I could sit on a cushion and follow my breath.

I have done that.

Or stretch beyond downward dog into cobra and beyond.

And I do.

Or I could unfold myself along a line between the foreground and middle distance, in strides measured in smooth, swift acceleration, shifting gears, pressure, balance and an eye ever better at reading the surface ahead.

Leaning in.

You see, the next curve is my Mantra. It balances with my breath as I see the road unfold and this machine and I, as increasingly one, launch ourselves toward it. Powering, smooth. There is predictability, and mystery. And the joy of perfection in every turn well read, clutch, shift and throttle quick-step, well-timed. Just a careful pinch of brake, like well-chosen seasoning to blend all into a seamless fluidity.

There is no space for anything else.

“Where to be. What to do. Did I do that right? What was that about?” Frustrations…

Float leaf-like, discarded into the slipstream as I pass. Loosing energy and coming to rest on the road to be swept aside by the breeze of new passings.

The no mind. The now mind. The Zen of oneness with road and machine, the fluidity of speed and eye and breath and pressure. I am this. A dance of harmonies removed from normal life.

Standing still is not an option. I would fall.

The road throws more than curves; gravel to be negotiated and a line carved carefully through, cars and bikes and people to respect with space. The gap between handled with finesse.

And in the next breath, another step away from everything that is not right now.

Presence.

And sometimes a tinge of fear; less now as the dance becomes more practiced and my limits more trusted. Sometimes the brake is the last thing to be touched, stopping the fluid lean, pulling me out of the trance of it. Nearly always the answer is to lean in harder. Nearly.

Curves are like that.

My Mantra lies in the next one.