in German: Schafgarbe). And not just one herb, but many of them. I was riding on and wondering thoroughly to myself... Then it just bit me and I ventured on to some technical singletrack. No pics, though, don´t want to have hordes of half-mad downhillers;-) building 7m - drops and kickers there:-), plus I had some other things to do. When I rode on, one of the reasons I still ride happened. It is a psychophysical phenomenon commonly referred to as "flow" after Mihalyi Cziksentmihalyi, an autotelic experience sharing many parallels to the Japanese Zen term "Satori". Anyway, this is not the space to rant on about this;-), and maybe I get my resolve to complete my scientific work on this topic, which you may read in this place then. But as I was in complete balance, a buzzard started from the side of the trail again (this happens ever so frequently to me, no clue why;-)) and, this was truly weird, flew with me down the trail in a distance of about five metres. It did not rise higher or turned. It just flew with me down that hill, and when the trail turned uphill, it turned away again and cried its cry. Somewhat esoteric experience, if you ask me, but simply good and a beautiful event I do not want to interpret, for it is good as it is. Of course, the bummer would follow soon. On the next downhill I was quite enjoying myself and having some air. Seems I messed up one landing and hit a rock. Hitting a small rock of that size is no problem normally, but I like to run my tyre pressure somewhat low, and this IS a problem with allmountain tyres as I like to run, for downhill tyres just suck on the uphills;-). So it went ffffffffffffffffffffffftBAM, and I got a slab. By that time temps were dropping, and a steady drizzle started. Now I like to be prepared, so it was no problem, I just took out my spare tube and fitted it in, but I guess this is a good example that being prepared may elongate your life. You CAN die of hypothermia, even in those domesticated woods.
It was getting dark, too, so I chose to take the low road (pun intended*g*) home.
When I got home I realized something. I realized I missed this sport. I have done much riding in the last year, but always with an intent. Foraging, commuting, and the like. But it has always been experiences like the one with the buzzard that kept me riding for 27 years now, and this is most of my life. It´s not in being better than anyone. It´s not the material, as it is with others. That may help me get out there. But what really counts is the feeling of flying with the buzzard, of being one with the tiny space of calm within the gates of the wind. Call it a religious craze, or psychological, or whatever. You can have a simple ball with your mates out in the woods. You can have a laugh riding, enjoy the scenery, and whatever. Many reilsh in being better than anyone else, or in having a great bike and riding it, in getting better and all that stuff, and I can relate to that, too.
But it all comes down to that moment in full flight, when the buzzards rises in your soul to fly with the one outside. If you are able to feel this through, you´ll know. And you can´t fit it into words anymore, and you may rant on endlessly and helplessly. This is one reason I despise the hate-preachers as much as I do.
No words, just being.
