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Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

· 6 min read

Part 01

If you’ve been involved in design, art, philosophy, or even delved into the rebellious counter-culture of college, you’ve likely read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Other than some academic tomes, it is one of the most philosophically dense books out there, but written in a subtle, accessible way. I found myself unable to put it down at times, especially when he goes down the rabbit hole of defining the metaphysics of quality, melding the fine balance between art and science, mysticism vs. positivism, or the role of happiness versus contentment. If you find yourself thinking about the aesthetics of environment, the purpose of your occupation or livelihood, or even just interested in hiking through a philosophical quest with an obviously well versed narrator, read this book. But I won’t end this as a wide-eyed, fawning review.

There are two categories that he describes from the beginning: John, a friend that accompanies the narrator (unnamed) and his son on a road trip from Minnesota to California, appreciates motorcycles. He likes looking at them, feeling the smooth leather and sleek lines with his fingertips as he preps for a ride through the countryside. But as soon as a gasket breaks or an engine overheats, he hates the motorcycle. He blames it for the unfortunate situation of being broken down on the side of the road, and holds out hope that he can find a mechanic to come fix it. The narrator is the contrast. When he feels a slight difference in the tone of the engine rumble, he uncovers a set of charcoaled spark plugs, indicating a fuel-oil imbalance as a result of the altitude. He fixes it and moves on…but he never would have seen this problem coming without having extensive time and experience turning the nuts and bolts of his motorcycle, becoming familiar with each movement and ratio. And that right there is the crux of the book, delving into the exploration of an object or idea, and becoming so intertwined with it that you can appreciate each and every aspect. By being ‘at one’ with it, you’re able to transcend the superficial.

And by and large, that makes sense. But I think Pirsig’s philosophy is missing the next step, the idea that once you get to a certain stage of virtuosity, it is time to become the master, to pass on your knowledge and have your work transcend yourself as an individual. True, at one point he says “The place to improve the world is first in one’s own heart and head and hands, and then work outward from there,” but I just don’t see it in his actions or his mental meanderings. In his view, one would spend 70 years mastering the art of the carburetor - but is that the end? What was the ultimate point, if there is no lasting significance to your life’s work, other than a pristinely maintained carburetor? In the book (which generally follows his own life story), the narrator is recovering from a psychotic breakdown, where his quest for quality became such an all-encompassing obsession that he lost everything, was treated with electro-shock therapy and assumed a new identity and personality. I might be wrong, but I think that comes from not having an outlet for his creativity, keeping it inside and letting it eat away at his life. Had he continued his quest for quality while developing those around him and simultaneously accepting the limitations of the physical world he operates in, his legacy could have been that of a master, a revered figure that pushed the boundaries of achievement. But instead, it drove him mad, and he became a shell of his own self.

The other issue I took with the book is the disregard for happiness, or even contentment. Now-a-days, there’s a misunderstanding of where happiness, contentment or ‘self-esteem’ come from. Schools have gone from strict corporal punishment-infused lectures with little to no ‘real’ interaction from their students, to undisciplined zoos where teachers aren’t supposed to acknowledge shortcomings. Ask any teacher and you’ll get a myriad of horror stories. Adults often mistake happiness with laziness, as if playing video games and sitting on the couch is the goal they are working towards. Happiness has now become some new age term mired in self-gratification, where entire sections of bookstores promise the reader where they can find theirs, but at its core there is a reality in the term. The path to happiness is very often difficult, a struggle, and can lead to great disappointment. But once you find something you care about, you can push past those barriers and find happiness as a temporary node, based on achievement and perseverance. It’s not going to stay around forever and it won’t just come to you looking for companionship. And that’s where I diverge from Pirsig; in his view, quality seems passionless.

There’s a part in the book where he starts comparing the ego-climber and the selfless climber (while on a mountain with his son). He goes on to conclude that the ‘self-less’ climber is more ‘present’ in the activity, while the ego-climber wants to get to the top quickly, although I don’t actually understand his point. They both rest at the same time, get tired at the same points, and in his view neither are happy or content. It’s just a question of ‘presence, where one has it and the other doesn’t. But I reject his characterizations; I probably fall under his ego-climber category; I’ve climbed a good number of mountains (both literally and figuratively), I’ve been disappointed having turned back at times, I’ve missed the “beautiful passage of sunlight through the trees,” but I’ve been ecstatic when I’ve seen hard work pay off. I’ve sat at the top of a mountain, normally with a good friend, overlooking the surroundings. That makes me happy, makes me content, and gives me the fire and passion to accomplish other things. Is that somehow a lesser contentment than the meanderer roaming along a pathway? To each their own, but Pirsig makes some critical generalizations about the rest of the world when he couldn’t handle the world around him in the first place. Not to mention, the ‘ego-climber’ in this case is his ten-year-old son, being dragged on an extended road trip to appease his fathers’ mental breakdown.

This book is a must read. The philosophical journey will resonate with you and perhaps open another avenue of perception of both yourself and the world around you. But don’t be a passive reader, if you disagree with some of it, note it, mark the points of contention and argue against yourself. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance might be your best start to read aggressively.