Dancing

It was my father taught my mother
how to dance.
I never knew that.
I thought it was the other way.
Ballroom was their style,
a graceful twirling,
curved arms and fancy footwork,
a green-eyed radio.

There is always more than you know.
There are always boxes
put away in the cellar,
worn shoes and cherished pictures,
notes you find later,
sheet music you can’t play.

A woman came on Wednesdays
with tapes of waltzes.
She tried to make him shuffle
around the floor with her.
She said it would be good for him.
He didn’t want to.

– Margaret Atwood

CultFit Play


In a Mellow : Tone :

Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything-

Our appetite for wealth, the latest and greatest, and material gain isn’t driven by any sort of “hardship“, but by our own, deep-rooted inner discontent.

I was convinced that I could buy my way to happiness after all the years of abuse I put myself, and my family through. I believed that my discontent was wrought from hardship, and that the only way to permanent fulfillment and well-being was the acquisition of things. Sadly, our society still measures “success” in terms of the quality and price of the “things” we can buy, the size of our house and salaries – the size of our manhood and Ego when we drop trough and boast about a new bike or whatever.

As much as I take comfort in casting blame on society for my faults, my Ego is what defines my role(s) in the material world; I am a father, I am an engineer, I am an avid cyclist. I am liar, I am a fakata of things in this thing called life. When asked to introduce or say a little bit about myself – I instantly define myself in the conscious realm, and my ego is hell-bent on pulling me away from my True Self.

Daily Meditation:

The more I identify myself with the “I am … “, the less I am able to identify with the, me.

CultFit Wave


Look in my : Eyes :

You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life-

While cleaning the garage this past weekend, I came across a handful of Enduro – Mountain Bike race medals and tattered bibs from the nearly 4 years I spent living in the United Kingdom. I was preparing to pitch them in the bin outside when curiosity overcame me, I sat down on the warm west-facing front porch and started to look through them. On these worn and faded relics, I found a record of a life that seemed so impossibly exciting to me that I could hardly believe it had once been mine.

With my Son carelessly riding his bike with some neighborhood mates, I sat there, coffee in hand and reminisced about my life competing in England. When I meet fellow cyclist at a local coffee shop early on a Sunday morning, a recent swap meet or my favourite MTB trail head, they invariably inquire why I don’t compete at the same level now. The “thing” is, during nearly all of my years there, my heart longed to be somewhere else. It seems incredible when I think about it now, watching my Son creating long fluid skid marks in the road, when I’m holding objects such as this Thetford Forest MTB Racing Series podium medal, serves only to remind me of the seemingly rare and blessed glimpse of my days spent there.

 
Sitting here on the porch, I lowered my head knowing that I was still living in a place, a place I had vowed to return to only as a visitor. Feeling the cool March sunset fading away, I began to ponder whether my heart was simply hard-wired for discontent no matter where I found myself – Sipping coffee and preying to nameless yearnings that could never be fulfilled in Omaha, Nebraska. Could I gradually begin to honor my present “circumstances” instead of succumbing to fleeting, yet persistent longings for some imaginary, unrealistic and unattainable future? Could I, a lifelong have to “win at all costs” competitor, trade my anywhere-but-here perspective for enthusiasm about the here and now?

Daily Meditation:

I tossed the medals and bibs in the trash bin and placed my stained streaked coffee mug on top, sealing the contents inside. Hooked our now warm and cozy beagle up to his leash, grabbed a sweatshirt from inside the garage door, and proceed to tear up the now quiet neighborhood with my Son.

CultFit No More

 


Greeting to Spring (Not Without Trepidation)

Over the back of the Florida basker,
over the froth of the Firth of Forth,
Up from Tahiti and Madagascar,
Lo, the sun walks north.

The first bright day makes sing the slackers
While leaves explode like firecrackers,
The duck flies forth to greet the spring
And sweetly municipal pigeons sing.

Where the duck quacks, where the bird sings,
We will speak of past things.

Come out with your marbles, come out with your Croup,
The grass is as green as a Girl Scout troop;
In the Mall the stone acoustics stand
Like a listening ear for the Goldman band.

At an outside table, where the sun’s bright glare is,
We will speak of darkened Paris.

Meanwhile, like attendants who hasten the hoofs
Of the ponies who trot in the shadow of roofs,
The sun, in his running, will hasten the plan
Of plants and fishes, beast and man.

We’ll turn our eyes to the sogging ground
And guess if the earth is cracked or round.

Over the plans of the parties at strife,
Over the planes in the waiting north,
Over the average man and his wife,
Lo, the sun walks forth!

Robert Lax

CultFit Forth


: Local :

It’s possible to walk out of your house with “local” footsteps, printing them one by one till they go on to make “global” consequences! Go, make a safe journey-

I’m standing in a local bike shop, with narrow isles, bins and shelves filled with artifacts of a bygone world; hundreds of bicycling parts waiting to be saved and enjoyed once more. No fancy racks or displays showcasing the newest technology, grease stained shop rags tossed on a well used repair stand, an aging frame leaning in one corner, another new frame packed and ready for shipping to a new cyclist. There are quite a few customers of all ages steaming in early this morning as I think to myself – I have made the conscious decision of supporting my local shop instead of the convenience and bargains found online. And this experience, is what I prefer.

Sheets of colorful cycling stickers and build sheets brighten the worn workbench. Vintage wheel-sets hang above the display cases below casting a playful glow from their chrome finish. And the superb aroma of chain cleaner and lubricants wafting in the air near the used bikes for sale on the shop floor. What better setting for a custom wheel build

Daily Meditation:

While many of us mourn the loss of an expired Groupon deal or online savings code, I mourn the loss of a deeper social function in our society – Local workmanship and community. Local bike shops are struggling, yet they have something precious that is vanishing from our more digital and connected/convenient world – Real people, doing real, honest work. All of this is conveniently awaiting you at your local bike shop.

Sincere gratitude and – Thank You – to the crew at Re-cycle Bike Shop here in our fair city – Omaha, NE. A big thanks to Onyx Racing Products, Velocity and Phil Wood & Co. for producing first-rate, Made in ‘Murica products. And what better way to test them by riding across a frozen lake in March!


For a Five-Year-Old

A snail is climbing up the window-sill
into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see and I explain
that it would be unkind to leave it there:
it might crawl to the floor; we must take care
that no one squashes it. You understand,
and carry it outside, with careful hand,
to eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
your gentleness is moulded still by words
from me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
from me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed
your closest relatives and who purveyed
the harshest kind of truth to many another,
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.

Fleur Adcock

CultFit Spaces


Rest.

It’s so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the small, peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I’m not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything’s fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I’ll be home by dawn.

Richard Jones

CultFit Driving


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