Bicycle Zen

I don't know if the thinking and meditation I do when I'm riding my bicycle is zen. What ever it is I get a certain euphoria, a clarity of thinking that I struggle to reach normally. The irony is that when riding I'm probably processing way more information than when I'm walking: cars being driven by people texting, cars not stopping at stop signs or ignoring red lights, pedestrians, dogs, small children darting into the street. While riding I know the weather, the smell of flowers by the season, the songs of birds. The sticky-sweet scent of Tamarisk and Russian Olive in the spring--although they are pernicious invaders of critical wetlands, riparian areas, stream and river banks-- is almost overpowering. It is like hitting a wall of scent, like riding through a swarm of sweet-smelling invisible gnats. I sniff my riding jersey when I get home to see if particles of scent, pollen, have stuck to it.
In the spring the calls of male quail looking for love boom from shrubs and conifers. The hens dart into road-ways, pause, and then when they know you've committed to a route around them, they throw a head-fake and dart back into your path. I've never hit one but I've scared feathers off of a few. I've scared the quack out of ducks waddling out onto the road, paced a coyote pup running through the grass along a highway in Washington state,stared into the eyes of a hawk as it perched on a fence post with a mouse in its talon. I saw him dive into the tall grass and emerge with his prey. He watched me pedal by and then flew.

In Idaho, I rode my bicycle by a creek where someone was fishing. His form--fly fisher persons are sticklers on form--was impeccable, a model of style and efficiency. The way he mended line was graceful and rhythmic. Fish rose to hit his fly but as far as I could see his only flaw was that he missed each strike. He didn't hook-up once while I was watching. He finally noticed me when he was changing flies.
"Great day for a ride," he said.
"Yup," I said. "It's also a great day for fishing."
"The fish are really rising," he said.
"You've had a lot of strikes," I said. "But you've not hooked a single fish."
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"What fly are you using?" I asked.
"Several, but I've gotten the most attention from a double renegade I've trimmed to look like a nymph,"
I got off of my bike and walked through the grass and weeds along the creek. He sloshed through the water to the stream-edge. The man showed me his open fly box. There were dozens of flies in  various sizes and styles: wet flies, dry flies, streamers, nymphs. All of the hooks had been clipped off.
I held up a hopper and said: "What's up with no hooks?"
He smiled, took off his hat and said:"I don't fish to catch anything. I only fish to see if I can get them to hit any fly I've chosen."
I smiled back and handed back his hopper fly. "I think I better get back on the road," I said.
As I rode away I thought about the number of times I had gone fishing and not caught one fish. I remembered the feeling of contentment and peace. It wasn't the catching it was the challenge of trying. Biking isn't the miles its the quality of thinking I experience.