Yesterday I went cycling—a lot of cycling. 133 km with a strong mistral wind. It was hard—very hard—and yet it was a rewarding experience that has left me filled with a sense of what’s possible and a passion for life.
It just goes to show that athletic success isn’t necessarily tied to speed or rankings.
But to achieve that, you have to embrace slowness. Okay, so it’s a relative slowness, but slowness nonetheless. Not that I didn’t have a choice—I honestly could have gone a (tiny bit) faster, “pushed myself to the limit,” as they say in the cycling world. But in this case, my relative slowness was a deliberate choice.
I told myself: you’re going to cultivate the right amount of effort—a sort of “middle way” in sports—and try to approach your athletic practice like your Buddhist practice: with honesty, authenticity, and without aggression. I was quite proud of my insight. Although it wasn’t exactly a new discovery—many others had thought of it before me—it was a conclusion I’d reached about two months ago following an injury and a fairly long break from training.
Because it’s so easy to lose sight of why we do sports in the first place—a bit like mechanically continuing to sing the same song after having forgotten why the tune had captivated us so much in the beginning. I don’t run to win—really, I don’t—even though, like any athlete, there’s a competitive streak in me, too. I run because I love it, because it gives me a sense of confidence, of human potential that goes beyond any ego-driven delusion. I run because I’m in love with the nature around me; I run to feel the elements, to feel the strength and also the fragility of my body; I run because life is short and I want to savor it to the fullest.
And on Sunday, on my bike facing the mistral, I constantly strove to find that balance between strength and relaxation that allows you to settle into a sustained effort without constantly struggling to hang on and “keep going.” I didn’t want to “keep going” at all— I just wanted to be. And it wasn’t easy. I was tempted, time and again, to “push” myself to go a little faster—and the opposite, too: to slow down because my mind was telling me it was far too hard.
Listening to myself without complacency, pushing myself without violence, cultivating ahimsa in every nook and cranny of my life. Not to make my spiritual practice just another activity, but a general attitude toward life, a backdrop that weaves everything together. A tantra. Always opening myself up to being fully, precisely, authentically.
At the finish line, I felt both happy and ashamed. Ashamed of being among the last to finish, and for a while I certainly looked for excuses (still in training, coming back from an injury, aches, etc.), but happy simply to be there, to have felt my body—tired but alive—right to the very end, to have eaten pollen, to have pedaled alone for a long time against the wind without even glancing at my odometer. I was—and still am today—full of appreciation for my capabilities, for this body and this mind that managed to listen to my heart.
I also loved so much the satisfied smiles of my friends at the finish line, that sense of unity and camaraderie that comes from our bodies and hearts having gone through the same effort, the same doubts, and the same satisfactions—each at their own pace, whether fast or slow.
I now wonder what a “strong mindset” really is: a level of self-aggression so intense that we’re capable of denying a whole part of ourselves just to see our name a little higher on the list; or a clarity of mind that accepts us for who we are right here and now, no matter how slow we may be?
My day yesterday was based on a mental choice attuned to a physical sensation, and when the two work together, that’s yoga: a feeling that something is right, honest, and that I’ve given—not my absolute maximum, but the best of myself.
I’m getting older, I’m slowing down, but maybe I’m also gaining wisdom.