Life in the Bike Lane: Zen and the art of the solo ride

When I first started to get serious about cycling, I almost always rode alone. I lived in a small mountain community with no bike club and I don't think I ever saw anyone on a road bike. One of my early goals was to do a solo century, which I did on a cold February day. After retiring, moving and joining an active bike club, I have found I enjoy the company of my cycling friends. The chatter, the friendly competition, the mid-ride doughnut and post-ride debrief all make for a fine morning. I'm not saying I like solo rides better, but when it's just me, the bike and the road, it's different. Quieter. Deeper. There's something about pedaling alone that changes how it feels. A solo ride is just my ride. No waiting for everyone else to show up. The tempo is mine. For that first few miles, I think about chores I need to do, maybe some snappy retort I wished I'd used yesterday and/or taking inventory of my current aches and pains. But those thoughts fade with each turn of the crank, and the noises in my head are replaced by the noises of my wheels, my breathing and warnings from my vintage knees. It's as if the bike is a broom, sweeping the mental cobwebs from the corners of my brain. This cleansing doesn't happen all at once. But suddenly, I realize the sky is bright, and my mind has room again. The repetitive motion, the focus on balance, the subtle attention to road and wind, becomes a meditation. And once the mind is clear, that's when the good stuff starts. Ideas seem to just show up. I solve pesky problems somewhere between mile 11.6 and mile 16.8. I draft entire paragraphs of this very column in my head while climbing some lonely back road. I remember appointments, come up with new cycling routes and once even figured out why the garden fountain wouldn't fount – all while pedaling with no one around. There's also a certain honesty to riding alone. With no one else to set the pace, I can find my natural rhythm. Maybe push harder than usual, but more likely back off a bit. I ride by feel, not by ego. I struggle up Baxter Grade, my body gelatinous with fatigue, only to have the road tell me it was fun. I will likely stop more to take photos or take and extra loop around the neighborhood because the morning feels too good to end. Of course, riding alone has its hazards. A flat tire is less fun when there's no buddy to stand and watch you repair it. And there's safety in numbers. But most solo rides are a reminder that, at its heart, cycling isn't just a group activity or a form of exercise. It's a way to reset. By the time I roll back into the driveway after a solo spin, the world feels lighter. Problems aren't solved, exactly, but they don't weigh as much. I am comfortably in pain, but my mind feels washed and renewed. And if I come home with a story for Mrs. Bike Lane about helping a gopher snake cross the road, well, that's just the sweet bonus of the Zen of the solo ride.