Presence and Productivity

Let’s play a little game this morning. I’ll ask question and you provide a response. Sound like fun?

Question: Name me a situation or circumstance where positivity and presence are inappropriate as situational negotiation tactics.

I’ll wait.

I just finished a conversation where a women was furious with our state law regarding divorce settlements. Seems she insists that her retirement is hers and hers alone. As calmly as I tried to convey the thinking behind our community property laws, she feels that sharing this with her soon-to-be ex is more of a penalty she must pay than a equitable and fair settlement as outlined by our laws.

I tried to soothe her obvious emotional pain by again addressing the fact that keeping an eye on the bigger picture of leaving a toxic relationship and environment, brokering a fair (and quick) termination of their partnership and moving on to a new, downscaled and improved situation represents growth and opportunity, she remained dug in to her need for a vindictive victory over the bad guy.

Please, please I beg, try to look at this as a positive, what you will gain and the hope for a vastly more harmonious future. Because, know this: The better that your former spouse fares the better, easier, happier and more productive you and your son will be. Should you 'take him to the cleaners', he will have no money or clothes to share with you, or your son. Please have the presence to see this as fact.

Presence, as has been said, is infinitely more rewarding than productivity. Stay as busy as you like but recognize the value of seeing reality as unbiased and bipartisan. The reality of this situation, this challenge, this blip on the radar, is that the law states that you share 50% of everything with your partner. LIKE IT OR NOT.

Accept the facts, see the positive side of the coin, do what must be done and have the situational awareness to see the opportunity instead of the calamity.

Although I use this real-life and real-time circumstance as an example, question one - and the only one - in our game today, I think you see the juxtapositional possibilities.

Presence and positivity?

In a race?
When testing?
When training?
In a terse interaction?
In traffic?
Mitigation?
Conflict resolution?
Problem solving?
Negotiations with vendors?
Dealing with conservative republicans?

Isn’t this a fun game?

Obsolete and Unavailable

I wish I owned, or had easy access to, every tool ever made. What a wonderful world THAT would be! I bring this impossible fantasy dream to the table today for a couple of reasons.

One, any by far the most important, is the reality suggesting that if we cannot own the entire catalogue, the few tools that we DO own should be maximized for utilitarian and creative purposes. An example from yesterday provides a snapshot of this picture. My brother, while cleaning his garage, deconstructed his work bench. As is common, that bench was initially created and crafted to be used as a door. And in this case a portal slab with a solid core. I took it off his hands and immediately went into hyper recycle mode ending with the idea that it would add nicely to my office in a door to bookshelf transition. The measuring, line snapping, cutting and sanding was easy. Once situated atop my credenza it seemed to cry out for some type of artistic adornment bracing the vertical legs with the horizontal shelf at their union. In cabinet speak this is known as a T plate. Scratching my chin while riffing through the pages of possibilities, I settle on thin metal. I can use my tin snips to fabricate the T and finish with self tapping and self countersinking wood screws. If necessary I can file the edges to ensure no bloody fingers will occur on this watch.

But wait. Why not call my artist friend and see if she has some Plexiglas scraps laying around that would add an entirely higher artistic vibratory level to the gig. I call, she affirms, and brings two 8x10 sheets, the hand cutting tool and a dish of enchiladas over, all in the basket fixed between the handlebars of her hybrid cruiser. I outline the simple project to her and she approves. I then inform her that I do not need the cutter because I will use my jig saw with a special plastic cutting blade. I edit my to-do list placing the blade at the top and re-route my errands to ensure the hardware store (Ace) is the first stop. Easy peasy. I am rolling in creative hubris.

Except that they don’t carry the Black and Decker blade required by the proprietary tang configuration design. I sneer and curse and buy a cutter for eight bucks. But it is driving me nuts so I hit the highway and drive the eleven miles to the nearest Home Depot. They only stock this once common but now apparently rare blade to fit Bosch saws. On the package it saws “Fits All”. I know by looking that this is a lie. I take one off the pegboard and schlep over to a orange-vested sales associate, beg his pardon and inform him that following will come the dumbest question he will hear all day, and perhaps all week. He smiles. I show him the blade and the grandiose claim, saying ‘does this mean ALL saws or just all Bosch saws?’ Once he has regained composure he goes into a sad story of the tool monopoly that has been taking place over the last decade and that a lot of blades, parts, brands and attachments are now obsolete and unavailable. ‘So I have to buy a new saw just to cut some Plexiglas when I already own one?’

He shrugs.

I return home vigilant and motivated to pull a creative work around. I shatter, break and utterly destroy both sheets of plastic using the cutter, a fine-tooth wood saw blade and a hack saw. Moving back to the sheet metal, the tin snips leave a corrugated edge that looks like aluminum lasagna sheets.

Frustrated and annoyed a I take a break using the computer tool as a temporary distraction. I will NOT buy a new Jig saw or a metal cutting tool for this silly little job.

The two brass doorknob plates attach with an awl punch and four small brass screws, the driver for which reminds me that the tools I do own, I need to be master of.

And I can’t remember the other reason.

Today We Fight

I think it is vitally important that we find some way to fight every day. And yes, I know that is a direct violation of rule number one, but in this case I feel both Chuck Palahniuk and Tyler Derden would agree. Let’s talk about the fight.

The fight we engage with our demons. I have many. They follow me relentlessly wherever I go, and there is no place to hide. They shadow me, use video surveillance, employ a network of informants and read my every blog post, word for fucking word. Looking for chinks in the armor, cracks in the dam, any weakness they might exploit. They are invisible and inescapable. They never sleep and subsist on nourishment from the emotional compost of my fear. They are my worst nightmare, 24/7.

I go into the ring with them every day because that is the rule. We must fight. I must fight. I must fight my fear. Punch by punch, round by round. That is the only way. With the understanding that once I have proven my willingness to fight, once I have demonstrated the courage of my conviction and commitment to not give in or back down, I no longer have to fight and can take the much more tranquil and peaceful approach much like Kuai Chang Caine, young Danny Millman or even the Son of God himself. Each one of those heavy-weights had their challengers, and, after every alternative had been exhausted, laced ‘em up. That is the fight.

It is against sloth. Against injustice and against dishonesty. It is a fight to the death with every politician who is using you, us, as a commodity. I recognize that we are hopelessly outnumbered in this battle. That 1% has and controls all the money, the guns, the judges and the henchmen to impose their greedy will union us. It has been suggested, and rightfully, that America is an Oil Company with an army. The manipulation that runaway capitalism employs upon the vast majority of US citizens is abhorrent. We are getting hammered in the very ring that our labour built. By the people that we elected to represent us. It is a crime of which 30%  of americans approve. I don’t need to color them, rate them or judge them. I need to fight the part of their fear that exists in me.

I can only be of assistance to my fellow man, of both camps, if I am at my best, fighting the good fight. We don’t need more victims or more martyrs. That One person who willingly died for our sins, I don’t think recognized at the time how sadly low His estimate of how deep the evil we are capable of actually is. We, as a collective demographic, suck. The United States, supposedly a beacon of democratic stability and hope, is a fraud.

And the fight goes on. It will today and it will tomorrow. The opponent against whom I spar is me. I am it. It has a name. Fear. Chuck and Tyler knew it.

I cannot and I will not back down. Fear will get punched in the nose today. I landed one punch simply by getting out of my warm bed two hours ago. Today I will push my body to provide an efficient  delivery vehicle for another flurry of jabs. A strong physical presence and a peaceful message is the one-two punch, the thunder and lightning, of my humble assault on fear.

Bring it you bastards. Today we fight.

Square as Pythagoras

Two angles caught my attention. Angle one, the hypotenuse in Pythagorean speak, is attitude, angle two then being the B squared component of effort. While I realize that we have slipped away from math and into physics with the comparison, it begs the question: Where A is attitude and B is effort, what the heck is the resulting C?

Bringing another disciple into the search, that of philosophy, where it has been suggested (we can only speculate here) that attitude and effort are the only things we can truly control (once our goal has been established), I allow my fragile depth of abstract thought to consider the perplexity of this juicy little equation. What happens when we ‘show what we know’ with attitudinal zeal while simultaneously matching it with an effervescent and sizzling amount of effort?

You know what we get.

Results.

What is attitude? Self confidence? How do we get self confidence? Doing. Regardless of outcome. The doing is the winning, not the final tally of runs, points, times or distances. Experience, leaning the lessons from our doing and making the appropriate adjustments along the way, committing to our commitments and the devotion to our dreams is the fuel that ignites attitude. Oh yes, and please be advised that this is dangerous stuff. To much attitude and you are over the top obnoxious, full of ourselves, arrogant and aloof. We don’t care for that. We prefer humble, or what in the recording studio we used to call being quietly confident.

What is effort? Focused attitude? Desire? At what specialty store do we find THAT tool? Inside grasshopper. Look deeply at your motivation. What is it that steers your ship? If it is fame and fortune you may want to re-check your tide charts and navigational systems. Because I hate to be the one to break this news to you but that is not our destination matey. You may find it, but that will be the karmic good fortune that seems to follow those who work hard and help others along the way. Funny how that happens, no?

Lastly, as my pencil shortens - eraser gone long ago, I would like to offer a possible solution. How about attitude plus effort equals flow? Or the portmanteau we created yesterday, dynaflow, dynamic flow state. Could that be the goal unto itself, that state where the confidence born of a thousand practice sessions, fused with alchemical purity of optimal effort, results in that sacred place all athletes, artists, musicians and shaman seek, the magical peak experience of dynamic flow state?

Is that square as Pythagoras?

A Possible Clue

Whew! For the remaining few of you that are still around to hear updates on my dancing, here ya go:

The dance, naturally, being the daily interactions between my chronic atrial fibrillation and my insistence on continue training for long course triathlon. The role of the former, supposedly repaired by the surgical insertion of an internal automatic defibrillation device, more commonly known as a pacemaker, and the latter, are sometimes compatible and sometimes not. Many days they are lovers and many others they are engaged in a bitter lovers quarrel. I am the judge, referee and umpire. And while I did not make the rules, I have complete control over how I interpret them. As an example, when I go into AFIB, I usually notice the irregularity immediately and then, with the experience of longevity on my side (it hasn’t killed me yet) I can take quick action. This usually consists calling for an immediate damage report, what am I doing that might be a trigger, and, more importantly, what can I do to ensure there will be no additional damage. In the five years since the implant the answers to those questions remain a mystery. Kinda like the strike zone, pass interference and spotting the ball. Make a decision and sell it as best you can. 

From the viewpoint of erring on the side of caution, I have reduced my long distance training, to simply training, decreasing miles and adding to the intensity and consistency of workouts . This is, of course, a classic good news-bad news equation. As I found out yesterday. 

I took on another triathlete client and yesterday was our monthly 10K running time trial. I haven’t ran since September’s second Olympic triathlon of the year (both wins you surly naysayers!) so my anticipation was indifferent at best. The fact that our pancake flat run was after a rather spirited hour spin class only added to the self-induced drama. But I felt like I could slug it out and so we set one hour as the goal. Embarrassingly slow - but who cares? 

I spent a rugged afternoon in recovery, took on plenty of liquids and protein, went to bed early and woke this morning feeling just slightly North of a painful death. Warmed over. All right fine, I said, meekly negotiating the 13 downward facing stairs, good lesson there.

This morning I led the same spin class as yesterday, with a few thematic tweaks, and felt "OK", (please note the parenthetical usage), sped home for a change of kit and a tuna sandwich and headed off to the PowerBarn for our 1000 Sunday afternoon movie ride. Two hours later I am drinking coffee at my desk and writing my bog journal to report that I may have discovered a clue. Almost instantaneously I went into AFIB this morning during the warm-up for the class. HR was pinging all session between 90 and 220. The movie ride, slow and steady was brutal but I managed to enter a calm state of flow and ride through it. I am still in AFIB and probably will stay there until another good night’s rest cures it. Here is my somewhat less than scientific take away from two days of two-a-days:

It could be load. Accumulated load. With insufficient proper recovery time between. 

Has anyone else witnessed this or have data they would like to share? 

‘Cause this is getting (again) old, real fast. 

Epic Full Moon

It isn’t necessarily necessary, but any analytical consideration is better than none. So…….

Upon (successful) completion of this mornings perplexedly peevish spin set, Hammer the 17, the post-session endorphin flow was raging like class 5 whitewater. Under normal conditions, say after something more moderate and less challenging, the afterglow conversation is sedate, staid and relatively soft. Today it was amped-up, lit-up and loud. When I finally got to talk with one of my favorites, an exemplary regular of at least ten years, she asked about the 2019 Epic Ride, starting off with a zinger of a question about ‘that crazy ride’.

We had just finished a killer set where the themes of attitude, effort, challenge, awareness and experience all took turns in the spotlight. Examples include the attitude of amplitude, easy effort and the  challenge of a colorful crescendo. Like solid and committed teammates in group flow, our pledge is to each other. We listen to our mates, be they teammates, band mates or first mates. They must know, yes down to the cellular level, that our commitment is deep. The unmentioned benefit of this is of course that in order to be of benefit to the team, one must first find that quality in him or herself, for it is only be being our best that we could ever hope to motivate and energize others. I find this concept tremendously empowering. Do as I do, not as I say, they say. With this as pre-text I was a little surprised to hear her comment that our goal, riding the 1,600 miles between Seattle and LA, was “crazy”.

She begins to list the reasons that support her stance. Headwinds, the potential for fire and smoke, retirees in RVs, potholes, fatigue, flats and fear of drinking drivers. I let her ramble nodding in silent agreement with each objection. Finally her arguments began to fade and I recognized that it is my turn to add counterpoint.

Yes, all true, but the experience from my two previous trips, both South to North, suggest that trading the absolute joy and freedom of the road for lighter winds, wider shoulders, fewer geezers and flat-proof tires defeats the very purpose of being out there in the first place. There is a risk factor that increases our alertness, awareness and total engagement. It is part of what makes it, well, so epic.

It’s too bad you couldn’t ride at night when traffic is reduced, she says as a closing comment, glancing at her fitness monitor of a watch and heading towards the door.

Wheels are turning in my head at breakneck speed. August 3-24. Almost a month on the road.

I’ll bet there will be a full moon one of those nights.

A Trio of Confessions

I will make a trio of confessions today. Each has a history, a back-story of failure, compromise and salvation. Let’s get started.

1) I am a sucker for a good headline. Bold, 48 point black and white with IMPACT font, condensed to the absolute bare essentials, no puffery, no unnecessary words, few articles. The type of headline that grabs you by the WOW. It was therefore with great delight to me this morning when I ‘logged on to check in’ prior to our 0530 spin class (more on that in a moment) and was alerted to a pair of seemingly disconnected events: DAWGS DUNK DUCKS AS STONE SLAMMED.

Yes! MY Husky Hoopsters defeated the slimy, cheating, obnoxious and arrogant Oregon Ducks for the first time in six years on the webfoots home pond. And perhaps even better, taking a more global stance, came the news that Roger Stone, you wanna talk about a treasonous, gasbag, aloof, snob-of-a bitch? had a visit from the FBI while he was still in his pajamas. Robert Mueller says good morning.
Failure (lessons learned) > compromise (improvements) > salvation (growth).

2) In class (here it is) I wanted to comment on the latest gem I unearthed from Steven Kotler’s masterful mine of sports physiology, The Rise of Superman. Where he expertly creates an opportunity for us to look at something differently, that something being an activity we have all been doing for many years, decades. You may insert your own activity here but for my purposes I’ll use riding. And more specifically, the bike leg of a triathlon. We have known for a long time now that to be successful one must practice, practice perfect, practice smart, mimic the motion, incorporate high-intensity intervals and steady-state sub-threshold work and endure long and steady distances. We have also, (I am the guilty ring leader) boorishly bloviated on the importance of the mental aspect of this. Lastly, the third third, is the soul, or spirit element. All this combines into one, the state we have labeled the groove-zone-sweet-spot. Mr. Kotler and his score of scientists have crunched about a half-century of data and report back to us in a feedback loop of monumental impact, that our: ATTENTION IS MOST ENGAGED WHEN A SPECIFIC RELATIONSHIP IS FOUND BETWEEN THE CHALLENGE AND OUR ABILITY TO PREFORM IT. IOW, what he calls the challenge to skill level ratio. They have even put a number on it. The number is 4%. We are most engaged (present) when the activity is 4% above our skill level. Not 40, too hard and we quit or get hurt, and not 1%, too easy and we bore and become distracted, but 4%. Precisely. Failure (we have all gone too hard or too soft) > compromise (toss the highs and lows to commit to the gold zone) > salvation (finding your flow).

3) I serendipitously came across this article talking about time management. In it the authors make the suggestion that the most important hours of the day are between 05 and 0700. Those two hours will make or break your success across the board. From the financial to the social and from the creative to the compassionate. I was already basking in the glow, we have been working out at 0530 for almost twenty years, when the authors announced that, despite the value, what we should be doing is more in the creative realms than the physical. Because it seems those are the hours when our creative power is at its most engaged and fertile. To be clear, this is not saying that our practice is bad, it is simply stating that there is another element to consider should optimum experience, success and dynamic flow be high on your list of areas needing augmentation. Failure (rigidity of beliefs) > compromise (open minded examination) > salvation ( course correction).

The full circle all this rambling incorporates is merely sports, corruption, justice, attention, practice, deep engagement, rich embodiment, relaxed focus, hope, joy, mindfulness and a new term coined this morning inspired by some pre-dawn creativity, body-fullness.

This is Not a Blog Post

If I had immediate access to all the stored media, video and music from the deepest reserve vaults of the most influential and talented artists worldwide, PLUS manuscripts, musings, outlines, screenplays by the masters of the trade, what would I do with them? I mean its not like art were the ‘goal’ is simply to professionally frame, hang on a well-lit wall and ogle, preferable while sipping expensive pinot nior, while decoding the ‘message’. Not at all like that.

We are talking about the creative process, about making something out of (relative) nothing. Or something else, another treatment, a variation on a theme taken from something that is once removed, a single step, from the sterile void of nothingness. The evolution of a treatment. From Magritte’s pipe to Warhol’s soup can. Or, for the purpose of our creative consideration, this morning’s existential calisthenics, exercises to merge bodily awareness with the primal energies of abstract thought. We’ll do one set of ten. 

Given that we all recognize the need to move through time and space, and assuming that most of you desire to improve one or more of the techniques associated with graceful and sustainable ambulation, especially when that motion is required as part of the celebration we call racing, dancing or adventure travel, what could we artistically concoct today as a possible augmentation to the current understanding of methods, manners and motions that define ‘our practice of preparation?’

A quick look at the terminology associated with these broad strokes indicates we are still drawing in black and white. Remember when more was more? Remember when training smart replaced training hard. Remember no pain no gain? Remember when we put forth on these very pages that the most important tool one can use to better one’s performance has nothing to do with muscle and everything to do with the gray matter between your ears? 

So today I offer you a blank canvas, a pallet of oils, two horse-hair brushes and a well-worn smock. You get to be the artist you have always wanted to be. The assignment is to paint today’s masterpiece. Of you. A self-portrait capo lavoro. The best you that you can imagine - and then paint. Here's a clue: Be colorful and look for beauty. 

Mashing video and sound, images with vibrations, the colors of movement, along with some, perhaps outlandish, but usually autobiographical or motivational, narrative is my daily grind. It is the espresso of my soul. The fact that I fail on most days is a motivation to persist. Just keep paining. 

If I had available to me today the collective media of civilization’s evolution how would I use it? 

I would, will, do exactly the same thing I do every day. But different. With attitude and deep embodiment. And more respect. With more joy. And more flow. 

You? 

We're All Guilty

I admit my guilt up front. Or maybe I’ll plead nolo contendere, and add an explanation to the crime. Either way I think the situation is worthy of additional examination. So open the gates we’re about to head down the track at a high rate of speed. 

Most likely you have heard it a thousand times, I went so far as to ask in class this morning if anyone has ever head me say it in the past, producing a few winks, several nods, one harrumph and a stifled laugh. Yes, we have head it before, lots. The ‘it’ in question is the always appropriate, altruistic and absolute, ’Keep your focus here and your commitment on now.’  How the heck can you go wrong with such a noble and worthy mantra to guide you? In anything? 

Well, come to find out that you can. It was brought to my attention that there exists a rather interesting sub-textual detail that is often overlooked as we assume mastery of this seemingly rudimentary skill. Consider: What we have been led to believe is only the half of it. For as we dig deeper into the nuance we find the rest of the iceberg chilling well below the waterline. We have become victims of our own success. Yes, I practice being in the here and now on a daily basis. OH REALLY?

What we call being present in the 21st century now has a qualifier, an adjective of dubious meaning and devious intent. The modifier is ‘distracted’. 

The distracted present. Let’s please take a quick brutally honest assessment of our understanding of being in the present moment. In this example I am cheerfully spinning along in class, breathing deeply, searching for balance, in a relaxed state of blissful flow. I am able to combine this intrinsic peace and power with the extrinsic reality of being in a small room with other sweaty people, with insufficient air movement, music I first heard when in junior high and an instructor who would be happier still asleep. The holistic result of all this, as much as I rail against it, is a distracted state of the present moment. Even in ideal conditions I still allow my mind to wander, putting the work load, this exercise, my right now, on cruise control as I consider one or more of the following immensely important items:

How much longer we have to do this.

What I will eat afterwords.

That nagging issue with the bank.

My neighbor’s dog.

My neighbor’s wife.

Our idiot president.

Our complicit Senate.

My lower back.

My 401K.

The Seahawks.

When the rain will end. 

The front brakes on my truck. 

Strawberry rhubarb pie. 

I could go on but I think you get the idea.

What we have called being present, all these many years is actually nothing but lip service. We have obtained the skill of being present AND distracted and have decided to call it by its positive name as opposed to its flip-side shadowy negative. ‘Well I AM here so that must count for something’, I hear your plead, and it does, it gives you the opportunity to practice. To practice being BOTH. 

Next time you feel the importance of being present (now?), watch your response and how long it takes for your thoughts to start to wander in search of greener imaginary pastures. Then commit to the two-step process of being aware of the drift and reeling your focus back in to the present. 

The distracted present. We all suffer. It is pandemic. 

It is also something we can improve, so please give yourself some encouragement as we progress, for the simple fact is, we are all guilty. 

Three Elements

The three words, as concepts, spring from the page and ensnare my attention like a mongoose making his lethal move towards the cobra. Fuck this is good, I manage to say, feeling like a sportscaster calling the desperate final drive of a team fighting the opposition as well as the clock. There is a dynamic tension here creating big drama. And I like it. There is no margin for error. One must, all must, be so completely in sync and willing to sacrifice everything for the cause, which in this case is metaphorical, that a rare focus empowers, motivates and moves through each with a vibrantly magical current of energy. It is lazer-like and unmistakable. In popular sports vernacular it is called momentum, mojo the slang. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly (if you have been following the thread) is the underlying component of this state of hyper awareness. It is widely misunderstood and underutilized. This because it is so mysterious and esoteric. It is difficult to measure and hard to quantify.

Its name is flow.

That state we enter when our physical work load, speed, power, strength and stamina all occupy the central stage in our hypothalamus, and mix there with the precise amount of organic chemicals the body releases to sustain this fluid and dynamic effort, under the benevolent and ethereal supervision of the consciousness of our souls. This is flow.

Perhaps you have felt it once or twice, that incredibly sexy feeling where all cylinders are firing in sequence, almost lifting us from the purgatory of bondage to the ground, where time seems to slow allowing us to witness our awareness and apply mindfulness to soar with the eagles. If we are lucky we take note of this and consider how totally cool it would be to own the power to call upon it on demand. This skill makes the fight or flight response look like child’s play. It is the PHD of athletic endeavor, an advanced class in what we have always called ‘the next level.’

Interestingly, there is now data, research and anecdotal evidence to suggest that we can call upon this phenomena once considered para-normal, by following a secret recipe of sorts. 

But like any worthy curriculum it has prerequisites. Most of you already know of them and have mastered many. They can be capsulized by usage of the answer to the Carnegie Hall directional answer. The prerec for optimal peak experience, what we now call flow state is the same as getting to Mr Carnegie’s hallowed Hall. Practice, practice and practice. 

Practice your speed, improve your strength, learn the nuance, increase your stamina, master your mind and commit to your commitment, to name but a few. One needs to be relentlessly moving towards being both Jack AND Master of all trades.  

That is when the fun begins. It seems that there are three unique and distinct requirements that put us, potentially, closer to this optimal state of flow. They are:

Novelty.

Unpredictability.

Complexity.

You can envision surfing, climbing, sky diving, skiing, BASE jumping, long boarding, sex, music, cinema, literature, masonry or sewing, whichever fills your sheets, but whatever your passion, you will find its optimal flow, your peak experience, only when these three are present. 

Anything less is dull, boring and uninspiring, and oddly dangerous should you win something along the way. 

It Will Be OK

It Will Be OK

Fruit Juice Mr. Hobson?

I am trying hard to keep my calm. It has happened again and I am not happy. Although I respect the many legitimate reasons why a person might quit halfway - I still struggle with the appropriate response. This is not the first time this has happened and I am quite sure it will not be the last. The core issue is that everything we do in training has a purpose. From the first step towards your goal to its eventual completion, everything counts. Meaning that if we decide that any given session, workout or level of effort is more than we are able to negotiate, and give up, we have just given ourselves permission to do it again. And like anything else, we get good at it. We get good at compromise. Pretty soon our entire lives are nothing but compromise. We insist on the easy path.

Please remember that this entire blog is dedicated to the ideology that writing is therapeutic and that sharing should ideally benefit both author and reader. I am you as your are me. By isolating even the slightest issue, being sincere in its examination and with reciprocal collaboration on the many possible ways to improve, considering the thousands of available options, we all benefit. This is, of course, where it gets interesting. 

Simply because everyone is different. From the drill sergeant to the Zen monk, from the corrupt politician to the most fervent math teacher and from the musician to the thief, what makes this all work, this living work of art we call life, is that we are all in it together. We all have influence. We all have a voice. We help each other. 

And so I offer a pithy comparison to illustrate my dilemma, the one of the low hanging fruit. Someone, a newbie, unmistakably demonstrated his disrespect from the start of class by failing to preform our standard warm-up and stretch. He didn’t even make an attempt. His body language was of disdain for the sequence and, by association, of the instructor. Anyone can pick the apples (or oranges) hanging lowest to the ground. The best ones are at the top. You must try. The ladder is your friend. 

We go through our set, an uncommonly relentless series of escalating climbs and sprints with very short recoveries. The recoveries are at a very precise cadence. I have been doing this long enough to know when resistance is appropriate and frequencies are at proper amplitude. He is nowhere near either and I try to encourage him, and the others, in class with motivational cues and encouragement. We are grinding through the set when two of the riders depart. They have informed me prior to the start of the session that they must leave early because they are flying to Peru later in the afternoon. This is perfectly acceptable, they know it and I do too. It is one our our agreements, the rule that IF you MUST leave early, tell me up front. 

The guy sees them leave and decides to follow. I can see a ‘get me outta here’ look on his face. He fails to clean his bike on his way to the door. I say nothing, think a lot, not much of it positive. 

I decide to share my opinions with the class about five minutes after he has left. It is the old apples and oranges Hobson’s choice. 

Apples: Please do not start something, this class as a perfect metaphor, if you do not intend to finish. 

Oranges: A little bit of something is better than a lot of nothing. 

I should find some common ground and not feel so offended when someone completely gives up. When I can see the potential, the lesson and the value in ‘seeing it out’, it is painful to witness its exact apathetic opposite. To me this has always been like a teammate quitting half-way through the race or game because it suddenly became demanding. Or like a soldier deserting his post because the fighting has intensified. 

I am sure he had a good reason. I am sure I can find a better way to respond. 

Low hanging fruit juice, half apple and half orange for your today Mr. Hobson?

Clock is Ticking

What exactly is the issue? Are you trying to tell me that your pitiful situation compels you to sacrifice the one thing that, above all others, is the goal? Or is it that your complacency, your level of relative ease, your privilege or the security of your comfort zone is worth more (is safer) than risking it for something greater? What level of weakness does it take to choose the easy path, the one with little or no risk or reward? How the hell did you get so good at convincing yourself that you are somehow incapable, unprepared or unworthy of this monumental challenge? What happened to your spine, your guts and your balls? 

Let us be clear on this one important point. The only race playing it safe will ever win is the rat race. And even then you're still a rat. I would much prefer to be Mighty Mouse or Modest Mouse, smaller, animated, fearless and crafty, or humble, compassionate and mindful, that the larger, stronger, greedy and corrupt rat. More important than the variety of rodent is its intent. Your goal is not the simple hierarchy of needs rule one of survival, it is the search for expression and the myriad tangential  experiences found only on the rocky road to self understanding. 

When the seagull challenges you to drop everything and follow your heart, you unquestioningly obey. Knowing that the risk of failure, the pain of rejection, the toll on energy and capitol, and the time spent in pursuit are each very small entry fees to pay. 

Or you can stay home, turn up the heater, order a pizza and bend back another pull tab. 

So what, exactly, are your issues? In a wonderfully successful exchange two nights ago a promising athlete confessed to me that she has observed in herself a tendency for self-sabotage in her training. Usually when confidence and focus are most needed, a few weeks prior to the show. 

This is not easy. The degree of difficulty associated with athletic, academic (or ascetic) success is the major reason why its gifts are so rewarding. Going through the minefield of training, the relentless search for improvement, finding harmony in mind, body and spirit as we progress, dealing with setbacks, injuries, soreness, rainy days and sleepless nights is a challenge worthy of the Navy kind of seals. This is not for everybody. 

Those that ‘make it’ will quickly see just how important a role the mental part plays. Your mindset must be a powerful reminder of the bigger picture. We do this for growth, to test ourselves against the day, the allure of sloth, the seduction of the bright and shiny new toys, and our shadow desires to toss in the towel with resignation and a ‘fuck it’. The minute, the very nanosecond, that we sense this, when we hear that negative voice, we must steel ourselves to turning that weak inner quitter to a compassionate, humble and grateful warrior, and quietly (sometimes) simply carry on.  We will never take the beach if we all go home for lunch. You will never find true love if you resent yourself and Rome wasn’t built in a day. We must rise to the occasion and ride into battle. Once this allusive skill becomes your default reaction the final stage is about flow. Courage under fire. Your ability to remain focused once the conditions and circumstances turn towards the dramatic. Perhaps like right now. 

Hear the sage advice of the gull. Be there at sunrise. Listen. Open your heart to the song of the sea. Notice that mouse be as modest as mighty (as she seeks the perp who stole her cheese.) You can be seal-like. We can start with our next breaths. Make solid and strong decisions. Face your issues with brutal honesty and vow improvement. 

It is all connected. And the clock is ticking. 

Be The Love

I stand at the open door and watch her go. An arctic wind seems to slap me on the face as I admire the faded denim. She is driving a Volvo that appears as if its best miles are behind. As she opens the door she hesitates and looks back at the motel. Despite the 100 yards between us I can see in her eyes that our partnership is just beginning. She waves, smiles so radiantly that it lights half the parking lot, and moves to preform the sit, buckle, start routine. 

As she drives into the cold starry night I close the door and look at my phone. It is 0200 and I need to be on the road by 0600 at the latest if I intend to shoot the sunrise on the beach. With a sigh and a shrug I turn out the lights and lay my poor body down. 

Glad I made the coffee last night I mutter filling a paper cup to the rim and placing it inside the microwave. I grab the map and review the easy directions to the State Park and the beach. Load and go. I check the room for anything I might have forgotten and look at the unmade bed with sadness, toss the key on it and close the door behind me as I hurry towards the truck. Duty is calling in the form of a wild winter wind. 

Remembering that along with capturing new media for video, this trip also doubles as course recon for the 2019 Epic Ride and that today we will be on and over many miles of it, starting with the State Park, I make notes of any points of interest. The State Park appears to be convenient and comfortable. I park the truck by one of the elevated Coast Guard stations, grab a Go-Pro, the Vixia and a telescoping monopod and lock the truck. It is dark, quiet and cold. I fish a mini flashlight from my pocket and start the short trek to the beach, almost instantly getting hit with the unmistakable hiss of the surf and the smell of salt water mixed with diesel fuel and fish guts. 

Finding the beach and a stock yard supply of driftwood, sized from medium to entire trees washed ashore, I select one that offers a decent view to the East and also sports a limb from which I can attach my trusty dual clamp camera mount. I am set up and ready as the first faint glow announces that the day is about to begin on the Left Coast. 

I have at least a half-hour before I hit the record button so I turn to scout the area with a short walk. Illuminating the beach as I walk, breathing deeply and appreciating the knitted wool gloves I had packed, my handheld beam of light reveals what my subconscious was thinking. Sandy. 

I am frozen mid-step by the power of this serendipitous circumstance. I laugh out loud at my anal dedication to the present moment thinking that sometimes it might return a greater spiritual dividend to take some risks and trust the instinctive suggestions of my soul, instead of simply preforming dull, robotic movements in the name of production and progress. Like WTF am I doing this freezing morning on the beach when I could be, should be, cozy and cuddled next to a spectacular lady who sends fireworks into my soul?

A seagull shrieks overhead sending a message I decode as the wise bird being in full agreement with my self assessment. She seems to be floating on the wind, hanging from an invisible thread, just a few feet overhead. Her second shriek, this time more of an aria, clearly says to me…

…be the love. 

A Kiss of Absolute Honesty

I consider how I can spruce-up the cheap motel room on my way to the shower. Deciding that not even a vase of fresh roses, assuming I could find any in this dirty town at ten on a Saturday night, would do anything other than create another layer of pretention, I turn up the electric heat. 

I think about Sandy as the sprays of hot water massage my tired neck and aching shoulders. Her smile, her walk, her voice. The image is abruptly cut short as the thought that she won’t show enters my mind, turning the hot water icy cold. What an idiot, there is no way a beautiful young girl working in a fish shop is going to take that tired bait and risk meeting a total stranger, a potential psychopath, in a grungy motel room after her shift. Not no way and not no how.

But she did give plenty of indications that she might. So I try to focus on the primary directive and go about my business of re-charging batteries, plotting the mornings shoot location, cleaning camera lenses and all the other tedious stuff I am so accustomed to doing when on the road. 

The medium sized TV is pre-set to Spanish. I take a few minutes to reset it in order to find MSNBC and complete my standard routine. I make a pot of coffee prepping for my well-before-sunrise check out, rearrange my gear and stretch out on the Queen sized bed, the one furthest from the door. 

My phone, charging on the nightstand, tells me it is 2210. Lawrence O’Donnell tells me the president is a Russian tool. My back tells me I need rest. 

And three knocks tells me there is someone at the door. I can’t believe it. 

I cover the ten feet in two steps, unhasp the cheap gold chain and open the door slightly to take a peak. 

‘Are you the pizza delivery girl?’ 

She laughs and I open the door.

Softly, like a cat, she spins a chair from the desk around to face the bed and sits. 

I sit on the edge of the bed and look deeply in her eyes. They are amazing. I know that if I don’t look away I will be forever lost in the feminine vitality they hold. 

She takes off her jacket and floppy cap placing them carefully on the bed. And then gently snaps the top button on her cotton blouse open.

“Wait’, I surprise myself in saying, ‘first tell me something about yourself, I sense you have a story that I might, I dunno, appreciate.’ 

She looks at me like a doe in the headlights, a real-time situational awareness course correction. Finally she relaxes and asks innocently if I have any beer. 

I grab one of the IPAs left in the mini bar, open it with my bicycle bottle opener and hand it to her with the apology that I don’t have a chilled glass to pour it into. She smiles an OK and takes a sip. I grab one for myself and sit back on the bed.

She starts her story. 

Her Dad, Captain Robert, built up his fleet of fishing boats to a dozen before sinking in a winter storm near Astoria. He was abusive and she left home immediately after high school to attend city college in Portland. She studied dance, art and music hoping one day to become a producer of environmental documentaries. She returned to Westport when her Mom began breast cancer treatment. An on-going struggle, one that has emptied their savings and devastated the lives of her younger brother who is currently in the Navy deployed overseas and of course, her Mom and herself. Her Mom owns the restaurant. They are barely above water. She was married for five years while in Portland, now divorced, no kids. She says she is happy and vows to remain so. She also says that this is the first time she has ever done anything like this and that she was nervous, but no longer. 

Her story takes considerably  longer that the fifteen minutes initially and informally agreed to. On the muted TV the cable news cycle has started anew with Chris Hays also telling us that the POTUS is a crook. It is late.

We share a few details of our dreams, another beer and bond over the paradox and humor in all of this and I say, ‘Thanks for coming.’

She looks at me questioningly. Getting her answer she puts her half-full beer on the desk and stands to wrap up in her jacket and cap. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket for what I think will be gloves but instead she removes the hundred dollar bill I left earlier at the diner. 

She moves closer and tucking the bill in the front pocket of my Levis, softly presses her lips to mine with a tender kiss of absolute honesty and beauty. 

’Thanks.’ 

Open to Closed

She smiled so sweetly I thought it might be a sarcastic counter offensive. 

‘And what might that be?’, she added, honest curiosity replacing default cynicism, it seemed to me. 

‘Another IPA, and fifteen minutes of your time.’ We have lift-off. I pushed the Ben to her side of the table. 

Whomever the guy was that walked into the diner, cigarette dangling off his lip and Seahawks cap on backwards, had effectively destroyed the launch as she immediately went to grab an order that had apparently been phoned in. Regardless, I felt the pleasant flow of endorphins find their way to every nerve ending in my body. 

Upon the completion of the food pickup she pulled another IPA and walked that walk again towards my table where I sat pretending to be busy with an important text communication. Very gently she sat the frosty pint glass in front of me. 

‘I get off at ten, what’s your name?’  I have no idea why I should disguise myself and lie, being 200 miles from home, in a strange bar and in negotiations with a girl whom I would marry without even knowing her name, but I did. 

‘Cool, Bob.’

She blew air from her nose and said that was her Dad’s name, too. Amazing I said, ‘Dad a fisherman?’. 

‘Was.’ 

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Now I feel like shit, what did Col. Jessup say in A Few Good Men, “well aren’t I the fucking asshole?”. 

A flustered couple obliviously walks in and sits at a table by the window. She, I cannot believe I don’t even know her name yet, greats them by name. Small town I think condescendingly. When the guy answers back by saying ‘hi Sandy’, retro-rockets fire. 

She takes their order, the usual I am guessing, and shouts it to the cook who I have seen on his phone all the while I have been in the diner. Where I remain in heavy flirtation mode with the waitress whose name I have just serendipitously discovered. 

She sets their table, fills their drink order, a Bud Light and a coke, spins and heads back towards my table. She is on fire. She sees that I am again one sip from E, and askes about another. 

’No, I’m good, but thanks Sandy.’ How did you………? 

‘I’m in105 across the street, I have some work to do for tomorrow, so I’ll see ya later, right?’ 

‘I think so.’ She is leaving room for an excuse. I have seen this card played a thousand times. 

‘I don’t bite’, I say, ‘plus I am genuinely a nice guy.’  I finish my beer and stand to go, leaving the hundred dollar bill on the table. She has been summoned to the counter by the cook to pick up the hot meals and deliver them to the hungry (or bored) customers. 

I am putting my jacket on, pulling my hoodie over my stocking cap and moving slowly towards the huge wood door. I turn my head to smile a good-bye and see her watching me as I go. 

She keeps her eyes on mine, and smiles. 

I glance up at the nautical clock above the counter. Twenty to ten.

She moves to the window and flips the neon sign from “Open” to “Closed”. 

Yes, I Think I Do

I have decided not to write about it. That being, perhaps, one of the toughest things to admit, that it simply isn’t necessary, interesting or important. My thought was to use the incident as a jumping off point and try to paint a picture of the obvious and then toss in a surprise ending to wrap it up. Almost every writer that I admire does this, from Tom Robbins to Cormac McCarthy. 

The incident  in question involves a waitress that I met on Saturday night in Westport. Young, beautiful and charming she had me at ‘what can I gotcha?’ As I sat and watched her graceful orchestration the small, only-game-in-town seafood restaurant like a symphony, a funny plot line developed as I sipped the IPA she recommended, saying it was her fave. 

The supporting back-story is that as I fumbled to cough up the $6.50 for the ale I was down to counting off the remaining ones in my pocket stash, and then, currently owing only six of them, to empty my pocket of change. I placed the assortment of coins on the counter (along with a half-inch copper washer) and she quickly picked out a quarter, two dimes and a nickel tossing them into her till and coyly commanding that I enjoy the beverage. The remainder of the change, minus the washer, I swept up and dropped into her tip jar. It may have amounted to another fifty cents. What makes all this small change is that I went through this poor-boy routine not so much to provide the correct amount for the beer but more because I didn’t want to break the several fifties, twenties, or the pair of C-notes that wrapped by mobile pocket bank. A quirky move she took obvious note of. 

I am sitting, watching, scribbling notes in my journal and sipping the delicious IPA when the thought pops up like a salmon jumping out of the water. In a matter of minutes the entire scene has played out in my mind. There might be a way that I can make up for being a tight-wad jerk. There is only a group of four ladies left in the joint, sharing pictures on their phones of what I assume are grandkids or cats. I scan their table and realize that unless they reorder more ice tea they are almost done and will soon be leaving. Leaving me as the only customer. 

The ladies finish their teas and get up to leave. My heart is pounding like a big bass drum (thank you Mick), and my pint glass is one sip from empty.

Shooting me a glance, immediately sizes up the situation and takes a hard left to visit. As she walks, more of a graceful ballet sashay than simple ambulation, I again take delight in her combination of composure, completion and charisma. Wow, I think, what a beautiful girl. She gets to my small table and smiles. I immediately know what it feels like to be a glacier in these times of global warming and climate change. 

‘Another?’, she asks in a voice that is all honey and cinnamon. 

‘Yeah, excellent suggestion by the way, thanks.’ I say.

She hesitates for a split second and I deduce that I am to pay up front. Geese, here we go again - but wait - I have a play here. I reach, and wrapped on the outside of my credit cards and cash - I haven’t used a wallet in twenty years - are the pair of Bens. (I ignore the voice in my head loudly warning to please not double down on being a jerk.) 

I peel one off and place it on the highly lacquered table. 

‘You want something else with that?’ She asks tilting her head slightly left. 

‘Yes, I think I do.’ 

I Still Don't

Three things were behind my decision to skip our regular Sunday movie ride.

Thing One: The weather was forecasted to hold a low possibility of rain.

Thing Two: I needed a day off with a bit of adventure. 

Thing Three: I wanted to conduct  video-recognizance of legs two and three of the 2019 Epic ride. 

Off at noon on Saturday, after our spin session and lifting with Junior I was anticipating a two-hour drive to the coast, giving me ample time to scout a location, set up and shoot the sunset. But, as we have seen time and time again, when out and on the road things don’t always go exactly as planned. That fact alone might be why I always pack a tool kit, extra water and a change of clothes. That I forgot my trusty thermos only cost me a few bucks in coffee refills, something I could handle. Despite my endless attempts to game the inflated expenses of modern travel, I pull into the fishing burg of Westport right on schedule even finding a free parking spot and a nearby port potty. 

Looking at the sky and the time I hurried into position on the marina fishing bridge and set up shop. I was surrounded by crabbers, solo crabbers and entire families all casting their cages as far into the Pacific as their acumen would allow, some a surprising distance. I pointed GoPro One in the direction of the pending sunset and mounted the Sony Vixia atop a telescoping monopod to use the zoom features for cut-aways and closeups. The plan was for sunset time-lapse and whatever alternating POV that would add interest to the scene; fishing boats, seagulls, the crabbers themselves and the mountains lending their profiles to the backdrop, including, surprisingly, Mt St Helens. 

Almost immediately I consider the issue that I should have packed in some food, water and some type of personal and discrete urinal apparatus. I check both ends of the pier and see nothing within a ten minute walk and I will NOT leave my gear for that duration despite my faith and trust in humanity. 

So it was a long two hours. 

The results of which I will begin to download after this filing for immediate inclusion, assuming the results are worthy, in the current video which is about to the half way point. 

The course recon opened a few doors and I have all but altered the course as a result of the on-site intel. The fact that even in early January the traffic was heavy is worrisome. If it is thick in January, what the heck will it be in August? The quick answer that we will be riding mostly during the week helps but still gives me concern.

I will post updates as the media comes available and, maybe tomorrow - or maybe never - I will try my hand on the story-telling of something that took place Saturday night that you might not believe. 

I still don’t. 

We Travel and We Write

We travel and we write. As I toiled with the details of Stage One of the 2019 Epic Ride yesterday, occasionally comparing my route deviations from the path traveled on both prior trips, in ’93 and ’96, I notice some items of interest. The first and perhaps most important is that I am being WAY more aggressive. As an example, the Stage One mileage totals 613. That is from our starting point on Bainbridge Island, WA, over and down 31,000 feet of rolling countryside, in 8 days, to Brookings, OR., seven miles from the California border. The daily mileage numbers, 87,88,75,56,74,80,68 and 85 are formidable. Quite possibly outlandish. 

As well as the grand adventure itself, and remember we will be riding in the peak of the summer heat, when both the sun and tourism are their hottest, adding another degree of difficulty to the obvious one simply measured in kilometers, is the one I call esoterics. 

The secondary goal (doing it is number one) has always been to capture video of the event. I will offer each participant the opportunity to ride with one of my trusty GoPros, thereby providing an alternative point of view from which to edit. With the SAG vehicle recording the entire route, and three cams on bikes, I should be able to capture sufficient footage to mash up something fairly interesting. Adding camping, the ocean views, sunrises and sunsets, people and places, along the 1,600 miles absolutely fills my creative sails with enthusiasm and anticipation. Some quick math: 21 days with an average of (conservatively) 6 riding hours per day is 126 hours. Times 3, number of cameras, makes that total a robust 378. Plus SAGcam 126, gives us over 500 hours of hi-def video of just the road. Oh My!

And that is just the start. Adding what amounts to B Roll footage, interviews, non-riding sequences, atmospherics and other points of interest, only adds to the available media. I am stoked. Maybe this is how Kerouac, Robbins, Egan, Steinbeck and Wolfe felt too. 

Therefore, the detail I do not want to lose, or even allow to be compromised in the slightest, is the writing element. There must be commentary along the way. I need to ensure that as many Epic Riders as possible contribute to this effort by adding their thoughts and emotions to the collective work. I volunteer to go first. I will be adding my notes, musings, observations, hopes, dreams and fears in this very log along the way. Hoping it will be a long and winding road on a long, strange trip. 

If those collective words can act as a rolling narrative as we reel in the destination, one long day at a time, I truly believe the result will give us something of immense value. 

I refer to my notes from the ’93 trip and I read that as I sit on a park bench in Northern California watching the Pacific Ocean relentlessly crash wave after wave onto the rocky shore, a fearless gray squirrel pleads for a bite of my peanut butter and honey sandwich. 

2019 Epic Ride Stage One

Goat Rock near Jenner, CA

Stage One has been outlined, established and now, officially released. Here is the initial route, subject to change as conditions apply. We know that there might be road construction, fires or other events that may cause detours, but for now this is the route.

2019 Epic Ride Stage One. Bainbridge Island, WA to Brookings, OR. 613 miles and 30K elevation gain. Start date is Saturday, August 3. We reach Brookings, OR on Day 8, Saturday, August 10.

• Day One: Bainbridge Island, WA to Potlatch State Park. 86.75miles, 8,695 feet elevation. Motels nearby, camping in park.
• Day Two; Potlatch State Park, WA to Twin Harbors State Park. 88 miles, 4,692 gain. Cabins available in park.
• Day Three: Twin Harbors State Park, WA to Ilwaco, WA, 75 miles, 2,728 gain. Motels, cabins, yurts.
• Day Four: Ilwaco, WA to Nehalem Bay State Park, OR, 56 miles, 3,133 gain. Motels, camping on beach.
• Day Five: Nehalem Bay State Park, OR to Lincoln City, OR. 73.5 miles, 5,109 gain. Motels and camping
• Day Six: Lincoln City, OR to Glenada, OR, 79.75 miles, 5,451 gain. State Park and motels.
• Day Seven: Glenada, OR to Bandon, OR, 68 miles, 3,504 gain. Camping and motels.
• Day Eight: Bandon, OR to Brookings, OR, 85 miles, 6,166 gain, Camping and motels.

Harris Beach State Park is just North of Brookings and 7 miles from the Oregon/California border.

613 miles, eight riding days, 31,816 feet of elevation gain, Washington to California. Stage One of the 2019 Epic Ride has been successfully plotted by intrepid cycling cartographers itching for adventure.

We will post the individual days routes and data from Map My Ride as well as other pertinent notes as they come available. In the meantime, I highly recommend two courses of immediate action:

1) Commit to this adventure, and
2) Up your training volume.

Your comments are always welcome. Cheers!

A Lot Like Love

While today’s post is not a part of any anesthesiology 101 syllabus, it certainly appears as if it could be part of an advanced exercise physiology course, say EP 401. All of the hormonal chemicals (listed below) happen, per Steven Kotler’s amazing The Rise of Superman, only when we have entered the sacred and magical state of flow. 

I will add, humbly, a few observations in my personal search for what Mr. Kotler also calls ‘peak flow’ or that place where everything comes together seamlessly. Everything in this usage being, focus, attitude, calm, speed, strength, endurance, meaning, purpose, clarity, challenge and expected, anticipated outcome. This usage also includes all intrinsic and extrinsic stimuli, such as internal talk, motivation, fear, sounds, smells, memory, pain and pleasure. It is where the sum of those elements blends into one color, one sound and one experience. It is the song of our soul. 

My experience with peak flow is rudimentary. There have been a handful of times when I am pretty sure I had it. There are fewer times when I was able to realize I had it and then keep it. And maybe once or twice that I was able to know it, keep it and then call upon it again on demand. It doesn’t work like flipping on the light switch - although it can. It is more like love - the harder one tries to find it (and then keep it) the farther it moves away. One must let go. One must love oneself. One must offer it unconditionally and then one must be patient with any anticipated response. 

But when it shows up and says hey there, WOW!!!! We have flow. 

Additionally, and I have been spending many hours and spin sessions working in our semi-secret human performance laboratories testing this profound theory, I am now fully convinced that flow, the finding, keeping and improving, can be practiced and enhanced. 

I will share with you the steps we take to accomplish this quasi-esoteric advanced maneuver, one that transcends sports and is applicable in every situation and circumstance imaginable. 

For the sake of simplicity, and because it is our go-to activity, we will use indoor cycling as the medium. I could just as easily use music, writing, hiking, adventure sports, judo or videography, but today we’ll use spinning. 

1) Show up. (Always that)

2) Commit to progress, however incremental and seemingly small. 

3) Pre-heat your physical oven to 350.

4) Keep your focus relaxed.

5) Assume a managerial position as you measure your response.

6) Gradually increase resistance.

7) Breathe.

8) Note the changing stimuli and keep your 'commitment to experience' effort ahead of your current comfort zone.

9) Stay present, aware, mindful.

10) Find a synergy of body and mind.

11) Eliminate any (and eventually all) distractions.

12) Establish a graceful and powerful rhythm.

13) Add a peaceful and grateful appreciation to this mix.

14) Feel the presence of the mind-body-spirit triad.

15) Welcome the flow. 

Much like quality this state is one of those that is difficult to describe, usually including the admission that although I (us) cannot describe it, I (we) know it when we see (or feel) it. One does not need to Be Superman - or Captain America - to handsomely benefit from the practice of experiencing it. 

Now we can practice it. We can improve it. We can polish it and we can extend the length of its occasional visits. In other words, we can make it last. 

It is a lot like love.