Highlander
08-29-2005, 12:10 PM
Some of you know who was there at Daytona. I shall never forget you all. I wrote this piece some time ago and have just checked it out. It is about riding, and I hope you like it.
Highlander
A Zen Moment
by Highlander
I have ridden a motorcycle most of my life. I have taught classes for the Motorcycle Safety Foundation, and was well schooled in the proper techniques for riding – fully understanding the laws of physics and motion, and the element of risk involved. I have ridden countless miles consciously attempting to test all of these skills. I have survived horrible accidents from foolishly pushing the envelope, and essentially walked away with relatively few injuries. The worst injuries occurred when I passed out from low blood sugar – a condition known as hypoglycemia – while riding on a sports bike. I have read Parsig’s book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance several times before I came to a full understanding of what riding a motorcycle is all about. To ride well, a rider must be out of his/her mind — almost as if they are outside of their body, seeing things occur long before they actually happen. It is a Zen notion – that epiphany is only reached when one stops thinking about the mechanics of riding and participates fully in the moment. Only then can those wondrous things occur between the motorcycle and rider. Some might say it is the same as experience, but I have seen countless riders with many miles under their belts who never reach this level of understanding. They occasionally stray across their lane, or lose their concentration for an instant — they lose contact with the motorcycle. No rider, no matter how experienced, is immune to this phenomenon.
Perhaps an example is in order. I do not wish the reader to think I am boasting about my skills as a rider, because the chain of events that led to this incident were set in to motion by the imprudent belief that I knew all that there was to know about controlling a motorcycle. Technically, mechanically, and physically, this was somewhat true; but any rider who believes this fantasy is riding dangerously. They are establishing the basic principles that lead to misfortune.
My favorite roads are narrow, twisty country roads that must have been laid out by engineers in a by gone era who must have followed the paths the cows took on their daily journey from the field to the barn. In truth, these roads were most likely carefully planned in an age where avoidance of obstacles was the rule, rather than the exception. Before technology advanced, roads had to circumvent rivers, mountains, and other natural obstructions, rather than bore through them, or arch above them. But I digress.
I was traveling along the bluffs in Missouri’s wine country South of the thriving metropolis with the gateway arch – St. Louis. I did not know the road, and it was one of those days where everything seems perfect – beautiful sunshine, great roads, lovely landscapes, and comparatively, little traffic. I was soon to discover that I was riding much too fast for the road on which I was traveling. I topped a small hill to see a diamond shaped sign with a 90 degree angle emblazoned on its bright yellow surface. The numerals and letters below emphasized the point, “15 MPH.” I was within twenty feet of the entrance to the curve, traveling at 85 MPH when I saw the sign. Figuring in the amount of time it would take my brain to realize the folly of my actions and implement a plan of action while traveling at this speed would mean that I should be well out into the field ahead before I reacted. There was also the matter of the oncoming car that was straddling the centerline.
One thought raced through my brain. Look around the turn. Somehow, I am not certain how, the big lumbering V-Twin successfully navigated the corner, missed the oncoming car, and did not drag a peg. I brought the bike to a stop and pulled into a small parking area at the crossroad that was just around the corner. I had just started my physical inventory when a car pulled up next to me.
“Dude, are you OK?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I answered.
“Man, I can’t believe I saw that. It was awesome. I thought you were dead for sure.”
I laughed nervously. “Me too,” I answered.
I had seen everything occur in an instant, as if it were slow motion – the entrance to the curve, the car, the only possible path. I did not think, I reacted. It was almost as if I had passed through the car, but I knew it was not possible. I felt as if I was one step ahead, but it had all taken place in an split second. There was no time to think. There was only time to react to the moment. All of the training, all of the experience was poured into this moment. I had achieved my moment of Zen – I had become a part of the motorcycle, but I did not fully understand what had occurred. It was only the beginning of the journey.
The transformation was not yet complete. After years of riding, after years of accepting the risks involved whenever one mounts a motorcycle and ventures forth, it took a near death experience to lead me to a more complete understanding of what Parsig was trying to express. I discovered that Phadre was fear, and that fear dulls senses and slows one’s reaction time. I had been so fortunate for so long, and then, when I least expected it, I came face to face with death.
This moment did not come upon me in a year or two, I was well into my twentieth year of riding. Like so many riders I have known, I lived for the moment. I ventured forth traveling the road within a 100 mile radius of my home. After a few years I began expanding the distance I would travel in a single day. It reached the point where I would adjust my diet to my ride, often going the entire day with little to eat because kept telling myself that every minute spent dining, was a mile I could have traveled. This kind of thinking almost cost me my life. It most certainly altered my life physically and philosophically. The condition that led to this understanding is labeled, hypoglycemia. In layman’s terms, it means that my blood sugar would drop to dangerous levels, and I lost consciousness. When that occurs on a motorcycle, a riders experience and training have no bearing on what will follow.
I did not fully understand what had occurred. I awoke as they were loading me into the ambulance. I did not see the truck I was told I hit, and I noticed that my hand was dangling from my sleeve in a strange manner. My left leg would not bend. Fortunately, a very skilled surgeon was on duty when I finally reached the hospital. I was riding gain as soon as the cast on my left leg with it’s shattered kneecap, and fixator were removed from the wrist. This was only accomplished with a great assist from my friends who had gathered at bike week three weeks after I emerged from my cocoon – friends who took the time to modify my motorcycle for me so I could enjoy the ride. I was soon racing through Daytona with my friends, which is what it is really all about.
After arriving home, I found myself searching for answers on a philosophical level. I discovered that friends who ride understand what no others do – why we ride. I discovered that being prepared for death is a big step in the right direction, yet not in a morbid sense. I discovered that when, I am in every moment ready to die I do not have fear of death. Only then is one truly ready to live. “Timor mortis conturbat me.”
Highlander
A Zen Moment
by Highlander
I have ridden a motorcycle most of my life. I have taught classes for the Motorcycle Safety Foundation, and was well schooled in the proper techniques for riding – fully understanding the laws of physics and motion, and the element of risk involved. I have ridden countless miles consciously attempting to test all of these skills. I have survived horrible accidents from foolishly pushing the envelope, and essentially walked away with relatively few injuries. The worst injuries occurred when I passed out from low blood sugar – a condition known as hypoglycemia – while riding on a sports bike. I have read Parsig’s book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance several times before I came to a full understanding of what riding a motorcycle is all about. To ride well, a rider must be out of his/her mind — almost as if they are outside of their body, seeing things occur long before they actually happen. It is a Zen notion – that epiphany is only reached when one stops thinking about the mechanics of riding and participates fully in the moment. Only then can those wondrous things occur between the motorcycle and rider. Some might say it is the same as experience, but I have seen countless riders with many miles under their belts who never reach this level of understanding. They occasionally stray across their lane, or lose their concentration for an instant — they lose contact with the motorcycle. No rider, no matter how experienced, is immune to this phenomenon.
Perhaps an example is in order. I do not wish the reader to think I am boasting about my skills as a rider, because the chain of events that led to this incident were set in to motion by the imprudent belief that I knew all that there was to know about controlling a motorcycle. Technically, mechanically, and physically, this was somewhat true; but any rider who believes this fantasy is riding dangerously. They are establishing the basic principles that lead to misfortune.
My favorite roads are narrow, twisty country roads that must have been laid out by engineers in a by gone era who must have followed the paths the cows took on their daily journey from the field to the barn. In truth, these roads were most likely carefully planned in an age where avoidance of obstacles was the rule, rather than the exception. Before technology advanced, roads had to circumvent rivers, mountains, and other natural obstructions, rather than bore through them, or arch above them. But I digress.
I was traveling along the bluffs in Missouri’s wine country South of the thriving metropolis with the gateway arch – St. Louis. I did not know the road, and it was one of those days where everything seems perfect – beautiful sunshine, great roads, lovely landscapes, and comparatively, little traffic. I was soon to discover that I was riding much too fast for the road on which I was traveling. I topped a small hill to see a diamond shaped sign with a 90 degree angle emblazoned on its bright yellow surface. The numerals and letters below emphasized the point, “15 MPH.” I was within twenty feet of the entrance to the curve, traveling at 85 MPH when I saw the sign. Figuring in the amount of time it would take my brain to realize the folly of my actions and implement a plan of action while traveling at this speed would mean that I should be well out into the field ahead before I reacted. There was also the matter of the oncoming car that was straddling the centerline.
One thought raced through my brain. Look around the turn. Somehow, I am not certain how, the big lumbering V-Twin successfully navigated the corner, missed the oncoming car, and did not drag a peg. I brought the bike to a stop and pulled into a small parking area at the crossroad that was just around the corner. I had just started my physical inventory when a car pulled up next to me.
“Dude, are you OK?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I answered.
“Man, I can’t believe I saw that. It was awesome. I thought you were dead for sure.”
I laughed nervously. “Me too,” I answered.
I had seen everything occur in an instant, as if it were slow motion – the entrance to the curve, the car, the only possible path. I did not think, I reacted. It was almost as if I had passed through the car, but I knew it was not possible. I felt as if I was one step ahead, but it had all taken place in an split second. There was no time to think. There was only time to react to the moment. All of the training, all of the experience was poured into this moment. I had achieved my moment of Zen – I had become a part of the motorcycle, but I did not fully understand what had occurred. It was only the beginning of the journey.
The transformation was not yet complete. After years of riding, after years of accepting the risks involved whenever one mounts a motorcycle and ventures forth, it took a near death experience to lead me to a more complete understanding of what Parsig was trying to express. I discovered that Phadre was fear, and that fear dulls senses and slows one’s reaction time. I had been so fortunate for so long, and then, when I least expected it, I came face to face with death.
This moment did not come upon me in a year or two, I was well into my twentieth year of riding. Like so many riders I have known, I lived for the moment. I ventured forth traveling the road within a 100 mile radius of my home. After a few years I began expanding the distance I would travel in a single day. It reached the point where I would adjust my diet to my ride, often going the entire day with little to eat because kept telling myself that every minute spent dining, was a mile I could have traveled. This kind of thinking almost cost me my life. It most certainly altered my life physically and philosophically. The condition that led to this understanding is labeled, hypoglycemia. In layman’s terms, it means that my blood sugar would drop to dangerous levels, and I lost consciousness. When that occurs on a motorcycle, a riders experience and training have no bearing on what will follow.
I did not fully understand what had occurred. I awoke as they were loading me into the ambulance. I did not see the truck I was told I hit, and I noticed that my hand was dangling from my sleeve in a strange manner. My left leg would not bend. Fortunately, a very skilled surgeon was on duty when I finally reached the hospital. I was riding gain as soon as the cast on my left leg with it’s shattered kneecap, and fixator were removed from the wrist. This was only accomplished with a great assist from my friends who had gathered at bike week three weeks after I emerged from my cocoon – friends who took the time to modify my motorcycle for me so I could enjoy the ride. I was soon racing through Daytona with my friends, which is what it is really all about.
After arriving home, I found myself searching for answers on a philosophical level. I discovered that friends who ride understand what no others do – why we ride. I discovered that being prepared for death is a big step in the right direction, yet not in a morbid sense. I discovered that when, I am in every moment ready to die I do not have fear of death. Only then is one truly ready to live. “Timor mortis conturbat me.”