Category: Free

If you have not read ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance‘ by Robert M. Pirsig, then stop reading this and go get it on audiobook. The book is a foundational exploration of the metaphysics of quality; or a rambling, semi-fictional semi-autobiographical novel that expounds, though never professes to be a factual doctrine, on topics including epistemology, the history of philosophy, and the philosophy of science.

I read it when I was in high school, searching for signs of who I was and what I could call Truth. The book is about a son and a father primarily, which was a good reason for me to read it. At that point I wanted more Father in my life… and my own dad spent time reading metaphysical books… I was drawn to the mysticism of Carlos Castenada and classics like ‘Stranger in a Strange Land‘ by Robert L. Heinlein and ‘Brave New World‘ by Aldous Huxley, two books I would also recommend any teenage boy (and teenage girl) to read. Blow your mind, it’s good for you.

But this is not about those books. I read them all before I took my first motorcycle ride. Long before I owned one of my own.

Since then, I have carried my love of riding motorcycles through decades… and more than one accident. Most were close calls without injury. One of them changed my body – and my baseline level of pain and discomfort – permanently. But, as the Chinese saying goes, no illness, short life… one illness, long life. I’ll save any more than that for another story.

Still, I Ride

This is about riding. I love riding. I love everything about it. I love the vibration of the machine, a rumble-hum under me. I love the rush of the passing air, each moment rich blasts of thick, heady mixed pungent smells and sensual signals – temperature, sounds, air quality – and somatic sensations of velocity, acceleration, inertia. Smells like miles of cut grass or the salt of the sea, on cliff-spanning rides near my longtime home in San Francisco. Or in Bali, smells of damp earth and mushrooms after the rain, or the acrid sting in eyes and nose caused by smoke from local villagers burning refuse.

Or here in Nayarit, Mexico, where the chalky smell of dust permeates even the densest olfactory notes. A bouquet that includes heavy intoxicating flowers, the oxygen-rich air of the jungle around the road, Dust and sand kicked up by passing machines, or even the man-made smells of engine oil and steel shavings coming from local shops or passing trucks. Or the other manmade smells of cooking meats, shrimp poblano, chili and lime. Confection stands and taco carts. Here there is also smoke from burn piles among the Agave farms.

These smells tell me the story of the land I am passing through, of which I am part as I pass by. A motorcycle does not separate you from the land or the city or the country or the road… rather it gives you superpowers as you move through, over and in it; you become able to slice and swoop, to crawl or wander. To soar triumphant like you just won your deepest desire. A soul-filling power.

The atmosphere is more than the smells it contains. It gives you feedback on your speed and direction. You begin to see the land you pass through as a map of billions of different chemicals floating all around in a soup of air. You pass through pockets of floral chemicals. Culinary terpenes and rich oxygen from the forest. The local pocket of the stench of a dead animal somewhere off the road.

The wind on your face tells your body that you are free, moving fast. Both of these sensations contribute to the best feeling of all: that of flying! Low to the ground, following the contours of a descent or the swell of a rising hill, passing through shaded tunnels made from tree branches grown all around you like a flat solid roof and rounded walls as you rocket through curves and climbs.

There are moments on my motorcycle when all care about destination or the slow things in your life melt away; moments when no other vehicles are around, and I am alone, with just the body-feeling of acceleration, of the thrill of exposure, sounds of the birds or the rushing air, or better still of the music I listen to when I am happy. Times when I crest a peak, or round a new bend, and the world lays out a vista that takes my breath away. Sprawling splendor splayed spectacularly for my sore sight, like I am being shown a gift of wonder, and allowed to explore it on wings of controlled explosion, the power coursing through me with a hint of danger. No worries can keep up with a man on a motorcycle.

I Am Alive

Now, in this moment. For sure. All others might be a matter of debate, but not this one. In this moment, all that exists is this moment, with me as witness. And I am free. Tomorrow might be another day, but right now, I am completely free, released from all judgement or expectation, and releasing all others from any obligations to me. I am free in a free world. Free from the tyranny of mere ambulation. Free from the extortion of the local Taxi mafia. Free to simply experience the wind on my face, and the wonder rushing by.

At least for these next few months, the last part of an 18 month sabbatical from working full time, I am calling the west coast of Mexico my home. Soon I will return to the world of traffic, of deadlines and meetings, of deliverables, of expectations and obligations. But for this time that I have left, I allow myself to fully experience freedom. Also, I need a way to get around that doesn’t rely on anything tourist related, especially the taxi drivers here. Believe me it’s a racket…

For this reason, I just took a 5 hour bus to Guadalajara, and spent 3 days in negotiations, testing, and dealing with a large international payment, and returned to San Pancho, riding my new Honda 150 custom Cafe Racer, back over 300 kilometers. It’s a long ride, and I had a heavy backpack. That combination takes a toll on my body. But it’s worth it. I have a main line to euphoria, an always-ready emergency exit from the drudgery of the world of things. An off-ramp to the metaphysical realm. And a practical means of transportation in my adopted ex-pat community- the area just north of Puerto Vallarta, near Punta Mita.

Now, instead of being a drag, or a chore, or feeling like work, I am excited to plan days of errands… a trip to PV to take in my dry-cleaning becomes an adventure. I can say yes to friends that live the next town when they are having people over. And going to the beach now feels like a red carpet event.

I am sure that my mother, who will read this, has an entirely different feeling about me riding motorcycles than I do. But to her credit she does not pass guilt on to me for my dangerous habit. Perhaps now, reading this, she will understand a bit more why I choose to ride here. Because the flavors of all other things in my life stand out, are stronger and sharper; all experiences take on their own identity, made clearer by the feeling of being completely alive. It is like salt on the plate of food that is my day.

If I go too long without that feeling, I can forget to look for it, and to cultivate it. Its my little garden and I keep it alive, surrounded as it is by chaos and mere anarchy. That feeling is a phase – shift, a state. Like the places I go in meditation. Or it’s the exact yang to meditation’s yin. The latter is done in the dark, inside, in the quiet, with eyes closed. The former is done fast as can be, outside, engine growling into the rushing wind, eyes wide open. A quickening, to meditation’s stillness. Both make me feel present, in this moment. I ride to keep the balance.

We must all maintain our Zen. It is the contemplation of impermanence. Without constant practice, it will disappear. My motorcycle is one way I maintain mine. A way for me to not be bothered by the rain. Or the noise. Or the pressures of my particular perspective. Or other people. Or unimportant things. Or my own shortcomings. Or the shortcomings of others. Or the natural, unconditioned state of my free spirit.

I get that from riding my motorcycle.

And that is a little piece of Zen in my life, that I can share with you.