Perfect
By Shawn McDonald
I can think of one moment in my life where I have felt. It's hard to put it into one word. The happiest, most fulfilled, joyful, mind expanding, just the best. That's it. The best. The best moment in my life. I can only relate this story to myself, because we have all been exposed and developed through different experiences in our lives. I cannot relate to someone who has been married, or to having children as the best moments. I have not experienced either. Nor can I relate to some obvious choices for people of sex or drugs. Doing drugs is watching your mind disintegrate in front of you, and sex is a team sport. Neither to me is the best. You are not in control of either situation. The best moment was not motorcycle roadracing or even Motocross. It was a moment where I disappeared.
It was on a sunny spring morning in 1975 up in the hills of the Issaquah plateau. The plateau now has thousands of brand new homes filled with young couples and bright Mercedes Benz's in the driveway, where once stood a power line, a road, and trails. In 1975 I was 19 years old and had been racing in the pro class of motocross for three years. I needed to practice on my race reactions and timing by riding very hard through the narrow and winding trails, over and over again till my hands became raw. I was not born a natural rider. Some of my friends were naturals. They never had to train, never practice, never having to think. They just rode extremely fast. I trained as much as was normal in those days, but mostly I practiced and thought. My friends with natural ability still beat me, so I needed to practice more. I usually stole my brother's trail bike to practice on, but he had put it under lock and key after having grown tired of seeing his bike trashed every other day. Out of my '66 Dodge van came my race bike, a 1975 Yamaha 400 MX’er with a white tank. In '75 it was a brutal horsepower monster that only a select few people dared to ride in the Open Pro class. I was one of them. The Maico's, Husky's, CZ's all handled better, but they didn't have that g-force horsepower of my Yammy 400. I used the trails to perfect my timing, by standing up on the pegs and sliding both tires through a corner with trees 28 inches apart. If you did it correctly, you would turn your 33-inch handlebars sideways while pulling a wheelie through the 28-inch gap between the trees. If you missed, you came to a very sudden stop and ate bark. Douglas Fir tasted nice. I had been practicing for years through the trees so that I could become a natural too. In a race in 1972 I had become a natural for one moto. On my CZ 250 I started the race only to have the ignition stop working before I hit the first corner. This was extremely typical on the Communist made bikes. I kicked, and kicked, and kicked, and kicked until it started to blubber and come back to life. The only problem was that the leaders were 100-yards behind me and ready to lap me. I also came to life and pegged the throttle around the 2-mile course. I did things on the course that I could not duplicate if I tried. Going through a berm on the rear wheel while standing on the pegs with the power on. I put distance on the leaders and was now picking my way through the first few back markers when it happened again. It stopped.
I loved this Communist machinery and its little song "Jawa junkie made of tin, ride her out and push her in". I got it started when at a small distance behind I saw the leaders again. Twenty minutes to race end and I resumed my pace through the pack. Coming over the finish jump I finished only 20-feet behind first place. I wasn't in control that race, someone else was. I kept on practicing to recapture that moment of near perfection. I started the Yamaha and let it warm up. I took up a couple of runs in a sand pit to get myself warmed up and then headed for the trails. There was a power line road that led to the trailhead. The road was surfaced with dirt that was moist and not wet. It twisted in and out of the woods like a snake. It was a perfect fire road. Two minutes later I came to the trailhead and stopped to look back. I had just experienced what I later came to know as a Zen moment. Without trying, concentrating, thinking, seeing or feeling, I had ridden the perfect road with a perfect ride. I remember cresting hills with the power shooting rooster tails off the rear tire and pulling a wheelie as I crossed up the front wheel and turned from left to right and gently set it back to earth. The power slides were perfect with no bounces or bumps. I forgot about shifting. I forgot about throttle and clutch and brake. Then I forgot about the bike. For only a few seconds I had disappeared and was one with the bike. I tried to go back and immediately recapture the moment, but it was gone. Zen moments only happen for very short moments of time. They happen through practice and practice to achieve perfection. It is when all things are natural, all things come with ease, and all things come without thinking. That was the best moment so far and the reason why I am still here today looking for another moment. Isn’t that the reason why we all ride.
By Shawn McDonald
I can think of one moment in my life where I have felt. It's hard to put it into one word. The happiest, most fulfilled, joyful, mind expanding, just the best. That's it. The best. The best moment in my life. I can only relate this story to myself, because we have all been exposed and developed through different experiences in our lives. I cannot relate to someone who has been married, or to having children as the best moments. I have not experienced either. Nor can I relate to some obvious choices for people of sex or drugs. Doing drugs is watching your mind disintegrate in front of you, and sex is a team sport. Neither to me is the best. You are not in control of either situation. The best moment was not motorcycle roadracing or even Motocross. It was a moment where I disappeared.
It was on a sunny spring morning in 1975 up in the hills of the Issaquah plateau. The plateau now has thousands of brand new homes filled with young couples and bright Mercedes Benz's in the driveway, where once stood a power line, a road, and trails. In 1975 I was 19 years old and had been racing in the pro class of motocross for three years. I needed to practice on my race reactions and timing by riding very hard through the narrow and winding trails, over and over again till my hands became raw. I was not born a natural rider. Some of my friends were naturals. They never had to train, never practice, never having to think. They just rode extremely fast. I trained as much as was normal in those days, but mostly I practiced and thought. My friends with natural ability still beat me, so I needed to practice more. I usually stole my brother's trail bike to practice on, but he had put it under lock and key after having grown tired of seeing his bike trashed every other day. Out of my '66 Dodge van came my race bike, a 1975 Yamaha 400 MX’er with a white tank. In '75 it was a brutal horsepower monster that only a select few people dared to ride in the Open Pro class. I was one of them. The Maico's, Husky's, CZ's all handled better, but they didn't have that g-force horsepower of my Yammy 400. I used the trails to perfect my timing, by standing up on the pegs and sliding both tires through a corner with trees 28 inches apart. If you did it correctly, you would turn your 33-inch handlebars sideways while pulling a wheelie through the 28-inch gap between the trees. If you missed, you came to a very sudden stop and ate bark. Douglas Fir tasted nice. I had been practicing for years through the trees so that I could become a natural too. In a race in 1972 I had become a natural for one moto. On my CZ 250 I started the race only to have the ignition stop working before I hit the first corner. This was extremely typical on the Communist made bikes. I kicked, and kicked, and kicked, and kicked until it started to blubber and come back to life. The only problem was that the leaders were 100-yards behind me and ready to lap me. I also came to life and pegged the throttle around the 2-mile course. I did things on the course that I could not duplicate if I tried. Going through a berm on the rear wheel while standing on the pegs with the power on. I put distance on the leaders and was now picking my way through the first few back markers when it happened again. It stopped.
I loved this Communist machinery and its little song "Jawa junkie made of tin, ride her out and push her in". I got it started when at a small distance behind I saw the leaders again. Twenty minutes to race end and I resumed my pace through the pack. Coming over the finish jump I finished only 20-feet behind first place. I wasn't in control that race, someone else was. I kept on practicing to recapture that moment of near perfection. I started the Yamaha and let it warm up. I took up a couple of runs in a sand pit to get myself warmed up and then headed for the trails. There was a power line road that led to the trailhead. The road was surfaced with dirt that was moist and not wet. It twisted in and out of the woods like a snake. It was a perfect fire road. Two minutes later I came to the trailhead and stopped to look back. I had just experienced what I later came to know as a Zen moment. Without trying, concentrating, thinking, seeing or feeling, I had ridden the perfect road with a perfect ride. I remember cresting hills with the power shooting rooster tails off the rear tire and pulling a wheelie as I crossed up the front wheel and turned from left to right and gently set it back to earth. The power slides were perfect with no bounces or bumps. I forgot about shifting. I forgot about throttle and clutch and brake. Then I forgot about the bike. For only a few seconds I had disappeared and was one with the bike. I tried to go back and immediately recapture the moment, but it was gone. Zen moments only happen for very short moments of time. They happen through practice and practice to achieve perfection. It is when all things are natural, all things come with ease, and all things come without thinking. That was the best moment so far and the reason why I am still here today looking for another moment. Isn’t that the reason why we all ride.
