Bahai Bike Pilgrimage

I woke up feeling like a tighly coiled rope, my muscles stiff and uncomfortable beneath my skin. It had been a night of restless energy and angst filled sleep. I dreamed of gravity and pressure, of forces pressing in on me like the weight of being under a hundred meters of ocean water. I walked over to my neighborhood coffee shop to start my day as I usually do but with a long stone cold stricken expression, the kind of look that makes people avert their eyes when they see you. My phone rang. It was my bicycle friend.

"How do you feel about riding up to the Bahai Temple? I'm thinking about going up there today. Need some spiritual healing."

"I'm down," I answered immediately, didn't have to think twice. "I think that's just what I need on a day like today. We'll be bike pilgrims." I had been there before, rode the 16 miles during a late night trip with a group of midnight riders about 2 years ago this month. When I walked through its winding gardens under a glowing full moon, I knew I had to one day return to see the grounds on a sunny day. How strange to be compelled back during this moment, and how absolutely necessary too.

After taking care of some business I set myself to cleaning off the drive train on my bike, tuning it and filling it's tires with air. I packed my backpack with my lock, water jug, a dress and a towel, then stepped into my flip flops once again and rolled over to meet my friend.

The ride up to Wilmette began during the hottest part of the day, but once we started heading north on Halsted the cool breeze of the lake kept the sun from being too exhausting. Riding in the busy streets of a highly trafficked city requires absolute, intense concentration so it seemed like most of the time was passed focusing on just surviving in the bike lane. As the miles slipped by in quick succession, I began to feel the exhilaration of my bicycle's movement. It was like I was shedding the hard exoskeleton of despondency. Compressed into the low crouch of the pursuit position, I focused on the rhythm of my breathing. Before long we reached stretches of smooth road, and a song burst forth from my lungs. It was Sam Cooke's "It's Been a Long Time Coming".

At the end of Lake Shore Drive we got kind of lost in a winding path. Our route was influenced by avoiding certain high traffic intersections, detours past streets under construction. When I found myself cycling on a narrow sidewalk lined on both sides with construction fencing, with several large patches strewn together with plywood I started to worry that we were on the wrong path. I felt myself becoming more agitated, especially when I found myself pedaling on top of random piles of sand and puddles on what was becoming increasingly bombed out streets.

"Don't worry, look up!" said my friend, and just when I was about to start looking for a way off of that path, I saw the top of the dome of the temple.


My skin was covered in sweat and felt something like the outside of an airplane after a transcontinental journey. I soaked my towel in water and wiped the salt off of my face and cooled off until my heart stopped racing, before putting on a dress so I wouldn't be striding into this holy building looking like I had just stepped out of the gym.

This is the threshold of this temple. It holds to many of the forms of ancient temple building, including making the journey towards the inside of the sacred space through several spatial stages with its winding gardens.

Here is the view from the top of the stairs:

* * *

Inside, I breathed in the beauty of the architecture and watched the light filter through the windows. I read some of the mystic writings of the founder of the Bahai faith, who was said to have been a divine messenger. This religion is founded upon the principle of the oneness of humankind, espouses equality between men and women, harmony between science and religion, the abolition of the extremes of wealth and poverty, and a focus on universal acceptance.

Here is the most famous of the Bahai faith's sacred texts:
The Seven Valley and the Four Valleys

* * *

One of the things I prayed about was the guidance to find the right path, which makes the entire return trip kind of ironic in retrospect. After a long contemplative walk around the gardens, I was ready to leave. I was not thrilled about going down the same dangerous path that took me to the temple, and felt compelled to stay close to the lakefront. First we crossed this river, and Jimmy Cliff's "Many Rivers To Cross" went through my head.


My traveling companion did not exactly share this decision, and wanted to bike through the city in the interest of getting home quickly. We parted ways unintentionally within the first few miles when we got separated, so the rest of the way home I rode alone. It was just as well, as I was becoming fatigued and the rest of the trip was a focused sprint that took the rest of the energy I had. By now my lungs felt wrung ragged, and about to burst which replaced the dreadful hollow feeling that had been in my chest all week plaguing me. As my muscles burned mile after mile, my chest felt strangely enough as though there was an owl getting ready to explode out of it and take flight. I day dreamed about how nice it would feel to shower and put on some comfortable pants as I kept moving forward. Here is the view of the city from the beginning of the bike path and the last place I saw my bike friend:


It was beautiful, but the view just spoke of how far I had to go. I put my head down and pedalled.

My mind went on auto pilot and I quickly regretted not having any energy bars on hand. I did this whole 35 mile trip fueled with one banana and a quarter of a mango. I have been fasting since the weekend, and this made the journey that much more surreal. The only sounds I registered were the industrial vibrations of machines and the sounds of birds. Voices, traffic and all other sounds were drowned out as I kept my pace. I was becoming more and more lightheaded and focused all of my mental energy on keeping an eye on my path and staying safe.

I rolled in and felt completely wiped out. As though I had rode all those miles on top all of the muscles in the front and back of my torso. I earned my sleep tonight and look forward to having better dreams.

Traveling Shoes Are Worn Through

Tack!!

At the end of the night last night I counted the number of miles I had traveled during the week: I had ridden about 50 miles by bicycle, 4 by car and 5 by sailboat. Today I will travel by plane a thousand miles to Denver.

For me, the most enjoyable mode of transportation is a toss up between the sailboat and my bicycle. There is no more beautiful path than the wake of the boat catching the waning light in green glints off of the waves. But a racing sailboat with a competitive and experienced crew is not the best place to leisurely bask in the awesome sights of nature, as I came to find last night.

I had only been out sailing with these guys once before, a couple of weeks ago. None of the sails got put up that day - we traveled in a thick fog that reduced visibility to a 20 meter radius around the boat to the starting point, where the race was cancelled. I stood on the bow talking shop and watching lookout with the guy who normally handles bow duties as we drifted through the ghostly spectral waters. I loved it.

This time the weather was cool, the winds were sweeping and the skies were clear to the stratosphere. I felt like a wide eyed ingenue or provincial cousin as the weight of my inexperience and technical incompetence was hard to shrug away when I stepped onto the boat. The best thing to do was to keep busy and out of the way when necessary. I found myself at a woeful disadvantage: upon biking six miles to get to the harbor, I discovered that I had only one shoe in my backpack. I distinctly recalled seeing the other shoe in next to my closet at home and realized that I had forgot to grab it on my way out. When I looked at the slippery flip flops on my feet, I knew I had to resign myself to a long night of feeling like an idiot.

Before all the roll tacking and jibing would take place, I still took time to marvel at the systems on the boat and the simple mechanics behind them. I helped pull down the mouselines and uncover the mainsail, and felt the gears turn in my head in high drive listening to the organization of the ropes that would control the main sail, jib and spinnaker. As we reading the boat to leave the port, a small Beagle with soft enormous ears was carried onto the deck clad safely in a life vest. He was carried by the handle that attached to the back of the life vest and would occasionally pop his head out throughout the rest of the evening.

"Hopefully next time you'll have some real shoes on," said the bowman from last time.

"Young lady, not only is it crazy to have those on your feet, it's dangerous!" scolded DS.

We had too many inexperienced sailors on the boat to have had a good showing in the race, but the boat was full of smiles as we parked it in the dock. We had towed a Rhodes 19 rocked precariously by three dorky, overly enthusiastic and breezy young preppy looking guys in khaki shorts, and as we turned into the boat's space one of the young men fell in the lake when they rocked him over. I rode the six miles home in two stages and stopped to eat, and when I got to bed I fell into a dead sleep.