Inch worm, inch worm
Measuring the marigolds
You and your arithmetic
You’ll probably go far
Inchworm, inchworm
Measuring the marigolds
Seems to me you’d stop and see
How beautiful they are
These days we seem to be a society obsessed with numbers. Unless we have empirical data for something, it somehow doesn’t count. While I generally have no problem with numbers, sometimes I’m suspicious of them, particularly when I believe they might be hiding something. At times they stand around posing as truth, but what’s behind them? In my experience, numbers can serve as walls instead of windows. It’s something I’ve always known, but this past summer, it became even clearer to me that reducing experiences to numbers can be deceptive and damaging.
I began training for distance cycling as soon as the weather was warm enough last spring. I’ve never been an athlete, so I didn’t know I could do it, but my family had made plans for a bicycle trip around the “thumb” of Michigan in June, and I had to be ready to ride over 50 miles a day. It seemed daunting at the time because at first 10 miles was grueling, but it’s amazing how quickly a cyclist can build up the strength to increase the distance. After a few weeks, my hard work was rewarded in so many ways.
On a bicycle the world moves slowly enough for a person to focus on small details. Surprising treasures line the shoulders of quiet country roads, remnants of life: a rough peach pit; nuts and bolts; flattened, dried snakes; half of a corncob. I pass a petrified baby turtle; carcasses of raccoons, skunks, possums, or deer, black and buzzing with flies; shredded tires like pulverized road kill, their skins jagged, lying on their backs.
I once saw a pair of fingernail clippers.
I swerve to miss fat caterpillars, mostly banded wooly bears, or sometimes, bright yellow caterpillars on their way across the road. I wonder where they think they are going and imagine how impossible the distance across a busy road must seem to a creature so small. My journey is nothing compared to theirs.
Sometimes hills rise like walls before me, and I develop a new understanding of endurance and persistence. I keep my head down. Looking up is discouraging; it’s hard to judge progress, but looking down I can see the pavement passing foot by foot. I try not to think of the up and down motion of my knees and to ignore my burning muscles. Breathless, I reach the summit, feeling stronger.
As a cyclist, I have learned a healthy fear of canines. You can’t imagine the adrenaline rush when a sudden dog appears at my heels, barking and nipping, and no matter how exhausted I think I am, I burst forth in the interest of self-preservation, legs pumping as hard as possible to get to safety. I like big dogs who know to stay on their porches and sleep and people who know to keep their dogs safely tied up in the yard.
Riding along lonely country roads, I find a kind of silence absent in my ordinary life, a silence that is only occasionally interrupted by unfamiliar sounds. Power lines hum loudly as I pass beneath them, and I hear ominous snapping sounds as tree limbs brush against electric fences. The wind moves through high cornstalks, rustles the leaves, and gives the illusion of something sinister lurking in the field.
These were the snapshots of life that kept me going back to the bicycle each morning.
Long after we’d completed our family trip, a few days a week we would continue to wake up early, ride 14 miles or so to one of a number of quiet towns in the area, maybe have breakfast at a small diner, and ride home. The freedom to ride and to think was addictive. Cycling through the countryside, it’s hard to worry yourself over small things when you’re focused instead on the largest cow you’ve ever seen lounging in a green pasture.
Although I hadn’t originally planned on keeping track, by the time fall rolled around, I had completed close to 1000 miles
When I started keeping track of my miles, when I discovered how close I was to reaching 1000, everything changed. Suddenly it was no longer about mindfulness, the quiet time spent with family, or the challenge of becoming stronger. It became a game of numbers. I set a goal to complete my 1000 miles by the time school started. I began to divide the miles up to figure out how many days I had left to ride. If I ride six times next week, I’ll reach my goal, I would think. It was discouraging if it rained and I had to postpone. Each day I rode, I’d come back and subtract 25-30 more miles, but it didn’t feel like an accomplishment any more with so many miles looming before me. I was heavy with those miles. Some mornings the 30-mile ride I had planned for the day felt more like the 150 I had left.
I considered giving up entirely as work started back up and life was busy and the weather seemed perpetually rainy. But I kept going on sunny days. I never did meet the original deadline, but I still rode when I could. 20 miles here. 10 miles there. I stopped about 6.25 miles shy of my goal, and I decided I would never do that to myself again. Numbers had muddied the rich experiences of cycling for me. They got into my head and made me forget the joys of riding. When it becomes all about the distance or the speed, it’s easy to lose sight of what’s truly substantive.
As I reflect on the experience, it occurs to me that we throw out numbers to other people because they represent accomplishment. The parts of life we truly value are difficult to express to others. Maybe that kind of honesty makes us vulnerable. Perhaps under some circumstances there truly can be safety in numbers. All I know is that when I started counting miles, cycling stopped being fun.
