There is something about riding before dawn.
The road is still dark, the wind hasn’t quite decided what it wants to do, and the only sound is the soft hum of tyres on tarmac. Occasionally a rabbit darts into a hedge as I approach.
That winter, I had developed the habit of riding in the dark. There was something about those early hours that I liked. Fewer cars, fewer people, less noise. Just the road appearing in front of the bike as I moved through it.
At that time, everything seemed to remind me of a koan.
Koans are strange companions. Questions, stories and encounters that resist the kind of answer the mind usually wants to produce. The more I tried to solve them, the more they seemed to slip away.
A bit like climbing.
The road doesn’t ask why. It just rises. The gears don’t debate their purpose. They turn.
So do my legs.
As the kilometres pass, the darkness begins to change. The edges of the road become clearer. Fields emerge from the black. The sky turns from steel to peach.
Somewhere along the way, a koan comes to mind:
“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.
The sun begins to appear and suddenly the landscape that had been hidden around me is simply there. Nothing dramatic has happened. The road is still the road. My legs are still turning. I’m still sitting on a bicycle.
By the time I turn towards home, the questions are still there.
I just don’t feel such a need to answer them.
Perhaps tomorrow morning they will come riding with me again.
For now, there is breakfast.
And coffee tastes better after koans and sunrise.
