I’ve mentioned in the past that I don’t write poetry, and it’s true. But if I were to write poetry, it would most likely be about riding motorcycle. That’s probably the most poetic thing in my life. I haven’t been riding much this past summer for a combination of reasons, the main one being that my bike hasn’t been inspected for over a year. Knowing nothing about mechanics, I just assumed that it would need a bunch of stuff—despite the fact that I haven’t been riding it—because that’s what happens with mechanical things. They randomly break. Fortunately, this was not the case with the bike. Having just got it back from the shop one week ago, I’m now making up for lost time, especially considering that there is approximately fourteen days left in the riding season.

Many people who are into motorcycles and Zen—or just one or the other—have probably at least heard of Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I’m not going to take the time to explain the book as it is rather involved, but if you’re interested, Wikipedia, as always, is the place to start. The main thing to note is that it’s not all that much about Zen, and it’s only incidently related to motorcycles.

Additionally, if you know anything about Zen, you don’t. (Yes, you read the previous sentence correctly.) Ergo, I’m not going to claim this is anything like Zen, per se as that would be futile. However, it is a useful starting point.

Riding is much like Zen to begin with, in that it requires more awareness than driving, however the mind is more free. This is due to the fact that things which occupy the mind in the car are unavailable on a bike. You can’t answer your cell phone. In fact, I don’t even carry my cell phone on my person when I ride, so I’m blissfully ignorant of whether or not it’s ringing at all. There’s no radio to listen to; there is no air conditioning to fiddle with. Plus, anything you need is right there, allowing one to control the bike almost without moving the body.

But while riding, one can acheive an even greater sense of that esoteric practice of Zen. This happened recently.

The weather report as I rode to the office was 30% chance of scattered thunderstorms late in the afternoon. I took the chance. I lost. Evidently, in weatherman-speak, “30% chance of scattered thunderstorms late in the afternoon” means a torrential downpour from early afternoon until after midnight, non-stop.

Of course, this meant that by the time I was ready to leave, it was raining. It actually wasn’t bad, but everyone else apparently just saw this as a binary choice: raining or not raining, and so it was raining. I always carry a rain suit which is extremely effective. I’ve ridden through hurricane-force downpours where you couldn’t see more than two car-lengths down the road while wearing this rainsuit, and I came out dry, so this drizzle was not particularly a big deal.

Inevitably, one of my coworkers freaked out for me.

“It’s raining!” She said.

“I know.”

She looked at me, horrified. “Well, what are you going to do?”

No joke, I had to stop myself from making a snide and sarcastic comment. She was actually worried. After a pause during which I tried to contemplate why she would even ask this question in the first place, I finally said with measured patience, “I’m going to ride home.”

She offered to drive me home, which I declined without much tact. It really wasn’t necessary. A few people offered to take me home, actually, so I can only assume they were concerned for my well-being and safety. That, and the fact that another one of my coworkers is still out of the office recovering from being in a motorcycle accident about six weeks ago. That really is not cool, but in the same way you don’t stop driving your car when someone you know is in a car accident, I don’t stop riding my motorcycle because someone I knew was in a motorcycle accident.

To be perfectly honest, riding in the rain is dangerous. I wouldn’t make a habit of it. But—here’s where the Zen starts: what can you do about it? Complain about the weather? It’s the weather. You can’t change it. You can complain about incompetent meteorologists, but that’s still pointless. But even though it’s not as safe as riding in a car in the rain (which is still dangerous), the motorcycle can take it. It’s really no big deal.

So I changed into my rain suit, ignored the snarky comments about being a member of the hazmat team, and rode home.

Now, my absolute favorite time to ride is on the highway at night. If it’s unusually warm so you don’t have to wear anything but jeans and a T-shirt, even better. There’s something about flying down the road at night that’s almost surreal. Poetic, even.

But there is nothing comparable to riding in the rain. A lot of bikers may think it sucks, and a lot of people may assume it sucks without having ridden at all, but this is not the case for me. The combination of the already Zen-like qualities of motorcycle operation, combined with the extra alertness you need on wet roads, combined with natural forces beyond your control: that’s something akin to Zen. Or at least it’s the closest I can get in my busy, Americanized lifestyle of grand opulence.

The act of riding a motorcycle in the rain is such that it is a trial which is easily endured and not admired. Because all the forces are out of my control, I reach a resigned state of indifference and, in turn, utter calm. Initially, this might just seem like resignation to the situation, but it’s not simple apathy. At least one part of Zen, based on my extremely limited understand of the subject, is the goal to live here and now, absolutely in the present, not dwelling on the past, nor worrying on the future. You may think that riding through the rain would definitely have one looking toward the future: as soon as you get home, you won’t have to ride in the dang rain anymore. But this is not the case with me. I’m fully aware that I will eventually get home—and not just get home, but dry off—and so I don’t need to think about it. It’ll happen, just as sure as you will get caught in the rain so long as you ride to destinations that differ from your starting point. I’m thinking about nothing else than what’s happening at that moment.

All that to say that riding in the rain is probably the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to living in the present. People try to accomplish this via mediation or yoga or what have you, but for me it happens when I’m forced to ride in the rain. In fact, I found myself going out of my way to continue riding in the rain. Under the guise of avoiding the highways (true, a good idea when it’s raining) and taking the back roads, I can take a circuitous route home and spend more time in this state of enduring wetness and present focus.

So the next time you see a motorcyclist enduring the rain, remember it may not be what you think. Why do the monks of Mahayana Buddhism remain in one position for hours, meditating, unmoving? Why, indeed.

-Ted