A Greek Alexander Lesson

Greek Alexander Lesson

Hi Everyone. I thought I would have a crack at sharing something of the safe haven of the Technique as I experienced it during my long bike ride in 2011. Here is an extract from the Greek Chapter of ‘Beethoven by Bike’
A Greek Alexander lesson
“I knew that in the heat of  following morning I would have to have a different attitude otherwise I was likely to injure myself or worse, have a heart attack.The map struck terror into my psyche and my terror froze its claw into my shattered muscles. I could see that for the first 5 miles I would be pushing 35 kg of bicycle upwards at a gradient of between 1 in 4 and 1 in 8.I urgently needed a shift of focus. It was here in the evening cool on the floor of my room that I had a fragile epiphany. In semi-supine, all my Alexander experience blossomed into trust that I could apply myself to non-doing. That I could allow release and start from the point of view that I would stop trying to get anywhere and work out, if necessary a step at a time, the ‘means whereby’. I would also ENJOY myself, moment to moment.  My body began to thaw in response as my mind began to tune in and create a softer way forward.. Every time the thought of getting to Gytheio (a mere 40 miles away now) for the ferry to Turkey popped back into my head, ( accompanied by a subtle rise in tension) I carefully placed it back on the “wait and see” shelf.  I made a pact with myself that I would keep stopping as soon as I became aware that I was out of alignment, or forcing. I noticed I was no longer holding my breath.I slept.
The climb out from Tenaro was gentle enough and at 6 am I was cool and calm. The huge mounds of yesterday had overnight mellowed into modest humps and I bowled along to the point at which I had so nearly been annihilated by a furious driver at the fork down to Marmari. Here was the starting point of (it was by now only 3 kilometres) the scary wall of hairpins. The front wheel reared above the saddle at an angle of about 45 degrees with my  calves at full stretch in parallel. I kept my promise and stopped. I played with a few questions…could this be easier? Should I ride down to Marmari and get a taxi? Should I take all the bags off and come back for them one at a time? Hips knees, length width, and a few very small steps. That went well. There were some exquisite little blue flowers on the verge. A few more steps. A huge bee with a black and yellow feather boa around his waist and laden with shopping waddled just in front. The first easing of the gradient and I stood at the first hairpin. I paused to assess my progress. Sweating, and rib cage breathing me like a set of bellows, but otherwise the only other sensation was a ripple of joy. With each increment of the climb, every time I looked back, a little more of the view became visible. Such a view.
The tiny narrow isthmus that nearly made an island of the southern tip of the Peloponnese meant that it was possible to see the west coast as I turned to the right and then with barely a half turn to the left, far below, the eastern shore line. There is a similar, mirror image of joy at the north end of the island of Raasay, where looking north, the Inner Sound between the west coast of Scotland and the east coast of Raasay is to the right, and the Sound of Raasay, looking to Skye is to the left. The superb piece of road between Brochel castle ruins and Arnish was built in the mid sixties by one single minded crofter by hand over a period of 10 years.  I had been moved to tears by this feat of human endeavour.With unflinching resolve he had used a pick, a shovel and a wheel barrow. For instruction he had simply referred to a road building manual that he had purchased for half a crown.  In so doing he turned an impassible footpath into a vital means of access for the few inhabitants on the northern tip of the island. Calum’s road as it is known, has been nicknamed “the 8 th wonder” and Calum McLeod was awarded the medal of the British Empire. Some years before, I had ridden  up there on a bike that didn’t fit and was defeated by the last few hundred yards of ‘steep’. I came home vowing that I would never ride a bike again. The memory of this made me laugh. With a flip of the atlas and my attitude, my failure at hill climbing had magnified into a trumpet of delight in the Mani.
And so it went. Plod, pause, plod pause, rest, relish. A tortoise sped out to cross the road… I was amazed that he could move so fast on his telescopic stilts, on the points of his little toenails. Then a snake gyrated and whipped across the baking tarmac and into the grasses.  Above me on a telegraph line, a trio of gorgeous bee-eaters pipped and trilled. A mysterious industrial hum from the land above the road turned into a whole colony of beehives with lancaster bomber bees and once again the glory of spring flowers became another perfect reason to stop and take photographs. The memory of the day was a feast of the senses that would have been blinkered to extinction along with me, I suspect, had I bashed on without a little thought.  Semi-supine. It was a great lesson.”