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As I step away from some of my older hobbies, it looks like kyūdō—the Japanese martial art of archery—might be a new activity that arises to take their place.

People who know me will realize that when I commit to an interest, I dive into it with a unique intensity and dedication. Looking back, I’ve had numerous interests which I pursued for years and sometimes decades, such as Tolkien fandom and fiction writing during my youth, or cycling and meditation as an adult.

But every five or ten years, I step back and reevaluate my hobbies and how they fit into my life. Often I can tell when a chapter of my life is about to end because I feel that my interests aren’t helping me grow in the direction I want to go in. It’s at those times that I’ll suddenly walk away from things I’ve been devoted to for years, such as when I left my writers’ group after running it for more than a decade. At the same time, I feel myself looking for what new interests might come along to replace the old.

In the past year or two, I’ve set the groundwork for dropping two time-consuming hobbies. I’ve already publicized that after fourteen seasons, 2014 will be my last year riding in the Pan-Massachusetts Challenge, which will free up a lot of time I’d otherwise spend fundraising. In addition, I will soon stop tracking my money using the Where’s George website, after a ten-year run. These were great activities, but it’s finally time to move on.

Knowing that this would free up time and energy, I started kicking around ideas for what I might enjoy doing next: something I could get involved with that would also appeal to the very different person I have become.

And the first thing that seems to have arisen is kyūdō.

Kyūdō is a meditative martial art devoted to the traditional Japanese form of archery. It’s surprising that kyūdō is not widely known in the US, because it is extremely popular in Japan, where archery and its equipment are viewed as highly sacred. Kyūdō has been refined and distilled into a highly reflective, meditative practice, as reflected in the first western book on Japanese archery. Eugen Herrigel’s 1948 “Zen in the Art of Archery” was wildly popular and was the first book to use the now-popular moniker “Zen and the art of…”

So why have I been drawn to kyūdō? It’s hard to explain, but it boils down to six attributes that appeal to me: it’s social, meditative, physical, elegant, familiar, and Japanese.

Although the focus of the form of kyūdō is internal, participation and instruction are offered in the context of a small, friendly martial arts dojo of mixed ages and genders. This is imperative to me, since social life and connection is revealing itself as the primary project of my fifth decade of life.

I probably don’t need to belabor how kyūdō’s meditative focus complements my longstanding contemplative practice. As a form of meditation that involves a fair amount of movement, Kyūdō seems to nicely fit in the gap between rather sedate walking meditation and full-bore regular life.

For years, I’ve been looking for some technique for integrating physical exertion and meditation, which initially led me toward an exploration of yoga. However, being in a room filled with women in tight skinsuits—all rolling around on the floor in provocative positions—wasn’t especially conducive to internal exploration. Kyūdō allows and incorporates a focus on the body without the detrimental distractions.

However, like the asanas in yoga or the forms in tai chi, kyūdō is strictly choreographed. And when control of the human body and its motions is combined with the natural geometry of the bow, bowstring, and arrow, kyūdō epitomizes elegance and grace: attributes that I strive to embody.

And archery has always appealed to me. Even as a child, archery was my favorite activity at summer camp, and over the years I became pretty skilled at it. And in my medieval recreationist days I bought and used a very powerful English longbow, as well.

And for whatever reason, I seem to be in a phase where Japanese stuff is interesting, so it fits into that, as well.

So as you can see, kyūdō actually complements my interests quite nicely.

Practices are both convenient and a bit of a stretch. During the winter, they use an indoor aikido dojo in Union Square, which isn’t easily reached by mass transit, but is manageable. And in the summer they’re out in Lincoln, which would be really difficult, except that’s just one town over from where I would be training during a regular weekend bike ride, so I’ll probably combine the two.

I first started looking at their website around Thanksgiving, and saw that they were running a new student “first shot” training at MIT in January. However, it filled up before I could sign up.

So two weeks ago I showed up at the dojo just to observe. Fortunately, another new guy was there, and apparently we comprised enough interest for them to schedule another first shot training the following week. So I returned for a second visit and received instruction on most of the form from Joyce and Randy, with the expectation that I’d get to perform my first shots the next time.

This past weekend, I returned for part two of the training. Although the other new guy wasn’t around, I received additional instruction from Joyce, and then Don covered some more details before encouraging me to step up and take my first shot.

To put that into perspective, in Japan new students often take weeks, months, or sometimes years drilling the techniques before they’re allowed to shoot. Due to Americans’ typical impatience, our school has disposed of that, but it’s still a big milestone.

So I felt some anxiety as I stepped up and went through the movements and fired two arrows. When we move outside, we’ll fire at targets 28 meters away, but indoors we shoot at cardboard bales from a distance of about ten feet. I managed to remember most of the steps, but forgot to flip my right arm back upon my first release; I corrected it for the second.

What was interesting to me was how intensely the body experienced it. When I stepped away, my heart was racing and I was breathing heavily. I think much of that is due to the selfconsciousness of taking my first shot under the sensei’s gaze, combined with the physical stress of drawing the bow and the loud thunk of the arrow striking the target.

Of course, I haven’t mastered anything as yet. It’s frustrating but entirely predictable that some of the things I do wrong are common both to kyūdō and cycling, such as tensing and hunching my shoulders. And I also need to pay better attention to keeping my body facing perpendicular to the target, rather than turning toward it.

But it was successful! I’d followed the forms and properly fired and lodged my arrows into the target. So at least I’ve got the basics down.

Over time, I hope to embody some of the elegance that you can see in some of the YouTube videos or Vimeo videos about kyūdō. And if I stick with it, perhaps someday you’ll even get to see a photo of me in a hakama!

So someone finally wrote a book about the Pan-Mass Challenge.

If you are one of my friends who care about (or are just curious about) the event, you might be interested in picking it up. It’s short—just 150 pages—with a handful of greyscale photos. It’s inexpensive too—just $9 at Amazon!—and the author is giving 75 percent of the profits back to the PMC.

The writing is first-person and informal. While that makes it readable, the author rambles around each chapter, covering diverse topics with no real focal point, yielding a book that also has no coherent theme other than the experience.

But to be fair, the PMC—the event—is all about that experience. The entire weekend is intensely emotionally charged, and that’s something that is nearly impossible to convey in words. This is astutely summarized in a quote from one teen rider, “When you explain it to a friend they sort of know what it is, but until they’re there, they don’t really know.”

Sure, there’s the obligatory nod to the event’s long history, including how the idea came to the founder during a ride in Boston’s Arnold Arboretum, how he ran the event for fifteen years from his father’s dining room, how everyone reacted to the first rider fatality, finally getting permission to use the campus of the Massachusetts Maritime Academy as an overnight stop, and the event’s phenomenal growth.

And there’s plenty of interesting factoids. On PMC weekend, riders will pedal a collective three-quarters of a million miles. 70 percent of riders return to the event each year, and scores of PMC kids rides serve as a farm club for the main event, iculcating future generations into a culture of philanthropy and caring about others.

Combine all the other single-event athletic fundraisers in the nation, then multiply that by 3.5—that’s what the PMC raises every year. Having passed 100 percent of rider-raised money through to the charity, the PMC constitutes 60 percent of the Jimmy Fund’s revenue and—at 20 percent of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute’s entire budget—is DFCI’s largest single source of funding.

All this enables Dana-Farber to conduct over 700 clinical trials and 350,000 outpatient visits per year. But more importantly, the PMC gives Dana-Farber the power and security to do the impossible. The PMC has directly underwritten research that led to treatments and cures for rare pediatric cancers that threaten the lives of a thousand kids per year, a hundred kids per year, even just 32 kids per year.

The book tells the stories of a number of these kids, including the PMC’s poster boy: Jack O’Riordan, who at one year of age was cured of Wilms Tumor, which only six children had at that time. And how, after cheering on PMC riders for 14 years, he finally was old enough to do the ride himself (despite a broken leg).

The book also includes stories from the more than a hundred Dana-Farber staffmembers who ride, and gives a pointedly realistic assessment of Lance Armstrong’s single visit to the event in 2011, shortly before his confession as a doper and resignation from his own cancer-related charity.

Many of the people in the book provide quotes that further illustrate the attitude and atmosphere the event creates.

“There are widows and there are orphans, but no word exists for a parent who loses a child.” -One 17-year rider’s fundaising email

“At first when I get the call my heart goes out for the family; it’s so hard. But then my heart soars because they’ve found the right place, the right team.” -A pediatric oncologist who rides

“To the world you may be just one person, but to one person you just may be the world.” -One of hundreds of signs lining the route

“You’re never done, you’re never done with the event.” -A 25-year volunteer

For me as a 13-year rider, the book left me with mixed feelings. I so want to be able to share with others what the PMC experience is like. Although the book relates a handful of very emotional narratives, it’s simply impossible to capture all the amazing and heart-wrenching and grace-laden stories in an event that spans hundreds of miles with 5,500 participants, 3,000 volunteers, countless roadside spectators, and a quarter million sponsors over 33 years.

One of the difficult things to capture about the PMC is the emotional impact. All weekend long, you’re primed, because you never know when you’ll see something that instantly moves you to tears, whether it be to the heights of inspiration or the depths of despair. Will it be the kid holding an “I’m alive thanks to you!” sign? Riding next to a Red Sox or Patriots player? Or exchanging greetings with an 80 year-old rider, or an amputee riding with only one leg?

Will it be hearing the story of someone who has raised a quarter million dollars, or a rider with a loved one’s photo or dozens of ribbons with names pinned to their jersey? The tandem bike with an empty seat, representing a lost loved one?

Will it be the sincerity and passion with which hundreds of people lining the route thank you for riding? Or watching the tens of thousands of people—riders, volunteers, sponsors, supporters, patients and their families, doctors, and nurses—who have come together to make a real, meaningful difference in each others’ lives this often impersonal and uncaring world?

As a longtime writer myself, I don’t envy anyone who tries to capture and communicate the PMC experience, in whatever medium. So I won’t criticize the author for falling short of 100 percent success. But I’m very glad he did it, and I think it’s well worth the $9 for anyone who has ever felt attachment to this singular and irreproduceable event.

And, of course, if you have yet to sponsor my upcoming 13th PMC ride, now’s the time!

The following is a letter from the President of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute to the PMC organization.

I have chosen to share it with you and my sponsors to give you a better idea exactly how the money we raise is spent, and how vitally important it is to their lifesaving mission. And, of course, so you too can receive the thanks you deserve for your support of my ride.

Dear Fellow PMC Members:

First, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you on behalf of so many who work so hard to conquer cancer, and even more people who count on us to do just that, and on behalf of everyone at Dana-Farber and all of the people who depend on us. You, individually and collectively, have been absolutely phenomenal. The financial support that you have provided has enabled groundbreaking research that has saved lives and will ensure that we will be able to save more lives in the future. Of equal importance, is the extraordinary spirit and positivity that you bring to your effort. This is enormously uplifting, motivating, and sustaining to all of us who work on the frontline of trying to conquer cancer. You are right there with us, and that is enormously heartening. I thought it would be a good time to update you about what is going on in the world of cancer research and what your incredible support is doing to allow cancer research to move forward at Dana-Farber despite one of the worst external environments in the history of medical research.

Among the most important things unrestricted funds supports is our ability to recruit and retain the world's most incredible faculty of cancer care givers and researchers. You have met many of them; Nadler, Demetri, Winer, Partridge and more. Nearly all of them are here because we were able to use the unrestricted support that you provided to invest in their recruitment and to support their early work, work at the cutting edge, before it was a "sure enough bet" to be funded by the National Institutes of Health or other agencies. Indeed, these faculty members have become so important and prominent that they are the target of enormously attractive recruitment packages from many other institutes. Because of the PMC's record breaking support last year, I was able to use these funds to support retention programs that kept them here to continue their work. PMC support helps convince them that we can commit the resources they need to make the maximum impact on cancer outcomes on now and in the future at Dana-Farber.

PMC funds support work for ground-breaking, out of the box projects by our investigators in their own research programs; other funds allowed us to invest in key equipment such as state of the art sequencing and imaging facilities. One of the world's first small imager Cyclotrons, a multimillion dollar piece of equipment needed for the imaging capabilities at the frontiers in research, is being used on more mouse models in cancer. It was partly funded by the PMC. To get the remaining funding, we were able to leverage your support to obtain matching funds from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. We now have the finest animal imaging facility in the country used to study mouse models of cancer, and we will make it available to collaborators within Harvard, and outside to the biotech and pharmaceutical world.

This past Friday, I had the honor of presenting the Osler Young Investigator Award to Dr. Kimberly Stegmaier, one of our rising faculty stars who was supported in her early work by the funds that you raised. She is now a world class developer of novel agents for the treatment of childhood leukemias and neuroblastoma using innovative genomic technologies that we used PMC funds to support. PMC funds allowed us to purchase equipment and collaborative services both at Dana-Farber and the Broad Institute. This has sustained a unique collaboration between two world-class institutions in the conquest of cancer.

This past spring, Drs. Ken Anderson and Paul Richardson and their collaborators from the Medical School and the pharmaceutical industry received the highly prestigious Warren Alpert Award from Harvard for their work in developing novel therapies at record speed. These have been the driving advances resulting in the tripling of survival time for patients with multiple myeloma. A significant amount of the funds that made this work possible came from PMC teams that have ridden in support of Drs. Anderson and Richardson. Perhaps even more importantly, some of the very earliest work of this group, working before its value was apparent, was supported by unrestricted funds that were generated by the PMC.

These are just a few of many examples that provide tangible proof that you are allowing us to forge ahead in very difficult times. In virtually every one of our disease centers and our departments, there are young investigators whose careers were launched by funds raised by the PMC. In every one of our cores and centers, equipment, expert scientists, computational capabilities, expensive supplies and expert personnel are there because we are able to support them with PMC funds. Every one of our clinics and clinical trials are supported by your funds.

You truly are marching with us on the front lines in the war to conquer cancer. It seems almost impossible to do even more than you are doing. However, if ever there was a time for even more effort and generosity, it is now. The federal government allowed "sequestration" to happen, this has resulted in a cataclysmic cut in the NIH budget. Cancer research is disproportionately affected. In addition, Massachusetts and federal healthcare and payment reform are reducing clinical reimbursements. And, in this time of highly constrained resources, competition from many other worthy causes for traditional forms of philanthropy is more intense than ever. It is only through the PMC that we can hope to remain aggressive and optimistic about making a difference in the lives of patients with cancer and saving even more lives in the future. Thank you as always for the incredible work that you do on our behalf.

Sincerely,

Edward J. Benz, Jr., M.D.

Prologue

I never really had a bucket list—a list of adventures I wanted to have before I die—mostly because as I identified things I wanted to do, I found ways to do them.

In fact, when I finally did sit down and make an attempt at a bucket list, I found 42 things that I had *already* done, and only eight that were still outstanding! Bucket list: you're doing it wrong!

Of those eight I hadn't done, three required travel to San Francisco. So it made sense to book a flight to the Bay Area and knock off a third of my bucket list in one single trip.

The first item on the list was the Buddhist Bicycle Pilgrimage (BBP). Many years ago, I heard about this two-day, 140-mile ride that started in Marin County, north of San Francisco, which visited several dhamma centers. Naturally, I was drawn to this event that combines two of the most important parts of my life, and I began making plans to attend. However, I'm not good at scheduling solo travel, and the plans never came together.

The second thing I wanted to do was visit a meditation teacher named Gil Fronsdal who runs the Insight Meditation Center (IMC) in Redwood City, south of San Francisco. When I first started getting interested in Buddhism, I downloaded (without exaggeration) thousands of dhamma talks by various teachers, but the person I felt most connected to and inspired by was Gil. Again, for years I envisioned myself going to California to express my gratitude and to speak on behalf of the listeners who have benefited from his wisdom as encapsulated in the talks he's freely offered online.

It seemed fateful that my ex-wife Linda also lives in the same town: Redwood City. We hadn't communicated in nearly 20 years when out of the blue she friended me on Facebook two years ago. Interpreting that as an invitation to communicate, I pinged her to see whether she would be interested in getting together to catch up. After all, I'm not the type to drop from my life someone whom I once cared a great deal for. That was my third major goal.

But it still took me more than three years to put this trip together. Why? A large part of it was my nervousness about making solo traveling plans. I like to have everything planned out and certain beforehand, and that wasn't going to happen on this trip, between having to arrange flights, three hotel stays, transporting my bike or renting one, finding a tent and sleeping bag, renting a car, getting transportation back to the start once the ride was over, and so forth.

I was also discouraged when one of my dhamma friends, after expressing interest in tagging along for the pilgrimage last year, backed out once I started making plans.

Ironically, another dhamma friendship was the catalyst that got me to finally make firm plans this year. A couple of people were hanging around the Cambridge Insight Meditation Center (CIMC) after a talk one night, chatting about cycling, and this guy Peter started telling me about the BBP. I mentioned my travel trepidations, but he encouraged me to go. He'd done it several times, and was helping out with the planning this year, since he splits his time between east and west coasts. He offered to answer any questions I had, and that helped me get over my blockage about travel.

So after this year's Pan-Mass Challenge, I pulled the trigger and made all the arrangements. I was headed to California, and was finally going to accomplish all three of these longtime goals!

Friday, 28 September 2012

Thursday after work I came home and made my final preparations, then turned in… briefly! I had to get up before 3am in order to grab a cab to Logan for my 6am flight. 3am is bad enough, but if you convert that to west coast time, I had gotten out of bed before midnight!

As I said goodbye to the Gradle and locked the door behind me, I had a very strong sense that I was embarking on a pilgrimage. Sure, there was the Buddhist Bicycle Pilgrimage that would take place over the weekend, but there was a larger, personal pilgrimage that began when I left home, and which would include getting to California, sitting with Gil at IMC, and also hopefully seeing Linda. This larger pilgrimage turned out to be a very real and meaningful experience, as you'll see if you read on.

My 6am flight to SFO went well. When I'd checked in on Thursday, I'd opted to receive my boarding pass on my mobile phone, so United had sent me an email that contained a scannable QR code. While I was nervous about how that would work at the TSA checkpoint and at the gate, they had scanners set up and it all worked flawlessly. Very cool.

What was even cooler was that on a nearly full flight, there was an unoccupied seat between me (window) and the guy in the aisle seat, so that gave us the opportunity to stretch out a bit. Score!

I arrived at SFO at 9:30am, picked up a silver Mazda MX-3 rental car, and headed north, passing over a completely socked-in Golden Gate Bridge. I arrived in Marin County well before I could check into my hotel, so I tried going over to the Corte Madeira REI, where I'd reserved a tent and sleeping bag. Along the way, I grabbed some drinks and snacks at a Safeway, then picked up my camping gear with no problem.

Then I drove ten miles out to the town of San Anselmo, where I'd reserved a bike at 3 Rings Cycles. They were really friendly, which led me to conclude that the rest of California might not be as cliquey as San Francisco. They hooked me up with a red and white Bianchi Infinito. Oddly, it was a carbon bike, but with low-end Shimano 105 components. But it would do for the weekend.

For all this driving around, I used my Android phone's built-in navigation app. It impressed me, doing everything a dedicated car GPS would do, including verbal directions. It was a big win, and I relied on it all week.

I drove back to the hotel and they allowed me to check into my room early. That gave me time to take the bike out for a test ride, and I knew just where I wanted to go.

A block from the hotel was the newish Cal Park Hill Tunnel, a dedicated bike path tunnel through a mountain, which created a connection between Greenweir, where my hotel was, and the city of San Rafael. I moseyed down there and pedaled my way through the tunnel. While it wasn't a really long tunnel—about a quarter mile—it's damned long for a bicycle-only tunnel, enough so that my GPS gave up trying to get a satellite signal. I passed through it, rode a bit further on, adjusted the bike's seat, and then rode back. Pretty cool!

A mile in the other direction was California's San Quentin State Prison. I made my way down there and took a photo which I posted to Facebook, saying, “San Quentin, I am in you… uhhh.” Well, I thought it was funny! The bike checked out okay. Nothing spectacular, but it was pretty and serviceable.

After a trip to CVS to get drinks, I discovered a little (20-person capacity) Thai restaurant called Tha Siam in the commercial development across the street. I had chicken himaparn, which was heavily spiced, along with some good brown rice. I was feeling kinda headachy, tho.

Back at the hotel, I showered, wrote out the BBP route on cloth tape to attach to my bike's top tube, unpacked everything from flying mode and repacked it for cycling and camping mode, and paid my monthly bills (it was payday, after all).

That was when I got the email from Linda. Her response to my email announcing my trip had been cool: I've been working crazy hours and barely have time to sleep, and won't know my schedule until the day you arrive. Well, I'd arrived, and her followup wasn't any more receptive: My boyfriend's uncomfortable and I have to take his feelings into consideration. Basically, I'd come 3,000 miles to her doorstep, and she had turned me away.

So… Here was the first curveball of my trip. It wasn't entirely unexpected, but it was still tremendously disappointing. I was hurt, and it was a challenge dealing with all the emotions that her rejection brought up. How much should I trust her words, versus the message between the lines? And even if I believed her, hadn't she learned better than to date jealous, controlling guys? I didn't know what to think or how to respond; I knew that I couldn't respond right away, and that meant not replying until after the ride.

So I'd have material to think about and practice with during the hours in the saddle. But I already knew that I could do so with a clear conscience: I had made a sincere offer out of kindness, and I had to let go of any expectation of how that offer would be received or what the result would be.

Still, it wasn't a restful night.

Saturday, 29 September 2012

It was also another short night, as I had to get up before 5am. Thankfully, that's 8am Eastern time, so it wasn't too painful! I checked out of the hotel and drove ten miles out to Woodacre and the Spirit Rock Meditation Center. Upon arriving, I assembled the bike in the pre-dawn darkness, and loaded my backpack, tent, and sleeping bag onto the gear truck.

After I and about a hundred other riders checked in, we had a brief sitting in their VFW-like “community hall”, followed by a dhamma talk by Julie Wester. She talked about what a blessing it was to be able to combine two activities that you are passionate about, and how cycling and meditation were a natural fit due to the need to be focused and aware in the present moment. I found it an interesting and moving speech, but I was emotionally primed, having made such a substantial effort just to get there.

She also talked about the pilgrimage's “theme”: the four bases of success, or the Iddhipadas. They are: desire or intention, effort or energy, application of mind, and investigation or wisdom. As they went over them, I thought about how those are a formula for success in any effort. The pilgrimage focused on one base every half-day, and since Saturday morning's topic was desire or intention, we were encouraged to reflect on the desire that had brought us here, and what we intended to get out of the pilgrimage.

We were dismissed around 7:30am and everyone left at their own pace. I chatted with Peter before mounting up and moseying down toward the main road, where I waited for a group of riders to go by. When I rolled out, I thought I was toward the back of the pack, and I wasn't paying much attention as I passed six or eight other riders. I was putting a little energy into it, because it was misty and cold, and because I was glad to have something physical to take my mind off Linda's email.

The first segment reminded me of Scotland. There weren't any huge hills, but there were lots of small ones, and they were *steep*! I'd be riding along, hearing cows lowing, and look up into the mist and see them munching away on a hillside that climbed (or dropped) 400 feet, right next to the road! The countryside was dramatic; I wish it had been less misty, and light enough to see more of it along the way.

An hour later, I saw people sitting at the side of the road, and the route arrows pointed at them, so I turned off. Apparently this was the first rest stop. After a bit of chat, they clued me in that the food was set up behind a nearby building, so I moseyed down there.

The odd thing was that a handful of people there started cheering for me. Apparently I was the first rider to enter the rest stop! Huh! I thought I was toward the middle of the pack.

I had been headachy all morning and hadn't eaten anything for breakfast, so I grabbed a couple grapes and a bit of a bagel. After a porta-potty stop, other riders were coming in, so I continued on, hooking up with two other riders.

What I didn't know at first was that they weren't BBP riders; they were locals. We chatted for a number of miles, which included the biggest climb of the whole ride. It was hard, reminding me of New Hampshire's Crawford Notch. The descent that followed wasn't that impressive, but I gapped my local friends and rode on alone.

At the base of the descent, I turned onto a road that led up the flat floor of a valley dotted with working farms and vineyards. Right at the corner, near a farmhouse, I saw four really big crows standing by the side of the road. But they were *really* big… and had kinda bald heads… And then it hit me: there's fucking vultures lining the route! Vultures! As I rode by and gasped my amazement, they just stared back at me. *That's* something I've never had to deal with back east! And apparently it's not normal out west, either, because people talked about it later, in camp.

Just before 10am, about the time the next rest stop was supposed to show up, I saw a guy in a truck unloading a table and drinks and figured this was the place. Well, it wasn't; he was a support person for a tour put on by REI, supporting a pack of Welsh tourists! I rode on, but didn't go far, because our people were set up just around that corner. Again, I was heralded as the first guy in.

I had a cookie and some grapes, but didn't stay long at that stop because it was overrun with hornets. I exited the stop with the two guys who had come in after me, both of whom were wearing yellow jerseys. I pulled them along for a few miles, but when I rotated off the front, one stopped for a bio-break, and the other stopped to strip off some clothing, because the temperature was climbing into the 70s.

So there I was again, riding solo off the front! The primary land use in the valley was farming, and it was a very pastoral setting. I saw trucks in the fields, distributing hay for the cows' breakfast, and had to swerve to dodge cow-patties in the road. These two segments smelled richly!

I was glad when the route dove sharply and then turned onto a main road. I had to be careful crossing the road, because we had intersected the route of pro racer Levy Leipheimer's Grand Fondo, which had over 7,500 riders. Fortunately, we were going in opposite directions, and our route veered onto a bike path less than a mile later.

The path led me through the town of Sebastopol, and a few streets later (at 11:23am) I was at the lunch stop: the Sae Taw Win Dhamma Center. It was no surprise to the volunteers staffing the stop that I was the first rider in. I had already earned the epithet “jackrabbit” and comparisons to a speedy rider named Max from previous years.

It was beautiful out: sunny and comfy, but a little chilly in the shade. I took up a bench in the sun and did some self-massage, working out the stiffness in my muscles. Having gotten my appetite back, I gobbled a couple brownies along with some grapes, and sampled a box of Chicken in a Biskit crackers, which I haven't seen since high school.

The main feature of Sae Taw Win is the cedi, the Ananda Suriya Metta World Peace Pagoda, a mirrored and crowned stupa, surrounded by smaller cedis sponsored by Burmese families, which you can see in the associated photo, above.

Before we left Sae Taw Win, we had a dhamma talk by one of the teachers, Carol Meredith. I found it interesting, because while they're in the same Theravada lineage as most of the instructors I've known, they're a distinctly Burmese lineage, rather than a Thai one. I was surprised when she told us that they don't teach sitting meditation, but focus on bringing practice into students' regular lives, which sounds similar to the goals of CIMC, as an urban center.

They begin by teaching five main precepts: present-moment awareness, tranquility, awareness of likes and dislikes (which connected to Saturday morning's theme of “desire”, and also reminded me of my old vedana practice), then judgement, and clinging; all this before they continue on to the Eightfold Path.

After the talk, I joined a line waiting for the bathroom, which included the guy who had founded the ride, eleven years earlier. They were talking about how Saturday afternoon was the hardest part of the ride, something I'd heard before, but which made no sense to me. We were already more than 50 miles into an 85-mile ride, with all the climbing behind us (except for one kicker at the end). The remaining 30 miles looked flat, and there was no wind. So I asked… And was told that it was hard because of the heat, and because one already had fifty miles in one's legs.

Well, that didn't dissuade me, and I'd already had a long rest, so I made my way back onto the road. The “base of success” for Saturday afternoon's segment was effort, so I applied some.

The ride continued through farmlands and vineyards, and the valley heated up to 80 degrees. One moment of concern came as a pickup truck came flying around a corner toward me. As it leaned into the corner, the porta-potty in its bed rocked, sloshing liquid across the road in front of me. That's legitimate cause for concern!

I hit the next stop before 2pm. I wasn't the first person in, but one of the first three. The segment hadn't been bad, and I was eating up the miles, but it was warming up. It felt good to have temperatures back in the 80s, since at the end of September they're over back in Boston.

I'd been riding on rough roads; I think California figures that since they have such good weather, they can lay down some macadam and never revisit it again. I thought my bike was making more noise than it ought, but I couldn't isolate it until I heard a metallic plink. As I rode on, nothing seemed amiss until I saw that the binder bolt holding the headset cap had vibrated out, and by now it was far enough behind me that I'd never find it.

That bolt controls how much play the headset bearings have; without it, the headset would be loose and make a lot of noise. In theory it could even shake apart, but there wasn't anything I could do about it but ride on, a little more gingerly than before.

Later, as I was laboring up a small slope, one of those two guys in yellow—the one riding a flat-bar single-speed—blew past me like a rocket. Wow! I guess someone has better legs than me! The other guy was also ahead of me, but I passed him when he flatted, just short of the next stop.

That stop—the final one before we got to the overnight campground in Cloverdale—was just eight miles from the finish. We chatted with the volunteers who'd been leapfrogging us all day, and then the three of us rode on.

I knew the climb up to the campground was a beast, and it was. Single-speed boy powered ahead of me again, while the man who had flatted fell behind. The climb reminded me of Great Blue Hill, climbing 400 feet in a mile. The temperature had broken 90 degrees, as well, but the views across the valley were nice.

The road turned briefly downslope, arriving at the Wine Country KOA campground. We checked in at the office, where I spotted an ice cream freezer and picked up a Klondike bar. We arrived around 4pm.

I grabbed my tent, sleeping bag, and backpack from the gear truck and wandered down to the camping area, picking a spot beneath an overarching tree next to a dry stream bed. Then came a challenge: figuring out how to set up the dome tent I'd rented. I had a couple mis-tries, then remembered that the woman at the office had mentioned they would be giving away snow-cones twenty minutes after we arrived, so I went up there and got some slush. It wasn't very good, but it was welcome after a long, dusty day in the saddle.

Returning to the campsite, I figured out the tent and got it up. Remembering that there were a hundred riders behind me, I grabbed my shower gear, stuffed my wallet into the front of my cycling bib shorts, and walked off toward the showers.

The shower wasn't great, but it was delightful given the circumstances. I brought my stuff back to the tent, then returned to fuel up on some snacks before dinner. When dinner came around (mostly pasta), it went down well as I sat around talking to a couple girls and one talkative old man who'd driven one of the SAG vans.

By then it was 8pm, and time for the evening's ceremonies. Two Buddhist monks from our eventual destination—Abhayagiri Monastery—offered a guided meditation and dhamma talk.

The meditation was interesting: the monk had us compare our level of stress while sitting to that earlier in the day, when we were riding, then compared to a quiet woodland, then just the bare earth, then the planet, empty space, and pure void. he was trying to illustrate that in meditation, one shouldn't go straight to peacefulness and avoid stress, but to look back to find the source of stress and learn to avoid it in the future.

As a bright full moon rose, the dhamma talk that followed focused on the four bases of success and their usefulness in guiding meditative practice. By then, I was getting past my disappointment with Linda, and starting to figure out how I could respond in a way that honored both her freedom of choice and my emotions. After the dhamma talk, the pilgrimage leader gave some announcements, but started out by calling me out by name as the rider who had come from farthest away.

Then it was time for a well-earned sleep. I retired to my tent and climbed into my sleeping bag. It was the first time I'd camped out since Linda and I attended medieval recreationist events 20 years back. I managed to get adequate shut-eye in between tossing and turning, but it was far from anything I'd call a full night's sleep.

Sunday, 30 September 2012

The morning wasn't too cold, and I didn't shiver too much during the 6am meditation sitting offered by the monks. Fortunately, breakfast was served inside the campground's little dining hall, so I warmed up there. I finished and packed up my camping gear and was throwing it on the truck when I realized that I didn't have my wallet on me. In fact, I didn't have my wallet anywhere. I searched the office and the showers and all over the campground, but after 45 minutes I had to give up and ride on. Either it would show up in my bags or at the campground office, or it wouldn't. There was nothing I could do, so at 8am I rode out at the back of the pack, as some deer watched from the hillside.

There's no denying that I was upset about the wallet. If it didn't turn up, I was in deep shit. When the ride was over, I had to re-check into the same hotel I'd stayed at Friday night. Then check into another hotel in Redwood City for Monday and Tuesday. And I had to return my rented camping gear and bike, and the car I'd rented. And how was I going to convince the TSA to let me fly home without any ID? I was fucked.

With that as background, I pushed myself hard in the first segment of the ride, in order to work out some nervous energy. I caught up with my friend Peter, but blew past him, in no mood to chat. Then we turned onto the divided Highway 101 for a long climb. At least I was alone, so no one heard the continuous invective that I vented.

At 9am I pulled into the first rest stop. I was cooked after exerting myself. The highway riding wasn't great, but at least there were no steep climbs; the whole day was one long, shallow, unvarying 50-mile climb, much like some of the roads on the Mt. Washington Century. The worst part of riding on the highway was the rumble strip that took up about a foot of space along the breakdown lane.

The morning was sunny but cool, with a headwind, and the countryside—beyond the leveled highway—was rolling hills. Physically, I felt okay; my legs were fine except for lack of power on the hills, but I wasn't having a great experience with the rental bike's saddle. And, of course, my lost wallet was predominant in my thoughts. I can't say I was an exemplar of that morning's success factor of “application of mind”.

I rode for a while with a kid who had grown up in Connecticut. Then, by quarter of ten, I was in Ukiah and passed through the ornate archway into our lunch stop: the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas. A former state mental institution that had 70 buildings covering more than 700 acres, the center is a huge campus. It was founded by a Chinese chan (zen) master Hsuan Hua and serves as a center for Mahayana Buddhism and ethical education.

Upon arriving, I changed into my “modesty attire” (long pants for men, long skirt or sarong for women). After more riders arrived, we followed the chief Reverend Heng Sure into their amazing Buddha Hall, which indeed contains 10,000 Buddha statues.

He explained that they, too, do not do sitting meditation, but practice prostrations, leading us through their method, which includes the use of padded “kneeling benches”. He then proceeded with his dhamma talk, which focused on intention and ethics (sila). He had the delivery of a comedian, and ended by playing his banjo (!) and leading us in a song about repaying our parents' kindness. I found it more than a bit strange, but well-intended.

That done, he tromped us over to the dining hall for a prodigious and much-needed lunch, which included grape juice from their vineyards. When I finished, I went back to the gear truck, got rid of my modesty clothing, and set out a little before 1pm on the final 20 miles of the ride.

By 1:45 the temperature had climbed past 93 degrees, and the noontime sun was beating down on the exposed road. I was feeling used up, and was happy to see the final rest stop in a park, where I was once again the first rider in. I stole some ice for my water bottle, then poured a cupful of water over my head as other riders came in.

Then I set out one final time. I didn't want the ride to end, but I also wanted to see Abhayagiri Monastery. And my butt wanted to say farewell to that uncomfortable saddle.

The climb up to Abhayagiri is tree-lined and quiet, and gave me some time for reflection. But soon enough the route arrows pointed me up a ridiculously steep driveway to the gear truck, where I was the second rider to arrive. Pilgrimage complete!

After arriving, I made for the shower, which was wonderful on such a blazingly hot day. The monks had set up big fans with reservoirs that sprayed a fine watery mist as a form of natural air conditioning. They also were giving away books, including their 2013 Forest Sangha Calendar, and a huge tome of “The Collected Teachings of Ajahn Chah”, a respected and influential Thai teacher.

I opened up both my tent and sleeping bag to see if I could find my wallet in there, but no luck. The monks also gave us a brief tour of part of the steep and heavily-wooded grounds in their pickup truck. Half their land was donated to them by the founding teacher of the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas, which is remarkable because he comes from a completely different lineage.

The pilgrimage's closing ceremony included twelve robed monks chanting for us. Some of the chants I recognized, but they went beyond my repertoire. It was kind of funky having them chanting for us. Then a brief dharma talk, which included a reinforcement of the idea that concentration practice isn't simply to achieve some altered state of consciousness, but is primarily in the service of present-moment awareness.

Then we were done, and our chartered bus was waiting to take us 140 miles back to civilization. I loaded my stuff on board and we pulled out just before 6pm. With everyone talking about the ride, I was surprised at how loud a bus full of contemplatives was! Meanwhile, I was anxious to get cell phone signal so that I could check to see if the campground had left me voicemail, which they hadn't.

That meant no wallet for me. I was anxious to get back to town, but that was foiled when our bus driver, trying to avoid highway traffic, took a random exit and drove off into the night on some back roads. We were out there for a long time, but eventually we got back to Spirit Rock and unloaded all our stuff from both the bus and the gear truck. Of course, since I had been the first to load my bike onto the truck, it was the last one out. But I packed up the car and headed back to San Rafael.

Walking into the same Marriott I'd stayed at Friday night, I was dusty, hot, tired, beat, dehydrated, sleep-deprived, and I just wanted to get to my hotel room so that I could crash in a real bed, get a decent night's sleep, and shower. But because I couldn't produce a credit card, the aging front desk lady turned me away. She wouldn't even take the $150 I had in cash (I'd left it in my bag in the car) as a deposit until the morning, when I could get to a bank. Unless someone could fax her a credit card authorization, she wasn't going to issue me a room. I tried messaging my friend Rena, the only person I knew on the west coast who might have access to a fax, but she didn't respond.

It was 11pm on a Sunday night, and there was nothing I could do, and no one I could call, since it was 3am on the east coast. I called Bank of America, who canceled my old cards and issued me a new one, but who wouldn't authorize a charge until I received the new one in the mail, which I had sent to the hotel I'd be staying at on Monday.

So I was fucked. I walked back out to my car and changed into long pants and grabbed my sleeping bag. It was going to be a long, sleepless night sitting alone in a rental car. It had been decades since I'd had to do anything like that, and I was stunned that Marriott, Bank of America, and American Express had all turned their backs on a customer in the midst of a travel emergency. It seems branding only goes so far.

Monday, 1 October 2012

So after biking 140 miles, I got to “sleep” in the car. Fortunately, between the stupid bus detour and trying to get into the hotel, at least a third of the night was already gone by. And the long hours at least gave me time to think about what I was going to do to un-fuck myself.

I figured getting a bank branch to let me access my savings account was my only hope, and I had two things working in my favor. First, the bike shop I'd rented from had photocopied my drivers license on Friday. They didn't open until 11am, but at least they had it. On top of that, I could talk to the concierge of my apartment building and get him to go into my condo, find my passport, and fax that to me. Hopefully that would be enough to convince BofA to let me raid my savings to pay for everything, and hopefully enough to convince the TSA to let me board my flight home. If that all worked out, I might be able to un-fuck myself. The last thing I wanted to do was fall back on the few friends I had in the area.

Finally morning came. I waited until 7am to go back into the Marriott, in hopes that a shift change would eliminate the evil desk woman from the equation. It did, although her replacement wasn't much more receptive. However, she eventually agreed to receive a fax, and I got in touch with the concierge at my building. Unfortunately, it wasn't the regular guy, but one of the less-experienced replacements. I walked him through getting into my apartment and finding the passport, and he said he'd fax it. Then he reported getting a busy signal. I checked with the desk lady, but their fax was fine, and receiving. Another busy signal. Okay, probably the guy has no idea how to run the fax machine. Why me?!? Try adding a 1 before the fax number! After another twenty minutes I was about to throw a fit, when the desk lady walked over with a fax in her hand. A fax with my picture ID on it!

The sense of relief I felt was overwhelming, and after thanking her profusely and dismissing her, I teared up. This piece of paper was going to get me into the bank and past the TSA. After a very long day of trial after trial, after hours and hours of being focused and purely functional and trying to manage my situation, one door had finally opened for me. With a little more luck and persistence, I should be able to kick open a few more.

The next stop was Bank of America. Thanking all the gods that be for smart-phones and websites, I knew that there was a nearby branch that opened at 9am.

Arriving a little early, I searched the car, because I thought I'd dropped something underneath my seat. I found some change I'd spilled and a mini sticky note with a woman's handwriting which read, “Summer kisses winter tears”. That sounded poignant enough at the time, so I pocketed it, but I later discovered that it's the title of an Elvis song. Its lyrics even vaguely echo some of my feelings about Linda:

Summer kisses, winter tears
That was what she gave to me
Never thought that I'd travel all alone
The trail of memories

Happy hours, lonely years
But I guess I can't complain
For I still recall the summer sun
Through all the winter rain

When the branch opened, I let the queue of people at the door go ahead of me, then brought my case to the teller. When she greeted me by asking how I was doing, my response was, “I'm doing horrible. But hopefully you can make it all better.”

Upon explaining my situation, she called her manager over. I proffered my passport, my electrical bill, my mortgage bill, and a paycheck stub. She asked me to recite my DOB, my home address, and a few recent transactions. The final test was the easiest: I didn't have my ATM card, but the teller keyed the card number in and asked me to enter my PIN. Hah! You think that's a challenge? With that, I was able to leave the branch with $2,500 cash in hand. A second door had opened.

Now I could pay for all my rental stuff: the bike, the camping gear, even the car, plus my hotel for the next two days. After executing according to my plan, things were now under control. After the baseless feeling of having no ID, no cash, no credit cards, and no place to stay, I was back to the familiar—and now trivial—feeling of baselessness of travel. And the only remaining question was the TSA.

My next appointment was at 10am, when REI opened. I had a few minutes, so I grabbed some breakfast at a Safeway. As soon as REI opened, I returned the camping gear, which was pain-free because the rental charge had already gone through on the old card. Easy-peasy! I even took a few minutes to browse through the store before leaving for my next task.

After a short drive out to San Anselmo, I unpacked the bike and brought it to 3 Ring Cycles, where at 11am the owner unlocked the shop for me. I told her about the missing stem bolt, which was no big deal. I told her about the wallet, and before I could go further, she recalled that she'd photocopied my license and offered to give me that. I told her how helpful that was going to be, and thanked her profusely. Finally, she too had charged my old card already, so there was nothing left to settle up with for my rental. Sweet! Getting that copy of my license was another key piece of the puzzle.

Now to execute the next step in my recovery plan: report the lost wallet to the police. Fortunately, 3 Ring is right across the street from the San Anselmo PD, so I strolled over and asked to file a report. As I told them, normally I wouldn't consider bothering the cops with something so trivial, but I'd called United's help line the previous night to ask what the procedure was for lost IDs, and I'd been told that I should be okay if I had photocopies of a drivers license and a police report. I had to wait a solid half hour for an officer to show up, but he took a report and gave me the document I needed. That's the sound of one more door opening. In theory, with all the documents I had, I should be able to convince the TSA to let me fly home!

My original plan had been to ride a local 30-mile loop down to Tiburon before returning all my stuff, then have lunch with former coworker Aditi in Oakland. Well, I'd had to punt on the Paradise Loop, but I wasn't far behind schedule for Aditi. I'd already alerted her to the possibility that I'd have to cancel, but I called back and left a message that I was on my way. Rather than take the Golden Gate back to San Francisco, I took the long Richmond Bridge across the bay to Berkeley and down to Oakland, again with thanks to the Android navigation app.

After pulling up in front of her house, I tried calling her, texting her, emailing her… No response. Well, I had some time to kill, so I consulted my map and walked down to nearby Lakeside Park on Lake Merritt, where I found a big gazebo with power outlets I could use to charge my battery-depleted phone. I hung out there for an hour, watching kids play Friend or Foe, then walked up and down Grand Avenue looking for something to eat. Knowing I was still dangerously dehydrated, I picked up a bottle of Gatorade and a bag of chips and walked back to the car.

It was 90 minutes since I'd arrived, and I was disappointed that I wasn't going to meet up with Aditi. Furthermore, after already missing Linda, I was depressed about being blown off by another connection I'd planned to make. I climbed into the car and was just putting the keys in the ignition when she called. She came walking up a minute later, and we went up to her apartment to let my phone charge, then down to a nearby Whole Foods to eat and chat.

I'm so glad I got to meet up with her, because I wanted to talk to her about her meditation experience. I'd seen her mention going to Spirit Rock on Facebook, and since they're my clan, I wanted to know more about her experience: what she thought, what she'd gotten out of it, and whether it was something she was continuing.

Without getting too personal, she told me that her experience there had been deeply transformative, and had helped her turn her life around. I could tell from the way she talked and the words she used that she had absorbed the teachings.

It was inspiring for me to hear how she'd taken to the dhamma, and it was awesome sharing this new connection with someone I used to know reasonably well. Our conversation was without question one of the high points of my trip. And that renewed connection and the good fortune that she's experienced in the past few months really moved me.

It was at this point that I began to reflect on what I was getting out of the larger pilgrimage: my trip to California. Pilgrimages often feature unexpected trials and highlights, and I was certainly having both, from the lows of Linda's email and losing my wallet and being turned out of my hotel to discovering the joy and wisdom that my old friend was experiencing through her newfound meditation practice. I was indeed on a journey, with all the challenges and growth and joys that implies. And I still had 48 hours left in California, and lots of plans to fulfill.

Aditi and I moved to a little cafe where I had a cola and we continued our conversation. However, the clock kept ticking, and I wanted to get on the road before rush hour, because I had an appointment to keep in Redwood City, 45 minutes away. I grabbed my phone, we said our goodbyes, and I hopped the interstate southbound, crossing back across San Francisco Bay on the seven-mile San Mateo Bridge, which had almost no traffic.

At 5pm I pulled into the Holiday Inn Express and went to check in, only to be told that they had no record of my reservation. Oh, joy! Well, I pulled out my confirmation sheet, and the girl at the desk told me that there were no less than *five* Holiday Inn Express' on El Camino Real in Redwood City, and that mine was another half mile down the road.

That resolved, I went to the real hotel. They were anxious to see me, because they knew that my credit card had gone bad, but they were happy to take my cash-in-hand, along with a $100 security deposit. And with that, I finally had a hotel room! Going up there, I even had not one but *two* beds! What decadence, after sleeping in the car the previous night, and a campground the night before!

After hitting the bathroom, I knew what was next on the agenda: fluid replacement, and urgently! I went to a convenience store across the busy El Camino Real and spent $13 on Gatorade, water, cola, orange juice, and a bag of ice, and proceeded to scarf down as much as I could. I breathed a sigh of relief at finally having things back under control, then proceeded to dump all my stuff out of my bags and started rearranging. But then it was time to leave again!

At 7:30pm on Monday evenings, Gil Fronsdal leads a sitting and dhamma talk at IMC: the Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City. As I mentioned above, Gil is one of my dhamma heroes, and meeting him was one of the main goals of my trip. In addition to Monday's talk, I also planned to attend a Wednesday morning half-day retreat with him.

IMC was a quick two-miles up El Camino. I found parking and walked over to a low, church-looking building on a quiet semi-urban corner just two blocks off the main drag.

After milling about their reception area / walking meditation room and checking out their printed materials, I went into their meditation hall, grabbed a bench, and took up a spot on the floor, which unlike CIMC is carpeted. My 45-minute sitting was surprisingly tranquil, given the absolute chaos of the preceding 24 hours, but perhaps some of that was attributable to finally feeling like I was in control of my situation, and also fulfilling my longtime goal of sitting with Gil.

Next came his dhamma talk. My visit coincided with the first in a series of talks on the Eightfold Path that Gil was starting. While he planned to devote one evening to each of the path factors, this first session was an overview of this central Buddhist teaching. One of the things that I most admire in Gil is his ability to take something like the Eightfold Path, which he has talked about dozens if not hundreds of times, and come up with something fresh and insightful to say about it. He's quite a talented speaker. If you're interested, you can play or download that evening's dhamma talk.

During the announcements, one woman had indicated that she would answer new people's questions, so after the talk I cornered her. I'd emailed IMC a couple times, asking to reserve time for a teacher interview with Gil during the Wednesday morning retreat. I'd received replies, but no solid confirmation, so I wanted to make sure I was on Gil's interview schedule. She suggested I ask Gil, so once he was through with the usual post-talk questions, I introduced myself and expressed my interest in reserving a time for an interview.

What I hadn't expected was his response. He jumped up from his cushion and said, “Well, let's go do it right now!” I was taken by surprise, and as he led me out of the meditation hall, I immediately started trying to recall all the things I had thought about covering with him. However, it became apparent as he rifled through a drawer in the reception room that he'd meant to sign me up for a time, not actually conduct the interview, which was where my mind had gone! Whew! I penciled my name in the first slot and thanked Gil profusely for his help.

That done, people were disbanding, and I made my way back to the car. It was 9:20pm, but I still had one more activity planned for this ridiculously overbooked day. I called my old friend Rena, who reported that she was on her way to the hotel to meet me. So I drove back and only had to wait a few minutes before she arrived.

Rena is one of my loyal writers from back when I ran the DargonZine online fiction magazine, and it has probably been five years since I saw her. We hung around the hotel room and chatted for a good 90 minutes, just catching up. She asked about my Buddhist involvement, so I explained some of that, and then we talked about how things are going for her. As with Aditi, she's been through some rough times, but has made some awesome, positive changes in her life that I was delighted to hear about. It was nice of her to drive over to the hotel from her home in Half Moon Bay, and it was nice to end the day with another great visit with an old friend I haven't seen in years.

We could have talked much more, but Rena knew I was sleep-deprived and emotionally exhausted, so she kindly made her exit at 11pm. I climbed into bed, looking forward to my first night in a bed in three days, and my first full night's sleep in five days.

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

Originally, since there was nothing going on at IMC, I pictured Tuesday would be the day I spent visiting with Linda and perhaps Rena. But with Linda bagging out and Rena busy with work, I found I had the entire day free. So Tuesday was officially dubbed “recovery day”.

So yes, I slept a full eight hours, which was such a treat! Then I got up and took a good, long shower. I also shaved and brushed my teeth for the first time in days. It felt like such luxury! Then I went down to the hotel lobby, where they had a hot breakfast on offer. I stuffed myself with scrambled eggs, a cinnamon bun, and cereal. I was starting to feel almost human again!

I spent almost the entire day in the hotel room. I downloaded the GPS logs of my bike ride, and ran all my (very stinky) bike gear and dirty clothes through a load of laundry. Since it was now October, I closed out my Pan-Mass Challenge fundraising database and updated my annual fundraising charts with this year's total. I gassed up the rental car and downloaded my boarding pass for the next day's flight home to my phone. I called BofA to request a replacement ATM card, and was overjoyed when the replacement Visa card I'd ordered Monday night arrived in a Fedex envelope. I caught up on Facebook, posting that “Losing one's wallet while traveling feels remarkably like having one's nuts placed in a vise.”

I even sent out a reply to Linda's email which hopefully expressed my profound disappointment while acknowledging that she was free to choose not to meet up.

And I also took my remaining wad of cash and entered it all into Where's George. Now that I had a working Visa card, I figured that if I didn't use all the cash here, it would make a good stash to bring down to Foxwoods for a birthday casino trip.

So with all that stuff going on, before I knew it 5pm had rolled around and it was time for supper. I walked down to an Indian place called Suraj, a huge sprawling place which featured surly waiters and was overrun with unruly children.

Returning stuffed to the hotel, I re-packed all my belongings, since upon waking I would be headed to the half-day retreat, and then from there straight to the airport for what I hoped would be my flight home. I thought I was prepared for the TSA, but I couldn't be certain. Despite a good night's sleep, I was still bone tired, and you can't imagine how much I was looking forward to getting back to my home in Boston!

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

Due to all the craziness in my sleep pattern over the previous week, my body had no idea why I shouldn't be up at 5:30am on Wednesday. That was okay, because I'd gone to bed at a reasonable hour, and it gave me time to pack up and vacate my hotel room. But not without another hot breakfast, which this time included french toast!

I checked out of the hotel and showed up at IMC about a half hour before the retreat began at 9:30am. In fact, as I got there, I spied Gil taking the garbage out to the street! I also was cornered and interrogated by an elderly Filipino woman who was very vocal about being a Catholic, but who was interested in meditation. I tried to give her much support and comfort as she was able to accept, then went inside for the sitting.

Interviews began after the first 45-minute sitting period, and I followed Gil into a small but sunny interview room. Since his online dhamma talks had played such an important part in my philosophical development, my goal for our interview was merely to express my deep gratitude to him. At the same time, I was bearing similar messages from other people he didn't know, and I felt like I should represent the larger body of unseen people his talks have influenced over the internet. So I started out with that, although that didn't take very long to communicate. Gil seemed genuinely attentive and quietly appreciative of the input.

That segued naturally into my history of practice as well as my challenges. I articulated the two biggest questions in my practice, which include the role of concentration practice and the predominance of emphasis on the jhana states in the canon suttas, and my dilemma of what to practice with, when I'm usually tranquil enough that no major issues come up to demand my attention.

Now, having listened to so many of his dhamma talks online, I think of him as a ridiculously wise and gentle person, and an exemplary male role model, so I value his input. What he said was very important to me. His overall response was that he affirmed where I was heading and how I was approaching things, and that it was appropriate and good to have some of those kinds of open questions about practice.

The one big question that he posed to me was where I thought my practice was going. He didn't offer any more clarification than that, so I expressed my skepticism about nibbana as some achievable final end-state, leaving that as another of my open questions. From there I went to the more practical level of whether I was headed toward monastic practice or chaplaincy or teaching or hospice work, and there too I said I was leaving those open, to develop if and as they would. I added that caring for an elderly parent was the most immediate challenge on my horizon.

When asked what motivates me to practice, the answer I gave was threefold: to alleviate my own suffering when it happens, to craft healthier and more compassionate relationships with the people around me, and to reach my deathbed with a deep sense of ethical satisfaction with my actions and life choices.

One genuine moment of humor came when I explained to him the challenges I'd faced during the bike pilgrimage when I'd lost my wallet. His response was that I missed an opportunity; instead of sleeping in the car, I could have just stayed at Abhayagiri and joined the monastery as a monk!

So I came away from the interview very pleased. I felt satisfied that my expression of gratitude had been received, and that Gil and I had connected in our discussion of my practice. I really felt good about it.

After a brief period of walking meditation and the second 45-minute sit, Gil offered a few thoughts to the retreat group, and then we spent a few minutes cleaning the center; I cleaned up the cubbies where they store meditation benches and zafus, then helped clean the floor of the reception area. Then we sat down for an informal lunch where I chatted with a few folks who wanted to hear about practice in Boston. Then it was 1pm and I took my leave as Gil encouraged me to return again sometime.

Now it was back to logistics mode. After grabbing some snacks at a convenience store, I drove up to the airport, where I was able to return the rental car with only a minor delay to redirect charges to the new Visa card. Then the shuttle train to Terminal 3, where I got in line for security: hopefully my last hurdle to getting home!

At the head of the line, the TSA agent had me step to the side and called his manager over. I gave him everything I had: a photocopies of my passport and drivers license, electric and mortgage bills, and paycheck stub. He had me recite my address, and then reluctantly said I could go through. I was in!

The only question I had left was the multi-tool I'd brought for cycling. Somehow it had gotten through security in Boston, even though it had a knife blade as one of its many attachments. Well, it went through in SFO too, so I grabbed my stuff and strode out into the terminal at 2pm, thinking myself home free. What a relief!

With a full two hours until my flight, and having had nothing to eat at IMC, I grabbed a $14 hot ham sandwich and fries and a lemonade at one of the airport lunch counters. It was pricey, but it went down well, and it was the only substantial food I'd get all day.

Then it was boarding time. I was actually going home! Boarding took forever due to the predictable human moron factor, but as I was standing in the aisle at one point a seated passenger looked up at me and said, “I know you. I read your Pan-Mass Challenge blog!” It is surprising enough that anyone reads my stuff, but to remember my name (having seen it on my PMC-issued backpack) flabbergasted me. It was another welcome moment of pleasure and humor on a trip that had more than its share of grim seriousness.

But I wasn't free of misfortune yet. As I approached my row, I saw that a woman in the aisle seat had plunked her two children in the the other two seats, including mine. “I'm sorry, but can you please switch seats, so that we can be together?” Sadly, as a caucasian male, in that situation I'm not permitted any answer other than, “Yes”. Once gaain it seems that being a member of “the privileged gender” is anything but.

So her child got the window seat I'd reserved, and for the next six hours my 6-foot 4-inch frame was wedged into a middle seat between a fratboy and a Middle Eastern man, one of whom had yet to discover the proper use of deodorant, with a brat behind me screaming and kicking the back of my seat. Even getting in twenty minutes early did little to help make the flight a pleasant one. But I had one inarguable consolation: I was home!

Not that home was anything to write home about. It was cool and dark and drizzling in Boston at 12:30am, and the ramp to Storrow Drive—the quickest way home—was closed. In California it had been sunny and 90 degrees all week, and I sure missed the sun. But I missed my bed more, and I was given a very enthusiastic welcome home by the Gradle.

My long and extremely eventful pilgrimage was over!

Epilogue

So first let's review my explicit goals for this trip.

The Buddhist Bike Pilgrimage was a great experience. The sites we stopped at were very interesting, and the dhamma talks surprisingly useful. The people were wonderful, and I wish I'd spent more time just riding and chatting with folks. And you just couldn't beat the weather. Would I do it again? If I was in the area yes, but it's too expensive a trip for me to make a special trip out there from Boston. The hotels especially add up really fast. But I'm very glad I did it, because it really was a memorable and rewarding experience.

Meeting and sitting with Gil at IMC was an absolute treat. He remains a wonderful role model and someone I respect tremendously. My only regrets are that I only had a couple days with him, and CIMC never seems to invite him to visit. His wisdom, gentleness, and insight are deeply inspiring, and I'm very glad I made the time to finally meet him.

Being unable to meet Linda was a big disappointment, because I was really looking forward to seeing how she'd changed and matured from the woman who walked out on our marriage twenty years ago. I of course have to respect her decision, but I'm deeply saddened that after all this time she's still uncomfortable enough for it to be a barrier to any friendship. But I'm satisfied that I made a sincere effort to reach out, and that's the only thing within my control.

Besides my stated goals, a lot of things happened that led me to view this trip as a pilgrimage unto itself, beyond the bike pilgrimage. And like any pilgrimage, it didn't play out the way I expected it to.

The adversity I encountered was very destabilizing. Beyond Linda's rejection, coping after losing my wallet was a major challenge. And being turned away by my hotel and being forced to sleep in the car was the kind of real low that I hadn't experienced in decades. I was also discouraged when I showed up at Aditi's and she wasn't around. So the trip featured a number of trials that provoked a whole lot of anxiety, which provided several unasked-for opportunities for growth.

But pilgrimages also include unexpected joys, too. Rena's visit was delightful, doubly so because I wasn't sure it was going to happen. Then there were just a ton of surprises related to the dhamma. As I mentioned, the talks that were part of the pilgrimage were surprisingly both pertinent and interesting, and meeting Gil was deeply inspiring. But the biggest surprise was hearing Aditi's story and the unexpected way the dhamma had played a part in her life, which I found truly touching.

Pilgrimage isn't just about getting to the destination; it's about the journey. When you undertake a pilgrimage, you open yourself up to serendipity, demonstrating a willingness to learn and grow through the joys and sorrows and challenges and victories that the journey provides.

I hadn't realized or expected that when I left Boston, but I experienced it throughout my California trip. It wasn't what I expected; it was both far better and far worse. But in the end I grew wiser and more experienced as a result, and hopefully I can bring that growth back to Boston and my everyday life, along with the memories gained during an extremely eventful and unforgettable trip.