Zen and Now

Posted on January 21, 2015 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Hardly waiting room reading material

 

 

“Life is a highway, I wanna ride it all night long”

Life is a Highway – Tom Cochrane

A long road trip in a car provides a lot of time for reflection.  Recently, I took a 10,000 kilometer transcontinental tour with my thirty-something son, Peter.  We chatted, we listened to tunes; we marvelled at the ever changing landscape and, for long stretches, were left with our own thoughts.  And there were surprises along the way, some of them welcome and others, not so.  Having some sort of mechanical problem is almost a given on a trip of this length.

It is every parent’s dream to take a road trip in the company of an adult child.  Perhaps more challenging but no less rewarding is an adventure with a teenager.  One of the more famous accounts of such a journey was penned by Robert M. Pirsig in his classic 70’s book entitled, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.  Prior to our trip my brother handed me his copy of the book to read while we traversed the continent.

In this book, the author takes an extended journey, by motorcycle, with his 13 year old boy.  It is an interesting read dealing with travel, the intricacies of maintaining a motorcycle, and his growing understanding of this adolescent.  Yes. It is the classic story of bonding between a father and his son.  But it is much more.  It delves into many deep philosophical topics.  By times this book can be heavy slogging.  I probably should have taken more than one philosophy course at university.

We had just crossed an amazing stretch of the bayous in Louisiana and were nearing the border with Texas when we heard a sound emanating from the back left wheel area of Pete’s vehicle.  Fortuitously, we were only a few miles away from the Visitor’s Centre of the “Lone Star State”.  Luckily, one person in the car some familiarity with auto maintenance.  (Hint: it wasn’t me!)  Peter quickly found the culprit.  A bracket that holds the shock absorber to the body of the car had become detached.

Through the magic of technology we were able to take a picture of the problem and forward it to three friends who are “do it yourself” mechanics.  Within minutes we ascertained that the best course of action was to take the car to the nearest town and get it fixed.  Beaumont, Texas was a short 20 minute drive away, so we hit the road secure in the knowledge that our problem wasn’t major and could probably be remedied quickly and easily.

One small problem: this all occurred on New Year’s Day and the chance of finding a mechanic was as unlikely as finding a needle in a haystack.  We checked into a hotel and humoured ourselves by making a few phone calls, hoping for a miracle.  None was to be found.

The next day, we were given the name of a reputable automotive shop and were at its doorstep when it opened for business.  The manager was a great guy.  Much to our relief, he confirmed that the problem was fairly minor and that the remedy was straightforward and not terribly expensive.  Those two words were music to my ears.  He called the three local auto parts dealers and regrettably, none of them had the part in stock.  It required shipping from Houston and would be delivered by 3:00 P.M. that very day.

I went back to the motel to read some of my book while Peter found a nine hole golf course just down the road.  After checking out of the hotel, we still had a bit of time to kill so we grabbed a coffee at McDonald’s and headed to a driving range, conveniently located two minutes away from the repair shop.

I like my coffee black.  It usually takes several minutes before I take the first sip, as the beverage is usually served scalding hot.  I had the cup perched between my legs while searching for something when someone cut in front of us, forcing my son to apply sudden and unexpected pressure to the brakes.  Evidently the brakes were working fine.

The contents of the cup hurtled forward, landing on the back of my right foot.  Within seconds, a large red welt appeared.  While painful, the thought of where that cup could have landed gave me a great deal of solace.

The call came from Dustin, the manager of the auto repair shop.  He let me know that the part had arrived and was ready for installation.  While Peter honed his technique at the driving range, I drove across the street to wait while the car was fixed.

The waiting room was large and every seat was filled. It was obvious that I was the only “come from away” in a roomful of locals. I needn’t have worried that the other customers were even remotely interested in my presence.  No.  They had much bigger fish to fry.  They were watching the television, a large flat screen with the volume cranked.  And what were they watching with rapt attention?  The Maury Povich show.

Now, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” takes a fair bit of concentration to read.  Each page has to be consumed and digested.  The preferred place to study a tome like this would be the public library or a deserted island.  I was having a very difficult time concentrating on the deep meaning of life with two women screaming “You’re nothing but a whore!” as Maury revelled in the role of referee.

I retrieved the car and headed back to the driving range, enjoying the smooth, quiet ride.  Perhaps daytime talk shows should come equipped with shock absorbers too.