Cycling Meditation
Go West
Same city, new start
At the start of last June, I relocated from the east side of my city to the west side. The name of my new ‘hood loosely translates to the Right Capital in Japanese. But when one looks at the map of Kyoto, it’s on the left side. How does that work?
Back in the day — even before the first samurai was born — historical records claim that the emperor moved his palace amidst civil strife to a lush, arable basin surrounded by mountains. His Highness, surveying from the centre of what is now Kyoto, previously known as Heian-Kyo (Hey-ahn K’yoh ) , designated the area west of his palace on his right as the Right Capital. The area in the east was called — you guessed it — the Left Capital.
One needs to think like a narcissistic emperor to get around Kyoto without getting lost.
Life is peaceful there — in the open air (Pet Shop Boys)
I wrote about my relocation in Moving On Up in a previous post. So it made sense to me to write about my new daily commute. There is nothing extraordinary about it. Instead of using public transportation except on stormy days, I pedal for 45 minutes to my office in the far east end of the Left Capital.
My usual route traverses over long stretches of pavement, and gravel, and across a famous river named after ducks. I share the roads with other cyclists, motorcycles, automobiles, dog walkers, pram pushers, and hippy octogenarians on skateboards.
I pass by blocks of Buddhist temples, rustic Shinto shrines, quaint tofu shops, charming cat cafes, dodgy pet shops, and nondescript archaeological sites. Of course, I don’t usually stop at any of these places on my commute. Still, occasionally, I might get hooked and coaxed into visiting one of them later out of curiosity.
In fact, one tea house caught my attention with a window display of French toast that looked like a gift from heaven. The sign in Japanese read: Lightly-toasted rice-flour bread dunked in rich free-range egg yoke, soft like a baby’s powdered butt cheeks, and sweetened with glistening gingered honey.
I just made that up. But even if the cheeks were actually mentioned, one could not really accuse this shop of publicly displaying semi-pedo sign boards in this city. As the author here, though, I might lose my membership or worse. (Wait! I was once a dad who changed my kid’s diapers!)
Not only did I return there to indulge myself but I also ended up becoming a student of Nihon-cha-do — the way of Japanese tea — at the same shop, learning the half-millennium-old school of tea-serving etiquette. This is not to be confused with the more popular sa-do (or cha-do), in which matcha — ground green tea — is exclusively used, in contrast to sun-dried or fermented whole leaves used in the former.
The egg goddess Tamago-ko (Anglicized as Henrietta) seduced me into her nest for a cuppa green tea. She must have clucked her way into my heart and stomach. Who knows what’s in store when riding past French toast?
As I pedal uphill toward a fork, I become extra cautious of the mindless drivers who treat cyclists as rivals or annoying obstacles. I am already halfway across my turn when I hear the roar of an accelerating car approaching me from behind. I blink in a startled response as it cuts me off, nearly hitting my bike by arm’s length.
My eyes met with those of the driver, who was mouthing words of profanity in slow motion through the side window of his loud SUV.
“Oh, very sorry,” I mouthed back mockingly. “I should have yielded even though I had the green light. Shame on me for my sense of entitlement…soybean-brain-san!” Cyclists can be guilty of road rage, too.
Some city bus drivers also treat cyclists as annoyances and show impatience by squeezing us off the paved shoulder or up against tree-lined curbs. The imminent threat of contact with the encroaching bus reminds me of one of my favorite scenes in the original Star Wars, Episode IV — A New Hope — in which the towering inner walls of a trash compactor on the Death Star’s detention level converge on Luke, Han, Leia, and Chewie.
“One thing’s for sure, we’re all gonna be a lot thinner…” — Han Solo
Despite the intentions of the city councillors to designate bike lanes on main roads, cyclists are the new kids on the block that the big bullies want to run over. Imperialists still live strong in the galaxy — and Japan.
Yes, believe it or not, such issues shamefully exist even in tourist-friendly Kyoto — and I am not a typical disgruntled long-time-resident ex-pat incessantly complaining about Japan. I am a local who loves this city and am saddened to see the incivility of citizens that visiting Kyoto aficionados fortunately or hopefully miss.
Then, as I pass a legion of suit-clad minions hustling to their respective workplaces, I coast into the west entrance of Kyoto Go-sho — the property of the ancient residence of the Imperial Family until 1868 and now a vast public park.
There are no paved roads or paths within the 224-acre park. Everything between manicured sections of greenery and palace structures is covered in washed gravel, crackling underneath as I pedal my way across.
I glance at my watch. I’m often around 5 minutes ahead of the map app’s estimation. Let’s take a quick break, I tell myself.
I spot a moss-dressed wooden bench in the shade under the canopy of centuries-old matsu-pine trees. I stop and serve myself a steaming cup of coffee that I brew at home each morning. Feeling satisfied, I start my simple mindfulness meditation with eyes wide open gazing at the nearly cloudless azure sky above.
During my meditation, random images float through my mental stratosphere: faces, old pets, coffee beans, beaches, planes, numbers, custard pudding, colours, intimacy, arguments, and more faces. I do not dwell on any of these and just wait for them to float away like clouds.
Speaking of colours and intimacy, whenever I see the lavender-like colour of wisteria or even hear the word, I am quite convinced that I can also smell it — an example of synaesthesia — which then triggers a recall of past moments of intimacy.
It is no coincidence that wisteria symbolizes love and longevity in Japan and appears in classical literature, music, and theatre. But in addition to my olfactory response, I think I even sense touch at the sight of the word, one that feels sensually smooth. (I forgive you if you’re rolling your eyes.)
My smartwatch’s haptic alarm stirs me out of my blissful recollections, and I set off again on the last leg of my journey to the office.
Exiting the palace park, I pedal on until I reach one of a dozen bridges, from pedestrian to those with multi-lanes, crossing the famous Kamogawa (or Duck River). The view from the bridge is clearly not as breathtaking as that from the nearly 4-kilometre-long Akashi Strait Bridge linking Kobe and its neighbouring Awaji Island.
And I mean “breathtaking” literally. Several years ago when I crossed this world-class suspension bridge on a motorcycle, the crosswinds kept trying to nudge me and my 400cc Kawasaki Tourer off the lane — possibly off the bridge itself and into the unforgiving Seto Inland Sea.
But from any Kamo River bridge, I get a long-angle view worth a dozen snapshots overlooking the lush green river basin and beyond the woody foothills. Although in the summer mornings, I squint behind my fake Ray-Bans when the sun shines straight into my eyes between 7:30 and 8, the light it casts over the shimmering river water always makes me stop to look in awe and admiration.
And some days, I just want to call in “sick” and spend the day soaking my feet in the cool water descending from the mountains and Lake Biwa — the largest body of fresh water in Japan — in the east.
I eventually arrive at my workplace. I pick up a tuna and egg sandwich using bread made from gluten-free tofu flour, so moist yet spongy and bowel-friendly. I’ve written about cinnamon tofu doughnuts before. Same bakery!
So, what is the point of writing about a seemingly ordinary bike commute?
I’ve left out many details that I wish I had the time to include, such as the return ride. Since I’m facing west, the sunsets and pink streaks in the sky are also inspirational images worth a thousand words.
After all has been said and done, I feel more and more that my daily commute is perhaps the most important part of my day, not at the office.
I find that my mindfulness meditation is not limited to a morning sit-down moment in the park. I believe many of us have heard of walking meditation or Tosogyo, the walking ascetic practice in Buddhism, in which practitioners deal with their worldly desires and focus on clearing their minds.
In my case, I could call it cycling meditation. My eyes are on the road and none of my senses are compromised, just as in walking. The only minor differences are in the manner I breathe and the duration of each breath.
Normally, each inhalation and exhalation takes roughly three seconds. When walking briskly, those times only quicken by one second. In both cases, I have a habit of breathing only from the chest up.
Cycling, on the other hand, requires me to make more use of my diaphragm and take longer breaths, as in Zazen meditation, during which concentration is encouraged by counting each inhale and exhale. (But when I’m cycling, I’m too busy mouthing the French lyrics to Stella Jang’s sweet ballad L’amour, les baguettes, Paris to count.)
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll call in sick tomorrow so I can soak my feet and meditate in Kamogawa, occasionally failing to focus and daydreaming about some romantic interlude in Paris — with baguettes.
Thank you for reading! A friendly Hi, Bonjour, Konnichiwa, Ni Hao, Annyeong, Hola, Ciao, Aloha, etc would be greatly appreciated!
I write for connections, not censorship.
