Listen to the Frogs

On a chilly evening, not long ago, I heard them. 

Maybe you did, too. 

You must be asking, “Heard who?”

I heard the frogs. 

In the dark of night, while the days were still short, long before the crocus had broken through the ground, and well before the tulip magnolia buds began to open, the frogs woke up as if to say, “Spring is coming. Let’s go biking!”

Admittedly, I do not speak frog. I do not claim to be an animal communicator, much less an amphibian whisperer. But without a doubt, the frogs were in my backyard, heralding the coming of spring, the certainty of summer, and the promise of a new season of outdoor adventures, community connections, and the simple joys of riding a bike in the Pacific Northwest. 

I can’t think of a better way to meet life’s moments as they are than with strength and softness.  

Perhaps it is the stresses and strains of our modern times that made the frog’s boisterous appearance particularly delightful for me this year.  Maybe it was the reality that I had spent the winter in the gym and running in the rain and snow to keep a semblance of fitness in reserve for the summer biking season that made their announcement sound like an old friend reminding me that better times are often right around the corner of current difficulties. 

 

Whatever the reason, there they were. The frogs. And their sound was music to my ears and a balm to my heart. 

Truth be told, my enthusiasm for mountain biking far exceeds my skill. I am a cautious rider, known for climbing hills faster than I descend them and for walking around most obstacles rather than risking injury. I consider myself a bit of a fair-weather rider, unlike my husband and many of my friends who suit up all winter long to ride through the rain and mud. But I think that is what I love most about riding in Bellingham—all levels are welcome and provided for. And in general, even the best riders on the local trails tend to be supportive and happy to share the experience with newbies and mediocre riders alike.  And, no matter what trail you ride, what you have to walk around or push your bike through, how well you feel like the ride went that day, or how poorly you thought you performed, there is always a cold pint, an encouraging high-five, and a shared sense of satisfaction at the end of a ride. 

And in this day and age, those things can mean a lot. 

 

Regardless of what side of the aisle someone sits on politically, I think it’s fair to say that the times in which we are living are unprecedented, uncertain, and full of reasons for outrage. And while our reasons for outrage may vary and our views about current events differ,  most people I know are managing a lot of difficult feelings and challenging circumstances.  I am certainly not going to claim that mountain biking is going to change the hearts and minds of the electorate and usher in a wave of enlightenment on a global scale. I mean, maybe. I suppose it could. But such an outcome is doubtful.

That being said, on a day-to-day, week-to-week basis, time in nature—be it on a bike, on foot, alone, or in a group—has the power to bolster one’s spirits, to simultaneously empower and humble one’s self-concept, and to amplify one’s connection to the natural world of which we are all a part.  In an economy that vies for every scrap of our available attention and commodifies everything from our morning routines to our planet’s resources, taking time to ride a bike is an act of defiance and a gesture of faith in something beyond end-stage capitalism, beyond unbridled greed, and beyond the crushing weight of loneliness that characterizes the divisive, technologically-driven, screen-time-dominant cultural imperatives of the times in which we live. Mountain biking might not change the world, but it can (and does) change the world of the person who rides regularly.

I once heard a Buddhist teacher talk about faith. Faith, for her, was not the assurance of everything working out for the best, nor was it a notion that self-care or spiritual practice could ameliorate the inevitable suffering of our shared human condition. Faith was not doctrinal, dogmatic, or righteous. And faith was most certainly not political. She didn’t claim faith in a final resolution or a supreme deity of some kind pulling the cosmic strings favorably for some, but not for others. Faith, for her, was the assertion that life was always communicating. Faith came alive in the practice of learning to listen to what life had to say and responding to what life is, rather than what one thinks life should be or to what one wishes life were.  Faith had to do with getting into reality directly— not through fantasies, projections, or assumptions. 

Again, I don’t have faith that mountain biking can change the world, but I do have faith in mountain biking’s capacity to shift my mood, to strengthen my friendships through shared experiences, and to deliver me, time again, to the unvarnished reality of life in the present moment via hard climbs, expansive vistas, and through immersing myself in the elements and all they have to offer. Barring some injurious mishap on the trail, I have faith that I will feel better for having ridden my bike, that whatever is plaguing me will wait until I get back from my ride, and that the heart-pounding, exhilarating, and frustrating moments on the trail will provide an opportunity for personal renewal that strengthens and softens me. And, I can’t think of a better way to meet life’s moments as they are than with strength and softness.  

So, yeah, the frogs were right all along— “Let’s go biking!”

Christina Sell resides in Bellingham, WA, with her husband, Kelly, and the world’s best dog, Locket. When she is not riding her bike, you can find her teaching yoga, trail running, lifting weights, or arranging playdates for her dog.

Frog photos by Gregory A. Green