Coming into my town from the north is a little-used road that winds steeply down the mountain. As it leaves the national forest it straightens and then slopes past the outlying homes. If you're a cyclist on that last straightaway you can coast to forty miles per hour or more with the wind rushing into your face.
In the spring a strong wind whips off the mountains for several days. On a few of these days it aligns with the straightaway and gusts to forty miles per hour. Then you can streak down the road, keeping pace with the wind, and the air around you becomes utterly still. It is an awe-inspiring moment of biking.
When you move in accord with the forces of nature, you sometimes enter a kind of secret place. I used to think moments of quiet and moments of much activity might follow one another but not occur simultaneously. Now I've come to see that quietude not only can precede or follow more active times; it can exist right in the midst of them.
