Motorcycle Escape

By Bill McCausland

The main character, Paul Atwater, has graduated with a doctorate in physical therapy in Wisconsin and returns to his native environment in northern California. He secures a job at a health maintenance organization as a physical therapist and annoyance with the political situation and need to research and document with electronic charting becomes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Lacquer Press & Marketing Inc.
• Release date: Aug 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948288378

Bill McCausland

Bill McCausland has a doctorate in clinical psychology and is APA board certified in the treatment of alcohol and other psychoactive use disorders. He has treated addicted physicians for numerous years and has a wealth of experience. He also has a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

When I was working my way through graduate school to be a physical therapist the primary drive was to help human beings. I sashayed my way through the program, being indifferent to going to a Catholic university, despite making it through on a generous scholarship. The draw to College of Health Sciences at Marquette University was it seemed to be based on the English medical system of obtaining a degree. The program was six years long, getting an undergraduate degree and a doctoral degree in physical therapy. All m idealism about my career was naïve. After graduation I returned to California and easily fitted myself into a position at a health maintenance organization. Then the bomb dropped on me, Paul Atwater. Yes, there was helping human beings with their needs to recuperate, or in some cases, just to get better with chronic ailments. But the university never revealed the problems that occur in the medical system, the politics, and the hours needed to review electronic charts and to document what I had done for the patient. A monotonous routine that took the life out of me and replaced it with stressful pressure. When the weather was good in Milwaukee where the university was located, I rode my BMW GS 1200 motorcycle out in the countryside. I felt free of all the academic pressures that consumed me. I shipped the motorcycle back to California when I graduated, but since I had been working in the HMO it had not been ridden one time.

I like the patients. Though I was in the same saddle as my therapist and physician colleagues put the weight of systems nagging at me turned me into being a compulsive maniac. Maybe I would have held up better if I had a break between school and getting a job. Working seven months dashing around doing things other than clinical treatment worked into a crescendo that bulldozed me. Since I was an employee and not a partner of the HMO all I had to do was give two weeks notice to get out of there. And that is what I did. No student loans and I have money in the bank. But now what? Get a job at a less hectic sports medicine clinic.

I go outside to where I keep my motorcycle. It hasn’t been ridden bordering on a year. I siphon out the gas and fill it with fresh gas. I have kept the battery alive with a trickle charger. It fires up right away. I ride it to get some mileage in and then drop it off at the BMW shop to have it serviced. They loan me a smaller bike—a BMW F800ST—to get home until mine is done. And I am asking myself what’s next on the horizon? The answer comes. I am automatically staging something, though I don’t know what direction I am going in. I start packing my gear and throw in my passport if the reaches of my journey take me out of the States.

My compass has one hundred and eighty degrees, the other hundred and eighty degrees are the Pacific Ocean. A draw pulls me south. I cross the Golden Gate Bridge and motor on Nineteenth Avenue through San Francisco. Then I take is the uncongested Highway One that follows the coastline. No one is around, and I ramp the speed of the motorcycle up to a hundred miles an hour and she is steady on the road. I check into a hotel and head over to the Legend Santa Cruz do Sul bar where they play Latin music. The place is fairly packed. There is a woman sitting at the bar with one empty seat on either side of her. I sit next to her and order a draft beer. She looks uninterested in conversation. I am six foot three and broad in the shoulders with a narrow waist. Another man sits next to her and offers to buy her a drink. He almost has a carbon copy body as mine. She says, I am all ready taken.

I look at the perplexed man. I lean across the woman and extend my hand for a handshake. Hi, I am Paul Atwater. She’s with me. How about I buy you a drink.

Sure, I’ll have what you’re having.

I order a draft from the bartender.

You’re kind of thick. Do you surf?

I have surfed a lot, but I went to school in Wisconsin and there isn’t much surf on the Great Lakes.

The man runs out of things to say and leaves.

The woman says, Thanks for stepping in.

Sure, but I have to say that I have no agenda. I just happened to be sitting next to you and you don’t seem like you’re much into conversation.

I’m not into one-night-stands.

Neither am I. I glance away for a second. You don’t have a drink in front of you. Do you want one?

Sure.

I call the bartender. Please give the woman what she wants.

She orders a glass of chardonnay. Thanks.

What are you up to?

I was lonely tonight and decided to come to the bar to listen to some Latin tunes. She takes a sip of the chardonnay. You don’t look familiar. Are you from around here?

No. I’m from Sonoma County. I’m taking a motorcycle tour, but not sure where I’ll end up. The draft is awfully good. I take a couple of swigs. Well, I think I’ll take off and get back to my hotel.

Wait. Don’t leave.

I guess she is lonely. Okay. Tell me about yourself.

I work at U. C. Santa Cruz and I teach human biology.

You love it?

Actually, I do. Her big blue eyes catch mine. What do you do?

I am a physical therapist and I am taking a break right now?

You have a doctorate? I do.

I kind of sensed a little sophistication in the way you handle yourself. There are those eyes again, followed by a seemingly coquettish warm smile.

I look at my wristwatch. "I should be going.’

Can I go with you? She sips her chardonnay again. I don’t want to be left alone.

Sure, but remember, I don’t have an agenda.

We leave the bar filled with the Latin music and head for my hotel. It is a warm evening. We sit on a bench and talk for an hour. We exchange cell phone numbers, then say goodnight. She gives me a peck on the lips and I respond and hug her. We part and I have the premonition that connecting with Liz foretells what lies ahead on the road. She tells me her last name is Garson and I introduce myself to her. I get to my room and briefly ruminate. I call Liz. Would you be free to have breakfast tomorrow?

I don’t have a class until ten o’clock. Sure. She pauses. I’ll meet you in front of your hotel at eight thirty, okay?

See you then.

Liz takes me to a breakfast spot that has a lot of room, though it feels cozy. She must be a morning person, since she is different than last night. I blink, amazed at her flirting with me. I don’t constrain myself and flirt back. She orders a big breakfast for such a svelte and shapely creature. Then she tells me it is her main meal of the day. I can’t help but admire the beauty of her face and don’t hold back saying she is luscious-looking.

Liz, I am probably going to be gone for a long time, and that stops me from…well…pursuing something with you.

The question is how long is long? The term is almost over and I can meet you someplace. Where do you think you’ll wind-up?

Mexico or Central America or South America. I speak Spanish and there is kind of a pull to go there.

Well, can you let me know, and I’ll meet you? Liz takes a bite of her eggs and then looks back at me. I’ll tell you what, come stay at my house for two or three days, so we can get to know each other and see if it is a go for me to meet you.

Sure. I’m in no rush, especially with the likes of you around. She gave me her address. I waited by going down to Steamer Lane to watch the surf. It was pounding. I noticed a guy with a long board who wasn’t going out. I chatted him up. He was scared of the heavy surf. I nudged him. And then he offered me his board. He was the same size as me and he noticed I didn’t have a wetsuit. I borrowed that too. The surf was stunning, as Steamer Lane can be. I rode the waves until the onshore wind blew the place out. I went back to shore, and then treated the man to lunch, since he loaned me his gear.

Then I looked at my watch and it was time to meet Liz. She gave me directions up a hillside. The twists and turns of the road gave me high spirits, knowing where the road was leading. A beautiful prize. The addresses were sparse, then I saw her address and went down a lengthy driveway to a house that looked nothing like what a university professor would own. I’m curious. I knocked on the door, and her beautiful face appeared though the crack of the door that widened to let me in.

I looked around. The furniture, decorations and art made the place look like a show piece. The entire place was painted off-white and the house had elegant hardwood floors. Liz, I didn’t realize that you would have such a big house that would be so exquisitely laid-out. You’re a university professor and I expected something…well, more modest.

I divorced well.

What does that mean?

I was married to an older man and his wealth enticed me in the beginning, but then his arrogance drove me away. He had so much that I got the house and he wasn’t too worse for the wear, still having a lot of money when we divorced, and I didn’t hammer him for more and I could have. The house was enough.

Where should I put my gear for the two or three day stay?

Let me show you. Liz led me down a long hallway to a room. It was filled with her personal items and not a guest room. I was struck by the Joan Miró piece.

Liz, is that Miró piece a lithograph or is it an original?

It’s an original. Every piece of art in the house is an original. She grins. It is about five o’clock. How about a beer or a glass of wine?

Okay. We move to the kitchen that is expansive and has spacious granite counters. We sit on bar stools and I have a beer and Liz drinks what appears to be an expensive chardonnay. How was your class today?

I’ve got my act down. The classes mixes it up with human biology and joking around. Makes for a treat both ways, for them and me.

When we were at the music club last night you said that you were lonely. Now I can see why, since your house is so large and it must feel empty being here alone.

It does feel that way at times. My mind works so hard that I occupy myself with thought and projects, but you hit it. There is no one around and my interests in men run thin. I have women friends that come over that are refined conversationalists, but then they leave.

I come close to Liz. I hug her, then pull back. She gives me a kiss that is to die for. There is no hiding where the evening is headed. You’re a beautiful woman, Liz.

Thanks, and I had no trouble taking in your looks. Paul, I picked up some fresh fish and vegetables. It’s early, but would you like to have something to eat?

I surfed a lot today and had lunch a while back. There’s a little rumbling in my stomach. Sure. Liz brings out a loaf of some dense whole wheat bread and French cheese. She knows how to pick good things to eat.

When I moved in this house the only thing left behind was a long board and a wetsuit that would probably fit you. You probably didn’t notice, but I have an old pickup along the side of the house if you want to use it to go surfing tomorrow. Liz opens a kitchen drawer and takes out the keys to the truck. I notice that there is also a house key on the ring.

Are you also giving me a house key?

Well, sure, otherwise how would you get in and out of the house.

But we just met. And you trust me?

I can read trust in people. I have to admit that I didn’t do such a good job of it with my husband, but since then I have a bead on people. I have hundreds of students and I pretty much have a pulse on each one of them.

Okay. And I’ll do right by you.

I am thinking she is trying to get me to stay longer than two or three days. Thanks and I’ll take you up on the offer to stay here and use your things. I have to say that I am sorry that I am just passing through. But what I said last night about meeting me was serious. I will contact my cellular company and set-up my phone for international calling and get in touch with you if you’d like to meet me down south.

I’d like that. Traveling in Latin America has always had an appeal to me.

I wake-up in the morning at six o’clock to the sound of Liz taking a shower in the master bath. The early morning sunlight streaks across the white linen sheets. I rise and enter the bathroom and slip into the shower with her. Maybe more intimacy is in queue. I soap up her back and massage her shoulders. Oh, Jesus, don’t stop that feels so good.

You must have an early morning at the university.

I do. There seems to be an offshore wind. And you are going to Steamer Lane?

That’s the plan. I work on her shoulders. Okay, I am going to towel off and make you some breakfast.

You cook?

Yes, and whatever you want.

I have some whole wheat flour pancake mix, how about that? Along with pure maple syrup.

You’ve got it. I get out of the shower and dry off to head to the kitchen. Liz stays for another two minutes and I throw her a towel. I feel lucky to have met her. Then I think about my limited amount of time with her before I vacate a sweet deal.

CHAPTER TWO

The days pass like horses racing around the track. I feel a push-pull of being a permanent fixture, versus not getting stalled with the distraction of Liz. I all ready made the arrangements for my cellular international calling so I can stay in touch and have her join-up with me. I feel comfortable staying with her, and there is also the itch to be on the road. The morning of my departure comes, as Liz is getting ready to leave to teach at the university. We embrace, while a tear trickles down her cheek. I promise to be in touch and have you meet me when I find a place that I think you will adore. I’m just not ready for you to leave. I mean, I’ve gotten so attached in such a brief amount of time.

Stay attached and wait for my call. We’ll come together and have something new and different.

I just…okay. I have to go.

I follow Liz down the hillside. She makes a right to go to the university and I take a left on the coast highway. The Monterey Bay is on my right, as I motor down the highway. The town of Seaside is reached, then Monterey and through Carmel, making my way to Big Sur. A right is made at Point Lobos and this is a stopping place. I take in the curvature of the coast leading up to Carmel and watch a group of scuba divers entering the water off their boat. The day is pristine, clear skies and an azure sea. There is still the feel of a tie to Liz, with ambivalence about whether to continue south or return and surprise her. Sitting on my motorcycle, with my fist clinched and under my chin. And a voice like an illusion calls me to start my machine and keep going south. Crossing the Bixby Bridge, thirteen miles south of Carmel and at twenty-nine miles the Nepenthe Restaurant is seen and a stop is made. And I wait for it to open. No hunger, just an itch for some coffee. The door finally swings open and heading up to where there are tables that overlook the ocean, while being perched on the cliff. It’s clear, it’s exquisite and I think this must be one of the most beautiful scenes on earth. The waitperson gives me a large cup of coffee and makes the comment that the mug is bottomless and I can have as many refills to get me animated. A couple of cups are enough and I show some discipline in not consuming more. Then my trajectory is down the Big Sur coast.

Boundless beauty captures my soul heading down south. I turn off of Highway One on impulse when I see the sign for Esalen Institute. I arrive at the office and inquire. They tell me that a restorative yoga class will start tomorrow that goes into injuries and physical limitations. This workshop has my name on it. They tell me there was a late cancellation and I have a place if I want it. I go to the cottage they assign me to, then explore the grounds overlooking the expanse of the ocean. I meet a couple. The woman is younger and her mate looks to be at least twenty years to her senior. I catch her name that is Lyn Halleck. She asks me which cottage I am staying in and I point it out. Her mate looks somewhat suspicious. The day drifts on and at sunset I visit the hot spring baths that are sit on the edge of the cliff, absorbing the view. The woman I had just met was in the bath. We talk. She tells me they are here for the yoga workshop, and it is for her mate and she all ready has the flexibility of a pretzel. Nudity is a given for the baths. I towel off and head for my cottage to get ready for dinner. There is a knock on the door and she asks to come in. I open the door. She drops her towel and hugs me. I let her and then push back, telling her I am not open to getting close with another man’s woman. She looks disgusted and says they have an open relationship, though my discomfort pushes her away, while I am still feeling tied to Liz and I tell her so. Lyn picks up her towel and wraps it around her and leaves. At dinner we smile at each other and I get the feeling that she doesn’t hold any resentment toward me for turning her down. The man she’s with looks askance.

The yoga instruction adds to my physical therapy, showing more about treating injuries and physical limitations. I take it in. Then it is time to leave. Further down the coast I go through San Simeon and look up the mountainside at the castle. I make through Santa Barbara, and through Malibu and stop. I rest on the beach, waiting until late at night and at three o’clock in the morning I go through the freeway system of Los Angeles to avoid the traffic that could kill me on a motorcycle. I traverse the ugly highway in the darkness and a heartbroken feeling sets in, thinking of Liz and her beauty and the comfort she gave me. I fight to stay awake, while my eyes feel like they have sand in them. I blink and I blink again to lube my eyes. I do an all night ride to the border of Mexico.

I stop at a taco shop, Tacos El Guero, in San Ysidro on the Stateside of the border. Tacos for breakfast wakes up the adventure for heading south. I call Liz, anticipating she will still be home since it is seven o’clock. I fill her in, minus the woman at Esalen knocking on my door.

Paul, the bed has a vacant emptiness without you. It was just a few days and I don’t know what happened, but the bond with you took me over.

I had mixed feelings when I left you. The course was set, but I almost got derailed by you.

Derailed? That would have been spectacular. By the way, how far south are you going to go?

"At least to