There’s something about cycling before sunrise—when the roads are still half-asleep, and even the wind hasn’t fully made up its mind. No traffic, no voices, just the rhythmic whisper of tires on tarmac and the occasional startled rabbit darting into a hedge.
I took the habit of getting out cycling in the dark from this winter, it is just so mesmerising!
Out there, before the world of humans starts moving, everything feels like a koan.
A koan, in Zen, is a question that can’t be answered logically. It’s meant to short-circuit the mind. Like: What is the sound of one hand clapping? At 5 a.m., climbing a small hill with cold fingers and legs still unsure, you suddenly get it: the question isn’t the point.
The road doesn’t ask why. It just rises. The gears don’t debate their purpose. They turn. And I—well, I breathe, I push, I listen to the birds waking up, and I forget what I thought I needed to figure out.
In those first golden minutes when the sky turns from steel to peach, something settles. There’s no audience, no segment to conquer, just a strange and welcome emptiness. Not the kind that lacks, but the kind that lets in light.
Somewhere between two villages I can’t remember now, I remember a koan:
“Without speaking, without silence—how do you express the truth?”
My legs keep turning. Maybe that’s the answer. Or maybe it doesn’t matter.
I return home two hours, cold, happy and lighter. The questions are still lingering, free, unobstructed, I can enjoy their presence, I don’t feel the urge to answer any of them. They are not bothered either. We are all free to be.
Coffee tastes better after koans and sunrise.
Zen Mindfulness Cambridge Zenways Italia 