The Beauty of Not Pedaling

Time away on the bike is precious, especially as the years pass and our lives become increasingly full of responsibilities. There’s always work to catch up on, house projects that need doing, and obligations with friends and family. I try to get out as often as I can, but the calendar seems to have a way of filling up for entire seasons at a time. In light of all this, it’s no wonder we can feel compelled to maximize our time spent riding when we manage to get away. It can be difficult to resist the pressure to ride further or faster, trying to see as much as possible in the hours we have.

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Those of us who enjoy a slower pace sometimes find ways to combine other activities with bikepacking in hopes of going deeper and getting more out of the experience. Casting into a river with a packable fly fishing rod, carefully brewing up a perfect cup of coffee, going for a swim in a lake or river, or taking out the watercolor kit to paint the surrounding scene—all ways of doing. On a recent ride, however, I tried something new: doing nothing at all.

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Pedaling along a narrow ribbon of ridgetop trail, the urge to stop struck me and my riding partner at the same time. The sun was slowly beginning to set, and we weren’t feeling ready to descend to our camp in the forested valley below. In such moments, I’d typically get out my camera, snap a few photos, and be on my way after a quick break and maybe a snack, but we silently agreed to find comfortable spots to sit amid the fragrant field of sagebrush and stay a while. I can’t say what the exact pull was, but stopping then and there felt oddly intuitive. Just natural, maybe.

There was no conversation, checking our phones, or fussing with our bikes. We simply sat there for nearly an hour, quietly taking in the sunset and the shifting evening colors. The restless urge to get going came over me a few times, but I managed to quell it, remembering I had nowhere to be. Almost on cue, it felt like nature rewarded my patience each time I decided to stay put.

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A flock of ravens slowly amassed on the limbs of a nearby tree. Our still presence didn’t disturb them as they came up from the valleys and over the hills, arriving in ones and twos. Before long, there were as many as 40 shuffling around and chattering among themselves in the branches. Suddenly, one took off. Then another. Soon, the whole flock followed in flight, passing directly above us before floating out of sight beyond the ridge. The powerful whooshing of their flapping wings was impossibly loud and clear. Sitting in silence, we could only shake our heads in amazement at what we’d just seen and heard.

Not more than a minute later, I spotted a doe and two tiny fawns picking their way up the slope below, pointing them out to my friend. The young ones clumsily followed behind, their white spots reflecting the golden light. After crossing a rugged dirt road, they disappeared into the canopy, where we caught glimpses of them walking further up the hill. The silence was soon broken by a lone Jeep bumping along the track, the driver unknowingly passing the exact spot where the deer had crossed moments before.

As the sky glowed a vibrant orange and pink, I suddenly noticed the entire landscape was bursting with a yellow wildflower that had blended into the dry hillsides when the sun shone brighter earlier in the day, especially at speed on the bikes. It came to life brilliantly in the last light as clouds drifted overhead and the breeze picked up, bringing with it the first gusts of evening air after a hot summer day. Feeling a little restless again, I thought about suggesting we get moving.

Peent went a bird in the sky above. I looked up to try to spot it. Peent it called once more. “Nighthawks,” said my friend, finding his voice again. “You ever hear the noise they make when they pull out of a dive? The force of the air rushing across their wings is so powerful that it almost sounds like a race car. I used to hear them on my porch in Minneapolis some nights.”

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I hadn’t heard the sound before and couldn’t quite imagine it, but I made a mental note to look it up online when I got back home the next day. Not five seconds later, there it was. A deep, buzzing whoosh. Without even looking up, my friend pointed a finger toward the sky, as if to acknowledge the absurd on-demand show nature was treating us to. “That’d be the one,” he added. Whoosh, the bird dove once more. The sound gave me chills.

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Our cups more than full and the sky mostly darkened, we decided it was time to roll. We flicked on our lights and began picking our way down the rocky trail toward camp for dinner. Paired with the spectacular golden hour riding that preceded it, it was up there with the most lived and immersive sunsets of my life. Time stretched out and shaped my focus in the most meditative way.

Cycling is inherently about movement, but that evening, I came to more fully understand that a world of mesmerizing detail awaits if we’re willing to be still and pay attention. Pausing to observe might go against our instincts and require a little practice, but the payoff is more than worth the effort. In a world that keeps speeding up, it feels more important than ever to find ways to slow down and tune in. Lying in my tent a few hours later, I couldn’t help but smile as I drifted off to sleep to the now-unforgettable sound of a nighthawk swooping just overhead.

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