Summer has arrived in Seattle: my time to write and ride as
much as possible. In an odd way, these two passions are similar. When I cycle,
I plan the route, distance and time in the saddle. I set goals
and sometimes I meet up with other cyclists. I set writing goals as well: a
scene to be written, time in the chair, pages to key into a draft manuscript. And sometimes I join other writers.
I was recently asked what I think about when I cycle. Do I
think about the novel I'm working on, plot scenes, visualize settings, imagine
dialogues? Nope. Maybe some speck of my subconscious is there, deep with my
characters, but then I wouldn't know, would I?
I've never been asked what I think about when I put pen to
paper, and yet the response would vary little because once begun these
activities retain certain similarities. In both cases, I fall into a deep, almost meditative state, and let the route or the
pen lead the way.
And yet, there are times, like on my 50-mile solo ride last
Monday, when I notice the world around me. I rode East Lake Sammamish from
Issaquah to Marymoor Park. Then I followed the Sammamish River Trail
north to Bothell.
If you're in the Seattle area, you may know the route.
An eagle soared. The lake and river, bridges and farmlands
glowed. Mount Rainier reigned. The immense natural beauty took my breath away.
And then the extremes of wealth and poverty slapped me in the face.
Who needs a private helicopter? I mean really. And though a
rundown trailer court is not poverty by any international, or even national
definition, it stood in stark contrast to the lake front properties less than
twenty miles away.
Sometimes observation interrupts meditation, whether in
writing or riding. If I stop to think about word choice or sentence structure,
the story flows on without me. And if I stop to secret a few photos when I
cycle, I become aware of more than the burn in my quads.
1200 11th St.
