Mmmmm.

This human bean had a great bike ride along the Provo River Trail last night. From my house to Vivian Park is about 18 miles--I think. Feel free to contradict me because I couldn't tell you if that's round trip or one-way. It takes about 90 minutes to get there and back again on my trusty green Specialized Rockhopper. She's nothing fancy, but she gives me a sense of freedom I haven't felt in years. I think about replacing her with a more slender-tired beauty with disc brakes and state-of-the art whatever, but then I remind myself that for about a month after I bought her from a neighbor's yard sale I was convinced there was nothing else in the world I wanted. Nothing. She's been good to me, and I'm as happy riding her today as I was then--still, that sleek Cannondale I tried out at Mad Dog's would be sweet.

Which brings me to the maddening conundrum of human desire--wanting. When I teach yoga I tell my students, among other things, that yoga is a balance of opposing energies. I encourage them to seek out that spot between too much sensation and not enough, tell them to reach out through their fingertips as they ground in to the floor. Somewhere in the middle of the extension is stability. There are moments in my own practice, a handstand, for instance, when that stability is reached and there is a calm weightlessness that feels like it could last forever. It doesn't last forever, of course, and I'm back in downward facing dog before you can complete your next Ujjayi breath. I expect that in between desire and contentment is a similar such sweet spot. We don't get there once and are cured for life, but come back to it as frequently as we can remind ourselves to be present and kick up and try again.

Well, my bike brings me back to the present. After the first 30 minutes my thoughts settle, first into some rhythmic kind of chanting (last night, thanks to my sister, Denise, it was to the tune of "Everything is meat, meat, meat," from the Popeye movie).  After the chanting quiets comes sheer joy in pedalling, in experiencing the cool spots under the shade contrasted with lingering pockets of summer's heat, and the smells and sounds all around. I don't wear an official biker's costume--just my shorts and a tank top. My water bottle is in my satchel slung over my shoulder. I'm even helmetless, though don't tell my daughters. Maybe I'd like to feel like a real cyclist on a sleek ride wearing only the best of Spandex, maybe not. A girl can dream, can't she? So far I'm fortunate, though, that the dreaming hasn't replaced the authentic pleasure of a simple ride through a canyon on a midsummer's eve.