There IS a God. And He’s Mean.

Today I went to a daylong whole body breathing retreat, a chance to spend a whole day doing what I’ve been learning in my Thursday night class. My extra-good meditation friend turned up—he hasn’t been taking the class otherwise—and sat right in front of me, so I was expecting an outstanding day, but it wasn’t particularly. No states of extreme pleasure were experienced (I heard Spirit Rock teacher Steve Armstrong describe it once as “pass-out ecstasy”), but it was a good solid day of practice.

Until the grilling started. Yep.

It’s almost enough to make you believe there is a (malevolent) God.

When lunchtime rolled around, I noticed the smell of lighter fluid in the hallway, and then in the room we were meditating in. Beyond this room (the Thomas Starr King room at the First Unitarian Universalist Church, at Geary and Franklin) is the church’s kitchen, and right outside the kitchen’s door to the outside, some grilling grillers—i.e., another group having an event at the church—had fired up a charcoal grill, not skimping on the lighter fluid.

Can you believe that?

After a while, the stench abated, but the room we were sitting in was generally smoky and congested, and then it was my distinct impression that more lighter fluid may have been squirted on the grill, judging from the smell, and then I got a headache, and then I got up and came home.

This opened a hole in my schedule which I used to call my mother:

“Sir! I implore to know how you are.”

“What’s it to you? And how are you?”

“Great!”

“Yeah, you have to shout into these newfangled phones.”

The early departure from the daylong also gave me a chance to test a theory I had about cycling on Gough St., where (I shouldn’t say this) I never, ever see another cyclist, apart from the woman who introduced me to this practice, one Sunday night after we left Eugene’s. She said she figured we ought to be able to use a lane on Gough, since there are, after all, three of them going in the same direction (which of course makes it all the more like a freeway).

It sounded like not a very good idea to me, but in her company I gave it a try, and I was so terrified I could barely see anything around me that first thrilling night. I have never seen that woman since (I hope she didn’t get squished cycling on highway 101), but I have ridden home on Gough St. every time I’ve been to Eugene’s since then, except for the night I got completely stoned meditating (see “Standing in the Light, Thank You, Todd, or God”) and felt it might not be wise to be out there with impaired faculties.

That night I took Polk St., which has a bike lane, and realized I felt less safe there than on Gough, where I use a whole lane.

My theory, however, was that it might actually be safer to be on Gough St. in the dark than during the day, because at night, drivers might say, “Jesus Christ, is that a cyclist??? I’d better give her wide berth,” whereas during the day, they might just say, “What a moron, cycling here. I’ll teach her a lesson.”

Speaking of which, it has been a long time since any motorist has honked at me—I have never been honked at or had the remotest problem on Gough St.—but one day this past week, I found the bike lane on Howard St. full of limousines, so I rode squarely in the middle of the next lane over, and the motorist behind me honked and yelled, “The bike lane’s over there.” I didn’t feel alarmed and I didn’t budge, and he went around.

When we met at the red light, I said, “I can see the bike lane. It was blocked by cars.”

“I ride a bike myself, but I don’t—” and here he waved his arms over his head to indicate “inconvenience motorists by riding smack in the center of the lane.”

“It’s not really safe to squeeze between the parked cars and the moving cars,” I said. “I’d encourage you to be a bit more visible out there on your bike. It may seem counterintuitive, but it’s actually safer.”

One thing I learned from this: whereas screaming and swearing tends to prolong some interactions with strangers, unasked advice brings the conversation neatly and rapidly to a close.

I’ve added a final piece to my vehicular cycling practice, which is to look forward rather than backward. I had developed a bad habit of constantly using my rearview mirror to see who was behind me, and I probably will always do it now and then, but it feels better not to worry so much about what’s back there and just look ahead to where I’m going: anticipation rather than anxiety.

As for cycling on Gough St. in the daytime, it was almost exactly the same as at night: I took the lane, I went down the hill, the wind blew in my face, I went as fast as the cars down the hill and later not, I stopped at the red lights, I changed lanes when I needed to, signaling first, and everything was totally fine. It was less good because it wasn’t dark and mysterious, but also more good because I could see the road surface clearly.