The Rule of B

By Tom Martyn

Looking back, there’s an arc to my life, a trajectory that brought me to precisely this moment.  It’s hard to see from day to day, in the confusion of working and raising kids, but every now and then, I catch a glimpse of it, and I see that everything is just as it’s supposed to be.  That seems to happen mostly when I’m riding my bike, but that’s jumping to the end of the story.

The story begins with The Rule of B.  The Rule of B is not written anywhere, it’s not the result of a scientific investigation, and it’s entirely possible that it’s completely wrong.  I discovered it after years of observing my own life, and I now share it with you.  The Rule states, “The best things in life all begin with B.”

My first inkling of this rule came about when I discovered Babes.  Duh.  This is the good stuff.  Not that I’ve been particularly successful, but at least I’m enjoying the ride.  Somewhere along the route, I fell in with one particular Babe who in a fit of madness agreed to marry me, and it’s been mostly great for 24 years.  Of course I still enjoy Babes; like my friend Mark’s wife says, it doesn’t matter where you get your appetite, as long as you eat at home.

Then there’s Beer.  Or Booze, if you prefer.  There is nothing like a cold one, especially with friends after a long, hot ride, and I have surely explored everything Beer has to offer.  I’ve spent two weeks touring breweries in Belgium, the undisputed epicenter of Beer in the known universe.  I’ve learned to make beer, won a lot of awards, and become a National Beer Judge.  And I came to drink a lot, and often, by myself, not to share my life with my friends, but to try to hide from my own life, which somehow had become as uncomfortable as riding a century with my shorts on backwards.  And I still love Beer, and it’s still one of the best things in life.  But we have a different relationship these days.

The Buddha helped me change that.  Somewhere in my psychedelic youth I caught a glimmer of something beyond myself, and that thread brought me to meditation and Buddhism.  I threw myself into the practice of Zen, and encountered the Buddha’s First Noble Truth, that life is suffering. The arc of my life was nudged onto a different trajectory.  It’s hard to accept that everything we want, hold, desire and cherish will change, die or be lost.  But it’s undeniably true, and it’s the flailing around trying to avoid this truth that creates pain and harm.  Only by accepting and living with our suffering can we find peace and ease.

In 1997, my wife bought me a road bike for Christmas.  A Bicycle. In fact, a Bianchi.  I weighed 235 pounds, was smoking a pack plus a day, drinking lots of Beer and Bourbon, looking down the loaded barrel of my life.  Sometime in March, after the roads were clear of snow, I went out for a 10 mile wobble, survived it, called George and told him about it.  George is an old friend, has been riding for years, and shares my love of Buddhism.  He said, great, let’s go for a ride, I’ll show you some cool roads.  And a couple of days later, we went spinning down Route 142 to Vernon, and eventually turned right onto Huckle Hill Road. 

I probably didn’t notice the name that day.  Paying attention to the names of unfamiliar roads is a skill you learn later.  But I’ve ridden it many times since, and I know now that the road is a mile-long assault on the face of Huckle Hill, with an average grade of 8 or 9%, a couple of ramps at 18% or so, and nowhere to recover before the top.  Long before the first steep, I was gasping, sweating, weaving, and watching George, one of the best local climbers, spin away into the distance.  My morale crumbled, I cracked, I blew, I walked. 

But as I walked, something awoke in me, a memory of my childhood, of living on my tricycle, then on my two-wheeler, of gangs of neighborhood kids racing around the block, of jumping dirt piles at the construction site at the end of the street, of a three day, 200 mile, hilly ride with my Dad when I was 12, on three speed Humbers with cast iron frames, of the wind on my face and idiot glee in my heart.

Last summer, I started beating George up the hills.  Granted, he hasn’t been riding as much as he used to, but that’s his problem, not mine.  I try to ride four or five times a week now, and I hang with the best local riders.  I might try racing next year.  George and I were talking about riding a couple of months ago, one of our constant topics, and I twitted him about taking poor me up Huckle Hill on my second ride.  He smiled at me, and said, “I knew you’d understand the suffering.”

Damn, George, you got that right.  I weigh a lot less now, I haven’t smoked in five years, I still love beer but its more like we’re friends than lovers, and I still ride the Bianchi although I’m building up a Trek OCLV 120 frame with a Campy Record gruppo.   On my bike, I penetrated to the heart of the Buddha’s teaching – it really is all about suffering, but when you embrace it, it transforms into something else.  It transforms into your life, and it’s good. 

And lately I’ve been noticing more and more great looking Babes on bikes.