November 14th

Something is poking me and I feel sharp stinging in my neck.  I don’t recall pulling last night.  The poking persists.  I hear a thick Irish accent telling me to, “Git da folk outta me bed!”  It’s the Irishmen Brian.  The Irish are seriously starting to piss me off on this trip.  He is “langered” as his people say and my other roommates are now spectators to what could be a fun situation!  The strong odour of Whiskey on his breath makes me crawl under my sheets.  I decided that if I just ignore him, he will eventually go away.  Besides, he is too low value to even come into my radar.  He starts yelling at some point to which the Welsh girl, Laura, now calls him he is a “bollocks”.  He has now woken up every person in my room except me.  I am under the sheets laughing my ass off at this dumb ass.  He too, like the other Irish last night want M&M’s.  The decision I make at this time is either going to make him leave or stay.  I untuck myself from my sheets, make direct eye contact with him and say in my sexy debonair voice, “My initials are M.M. Come get some baby!”  He stops dead in the middle of some gibberish sentence, calls me a faggot and says Sydney is full of faggots.  This works though as he leaves shortly after.  Laura thanks me and claims he’s usually normal.  It’s still dark so this means that I have only slept 2-3 hours.

Normal wake up ensues at around noon.  Shower time.  Get dressed and head to the Market City in Ultimo.  Reminds me a lot of St. Lawrence market in Toronto, however this market is subdivided into four floors.  Ground floor is clothing and food.  Second floor is mostly women’s clothing.  The third floor is a mix of everything and the top floor is a food court, arcade and the only restroom in the whole place.  There are green exit signs every 10 metres and appears to be exits everywhere.  I use the restroom first on the top floor and there is a homeless man masturbating in the stall next to me.  Not that I was watching him, but I could tell by the slapping sounds, rotten smell and by the dirty old shoes that are hanging out of his stall.  The grumbling noises too were indicators of some sort of pleasure.  DISGUSTING as it gets.  After I nearly vomit I go to the grocery store and grab some bread, nutella, peanut butter, chicken and coke zero.  After paying for my food, the Asian security guard is pointing at me.  He wants to look in my bag and asks if I receive.  I’m like no I give.  The clerk tells me he wants my receipt.  Sure dude, whatever you want.  Everything checks out and I leave shortly after.  A block away from my hostel I realise my white MEC Cortex sunglasses are gone.  Slight anger and frustration builds inside of me.  I must have put them down when the security guard was checking my receipt.  Since every person in the Market City is Asian and can’t understand the English word sunglasses, they keep pointing me to stands where I can buy some.  Those are my favourite pair of shades and I’ve had the pair six months.  Not to mention the fact that I wear them nearly every day.  I decided to not resist it anymore and accept that they’re gone and lost forever.  Hopefully they didn’t end up with the homeless guy.

It’s around 4 PM when I decided to go for another ride.  Maybe I’ll actually make it to Bondi beach today.  That will only happen though if I get the courage to ride on the road and get up to speeds over 15-25 kmph.  Yesterday I went too far east than south and that took me to Double bay and nowhere near the beach, so I figure at some point I’ll make a turn and go east .  I make it to a 6 way intersection and I can see that on this one street, Bourke road, there are bike lanes going north/south.  Sweet.  The bike lanes in Sydney, which locals have told me are all new, are bike only lanes and are indicated by a green hue on the road.  There is no one on this road, no one walking or driving or biking.  I feel an overwhelming sense of presence again.  No past of future exist, only this moment of me riding alone on a Specialized Sirrus sport wearing my pistachio green Louis Garneau helmet, Calvin Klein shorts and a black LRG t shirt with purple and white print that reads “Journey”.  I am making great time as the road is flat and smooth.  I can only shift into first and third gear in the front since my shifter cables are still frayed.  A complete tune up of the entire bike may be required if other problems with the bike arise.

The wind makes the leaves on the palm trees shake slightly, but there is barely head wind.  I see in the distance the first human being I’ve seen in about 15 minutes since turning onto Bourke.  He is wearing a fluorescent green Protec helmet and he is heading towards me very quickly, about a hundred feet away.  I am hugging the narrow left lane tightly and don’t think he sees me.  I check the arrows in the lane to make sure I am on the correct side of the road…indeed I am.  Both myself and this dude are really gunning towards each other.  We are about fifty feet away from each other and I get nervous as I can see he is hugging the road on the same side as I am.  If he doesn’t go into the other lane we are sure to collide in this game of chicken that neither of us is even aware of yet.  In fact he is doesn’t see me whatsoever.  At 15 feet apart my heart is beating rapidly, but I will not change lanes and instead decide  to yell at him while ringing my bell.  I clench my grips, which I feel are slightly loose, and I am so close to the sidewalk that I can’t even see a gap between my front tire and the curb.  My heart stops as were are inches away from one another.  We collide almost head on.

Statistics show that after a car accident, over 95% of drivers will blame the other person in a rage of anger, even when they know they are at fault.  Perhaps this is subconsciously to protect their ego or maybe simply to keep their insurance rates the same.  After the collision I am jostled and thrown off my bike.  I land on my ass and scrape my left ankle slightly.  Magically, I get up and other than the small cut on my ankle, I am fine.  Even my hands have no cuts or bruises and I am shocked.  I can see a black and red Apollo brand mountain bike with front suspension and front disk brake only on the front wheel which is still rotating.  The other rider lies beside it flat on the road.  The first words out of his mouth in a thick Aussie accent are:

“Are you alright mate, that was completely my fault.” 

“I’m fine and you ok?”

“I was enjoying this remote road so much that I didn’t even see you coming.  No one takes Bourke Road southbound on a Sunday.”  This rider has one headphone in his left ear, the other one hanging out blaring ACDC.  He appears to be in his forties and is wearing so much sunscreen that he almost looks albino.  His biker shorts, as well as his wife beater, look like he’s been wearing them for since the nineties.  He smilingly asks, 

“How is your ride mate?”  I examine the brakes, the frame, the cables, the pedals and chain and surpisingly enough,

“Fine.  I can’t beliece it after how hard we hit eachother.  How is yours?”  He examines his bike which appears to be from the early 00’s.  And responds,

“Fine as well!  Hahaha!!!”

“Nothing like a minor collision to make you feel alive eh?”  I say jokingly.  He laughs nervously, apologises and asks me many questions about myself. He then gives me directions to the beach and apparently I’m going in the wrong direction AGAIN.  He tells me that centennial park is the one of the best spots in the city to check out and that if I go west enough I’ll find the velodrome that was used in the 2000 Olympics.  Awesome guy.  Before leaving he tells me his name is John and he works for CADGroup and that if I need anything whatsoever while I’m here, He shakes my hand firmly and apologises again before heading off northbound.

I’m a little shook after the collision and decide to head back.  At this rate I will never see Bondi beach ever!  On the way back though I decided to check out King’s cross and upon arriving there I wonder why I even bothered as it is a very rundown and quite sketchy. I thought Toronto had a lot of homeless people, but they are everywhere here.  There are a lot of gay people around this area too, not that I dislike fags and queers (just kidding) but there is copious amount of them in King’s cross.  Sure this is the red light district of Sydney but my god this area is shitty.  I would not want to be here alone at night or even be here at night period.  As I roll up to my hostel I am calm and not emotionally unstable at all.  When I get back to the hostel Laura, the Welsh girl, asks me about my ride and I let her know about the accident.  She helps me clean the grease and blood off my leg.  I let her know how exhilarating it was to crash like that and how alive I feel at the moment.  She calls me crazy and grins simultaneously.  Tomorrow she is leaving at 6 AM and going to New Zealand as asks me what I’m doing tonight.  No plans yet.

I make three sandwiches for dinner:  ham and mustard on multigrain bread.  Pretty low level, but quick to make and easy on my wallet.  After dinner I grab my copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirzig and start to read it from the beginning.  I can’t passed the first part of the book as Part I is some of the best writing I have ever witnesses.  The protagonist in the book is so present and he himself is on a personal journey that he calls a Chautauqua.  Sounds familiar don’t you think?  What a strange juxtaposition of words and concepts: Zen and motorcycles. 

Zen - A very spiritual word rooted deeply in eastern philosophy and the Buddha.  Relaxing and calming.

Motorcycle - A machine or even better a lifestyle that is so western.  The word itself gives me the mental image of some badass dude with a handlebar moustache wearing all black leather while cranking his throttle so loud and going so fast he would be impossible to go unnoticed to any onlooker.

I have a friend named Barbara and we have become quite good friends over the past two years working together.  She is one of my only female friends and I value some of her views and opinions on things.  One day she noticed I was reading this book and she was like “OH ZEN… and motorcycles, that’s stupid.”  One of the main concepts the author discusses is how some people view things in either a classical vs. romantic way.  The romantic thinker examines only the surface level of things.  As an example I will use Barbara and myself.  This past summer Barbara found out she likes dirt biking and she sees it as a fun hobby and can appreciate the way the bike looks on the surface.  She also prefers men based on their physical attributes.  I on the other hand am more of a classical thinker as I want to see the depth in things.  I see the dirt bike (or push bike for that matter) as not just a machine but a series of parts and systems that makes the instrument work.  I want to understand WHY it works and enjoy taking things apart to examine the cause and effect of the machine.  I want to divide the bike into parts and systems and then subdivide those into other parts and systems.  I also prefer women based on their personality traits, but shit I like hot chicks as much as the next guy.  

Either way of thinking is correct, therefore both are equally acceptable ways of thinking. To say one is better than the other would be demeaning to both the Buddha and the badass biker dude.  Even comparing the two almost degrades philosophy for that matter.  Sure I like the way girls look sometimes and I bet Barbara could become interested in the systems of the motorcycles.  The point myself and the author are trying to make is that a paradox must and always will exist in nature:  Man and woman, day and night, white and black, gay and straight, ying and yang, good and bad…Zen and motorcycles.

Every turn of the page makes me feel closer to the Chautauqua.  Pirzig also discusses why he prefers motorcycling over driving cars.  The car has a frame around it and you cannot truly enjoy the moment while driving as you aren’t able to smell, hear, touch, and taste the world around you.  Furthermore the car has a windshield that is almost like a television screen that makes you a spectator along the journey.  While riding a motorcycle on the other hand… YOU ARE IN THE SCENE.  You can taste the air and feel the wind on your head.  You can smell the meadows you pass and hear the rumbles of the engines of passing cars in the other lane.  This is another reason why I bike to work and hate taking the subway when I am forced to.  The subway is like going to a football game to spectate with other people around you.  Biking is like being the quarterback in the game.  Once again I am not saying that one is better than the other.  I’m simply discussing a natural distinction between two things.

 Pirsig and his son Chris

While reading Laura comes over and asks me what I am reading and instead of overwhelming her with everything I have just discussed, I simply tell her it’s too complicated to explain and she will have to read it herself someday.  She concurs and promises to me that she will.  Laura must have developed a minor fascination with me.  Sure she is adorable, but... Cindy.  I place my bookmark at page 89 just before the end of part I.  I have an important meeting in the morning at 11 AM in Eastgardens and I need to go on to Google maps to check out where exactly I am going.  Laura lets me use her internet minutes as she doesn’t really need them and I map out a route to get there on my bike.  I also check the weather and it is going to rain tomorrow around noon.  Perhaps I will have to learn the transit system here, which I do not want to have to do.  Since I have a busy day ahead of me, I decide to make it a super early night and go to bed at around 9:30 PM.