This morning I was cycling up Rossino.
It is a climb I know well. I have ridden it many times over the years, in different seasons, in different moods, with different legs. This morning, somewhere on the way up, I found myself talking to my bicycle.
This is not particularly unusual.
I asked it a question.
“Do you have a soul?”
The bicycle said nothing.
So I asked again.
“Do you have a soul?”
And somewhere between the sound of my breathing, the turning of the pedals and the road rising in front of me, the answer came.
Mu.
In one of the best-known Zen koans, a monk asks Jōshū, “Does a dog have Buddha nature?”
Jōshū replies:
“Mu.”
That was enough.
I kept climbing.
At some point, I stopped asking questions. There was just the breath, the movement of my legs, the sound of the wheels and the road.
Nothing particularly mystical happened.
I reached the top sweaty and happy, which is usually good enough.
The Rossino climb always seems to have something to say, even when it is not answering any questions.
This morning I asked my bicycle if it had a soul.
Like an old Zen master, it answered:
Mu.
