I cannot remember who gave me Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I'm pretty sure it was Gavin, and that he literally gave me it as an instruction manual.
I always suspected that he gave me it as he didn't want to fix the motorcycle himself. But in truth, I believe he had read the book, and applied it in his life, and he wished me to enjoy the same learning.
So yes, I do remember reading the book, but mostly, I remember doing the book.
Prelude
Under the encouragement of a friend whose help I wanted fixing my motorbike and who, looking back, I now know must have been a disciple, I dismantled my motorbike into hundreds of pieces, placing them on a huge floor I’d covered with white paper.
It's worth picturing the house, its setting in time and place, as it haunts this story in many ways. The house was a Squat, when such things still existed. And it was in a strange place for such a squat, isolated as it was in South London in the 1970's. I learned many, many things from that building, and it's occupants.
It faced a Grave, a large public cemetry on a long curving and to me, a desolate road, with no shops nearbye as it curved interminably around the massive cemetary. But it was in it's cold suburban austerity, beautiful. Well built. Quite a find.
My friends, and they were my closest friends, had moved there from North London, which is Dear Reader, for those that do not know, an entirely different kingdom. Gavin, Callum, Mansoor and Eddy. Two of them died young, one was stolen, and Eddy I have lost in the pre-internet fog. So mostly what remains is a memory.
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Next: The Room Last: White Paper Method