Today I left the Garmin at home.
No start beep. No route to follow, no watts to chase, no heart rate to watch. Just me, the bike, and the road.
At first, it felt strange. Almost wrong.
It felt like riding without a license, without witnesses, without a point — which was probably the point.
Without numbers constantly asking for my attention, I started noticing other things. The trees. The road beneath the tyres. The changing light. My breathing. My legs.
I had no idea how fast I was going.
And for once, it didn’t matter.
Somewhere along the way I thought about Gutei.
Whenever Gutei was asked a question about Zen, he simply raised one finger. A boy who served him began imitating the gesture. When Gutei heard about this, he cut off the boy’s finger. As the boy ran away screaming, Gutei called his name. The boy turned around. Gutei raised one finger — and the boy was enlightened.
Not exactly the sort of teaching method likely to survive a modern risk assessment.
I could explain the kōan. I could say the finger is only a gesture, that copying the gesture isn’t the same as seeing what Gutei was pointing to.
But then I would just be pointing another finger at Gutei’s finger.
A photo of pizza won’t feed you.
And a Garmin is not the ride.
Today, without the data, I found a different rhythm. Not better, not more authentic. Just different.
There was nothing on the handlebars telling me what I had done or what I should do next.
So I rode.
At some point I turned towards home.
No segment times. No average speed to check. No little electronic summary waiting to tell me whether the ride had been good enough.
Just the ride itself.
You don’t need to know where you are to really be there.
And the finger?
Mine’s still firmly attached.
For now.
