the coming weeks.
The Muse tells me it’s time to break for summer, and like the Wife (heads up, husbands) the Muse is always right. To that end, I will be on vacation from my blog until the beginning of September, when, I hope, you will join me again.
To tie up a loose end before I vacate: The Sweater has been completed. The Twenty Year Sweater Here is a photo.
I know. I never said I was a good knitter, did I? Check out the oddly puffy sleeves. When I put The Sweater on, I’ve got a weird Shakespeare-in-winter thing going on.
This morning I am going to go outside and paint a watercolor. Even though I have a boatload of books to review and three writing projects awaiting various revisions, I am still going to shove them aside and do a watercolor. It won’t advance my career or make me money, but. . .
I am the product of two very different people. My mother has, as my dad likes to say, two speeds: slow and stop. But I think he might be envious, since he’s fast and faster. I tend to be more like my dad, until I remember that I’m also part my mom. Once I asked her how she avoided over-doing. She told me that she does three “things”—“things” being chores—per day, and once they are done, she’s off the hook and free to do what she wants. (I believe one of the “things” is making the bed, so you see she’s not unduly stressing herself.)
When I find myself in a muddle of work, I remember her words. Painting a watercolor this morning is going to be more satisfying than disciplining myself through a revision and what’s more, I suspect it will free up other creative areas in my brain, making me more effective when I get back to writing.
If you’re more on the driven side like me, maybe today you can try to do one thing you truly enjoy, for no other reason than that you truly enjoy it–see how it goes.
Until September, then. Have a lovely summer.
As I sit in front of the wood stove on this stormy-snowy morning in March, I hope that this will be the last of the snow. There is still a foot of it on the ground and I can’t even see my gardens, much less plant things. I have started some flower seedlings indoors and they are up and tenaciously growing—little inch-high things under lights in the dining room. Normally I start seedlings in the living room where the southwest windows bring in tons of light. Normally. But this spring has been unusually gray, not much sun at all, so for the first time in five years, the seedlings are under the grow lights.
But even as our climate, our planet, our home, is becoming more unpredictable; I am reminded of something Bernie Glassman said. Bernie is one of the authors of The Dude and the Zen Master—he being the Zen master part and Jeff Bridges being the dude. I bring this up because it is this iteration of him that people may be familiar with. But I met Bernie way back, in the 1980’s, when I was an ardent student of Zen and he was my teacher’s teacher. I used to, back then, go on zazenkai’s (day-long meditations) at the zendo in Long Island. And during one of these zazenkai’s, Bernie sat across from me. That day, as I sometimes used to do, I cast my mind out, seeing what I could pick up—was he fidgeting? Ego-bound? Thinking about dinner? I prided myself on being able to read energy somewhat (which is, looking back on it, quite obnoxious, since it’s all about power and control).
But at any rate, my point is, from Bernie, I could read nothing. Nothing. It was as if he was not even there. And that meant, of course, that he was the real deal. Because if you have fully realized, you walk in step with the world, not pushing through it. You are one with it.
That day, Bernie said something that has stayed with me all these years. He said, “We try to improve a little, but we are who we are.”
Well that struck me like a big, warm hug. I was comforted and freed and validated all at once. Because if there’s one thing I’m always insecure about, it’s that I’m not good enough.
“We try to improve a little, but we are who we are.”
There is a place to rest inside those words.