“Let me take a try at this, Sandy. I have a back problem myself, same place, sacroiliac; it’s a very tricky business.”
Sandy stands up and moves aside. I straddle Sweik. I put my hands on both sides of his spine. Gently, closing my eyes, I try feeling for the tightness.
“Just relax, now; I won’t do anything to hurt. I’m only feeling for what’s wrong.”
Sweik lets out a breath. I search with my fingers down his spine almost to the coccyx. On the left side there’s a hard bunching of muscle. When I press my thumb into the muscle running along the third vertebra up from the bottom, Sweik grunts. I lean, arms straight, and stroke away from the spine out toward his hip above the gluteus maximus. He moans with each press. He’s got something pinched all right, and the whole area is spasming. He’ll need a week in bed, or more. I can’t see how he’s going to get that bike down out of these hills, let alone back to Paris. I decide I’ll keep this opinion to myself; a part of back trouble can be mental.
“You’ve got a spasm there all right, Sweik, old buddy. No kind of massage is going to help and I wouldn’t try manipulating either. Even if I knew what I were doing. it’d probably do more harm than good. I think you’ve got a ruptured disk; it’s swelled and pushing against a nerve. Here, hold out your hand, let me help you back into bed.”
Sweik rolls over onto his back while Sandy and I carefully pull him to his feet. We sit him on the edge of the bed. While he’s sitting there, he starts unbuttoning his shirt, hands trembling.
“I’m going to undress and sack out. Would somebody see if there’s a pharmacy or a witch doctor in this town where we can get some painkiller? Maybe a good night’s sleep in a real bed, zonked out, will relax the damned thing.”
We help him off with the rest of his clothes down to his underwear. Sandy pulls off both socks and swings his feet up while I lower his back onto the bed.
“That’s right, lie out on your back with your knees up, keeping that spine flat on the bed. We’ll go look for something but probably everything’s already closed.”
Sandy nods her head toward the door. She and I go out in the hall.
She whispers, “I know Dale has some Midol; that should help. A cramp is like a sort of spasm, isn’t it?”
“Good idea. I don’t think we’ll find anything else here. Would you go ask her? Knock hard on the door before you go in. No more bisexual, simultaneous jealousy, please.”
Sandy puts her arms around me, kisses me on the nose.
“I couldn’t care less; I’m cured. The object of my affection is old, wrinkled, scared and unavailable. I’m not really complaining, though, honest; I understand.”
She turns and leaves me standing there alone in the narrow whitewashed hall. I go back to our room. Sweik’s staring at the ceiling. He’s more relaxed. I stand over him, then pull a chair across and sit by his bed.
“Sandy’s convinced Dale has something that will help. The main thing is getting a good night’s sleep.”
“That Sandy’s really something else, isn’t she? Coming over those hills on the bike, she never made a false move. It’s kind of a shame she’s hung up on women. She’s the kind of person a guy could live with and not feel guilty or responsible about all the time.”
“I’m not so sure she’s all that hung up on women, Sweik. I think she’s still only trying to sort it out. We men can get all uptight when women love each other; we’re so afraid we can’t really make it with them ourselves.”
Sweik looks up at me with his eyes, not moving his head. When you have a bad back, even turning your head can cause a twinge. He smiles. Just then, Sandy comes in the door; she has two pills and a glass of water. I help hold Sweik’s head up so he can swallow.
“You guys could be poisoning me. What kind of pills are these, anyway?”
Sandy laughs. Looks over at me.
“Well, if you’ve been bleeding, or are about to bleed, these should make you feel better.” Sweik lowers his head back on the pillow.
“Oh shit! Lydia Pinkham strikes again.”
“No, Midol. Stronger; relax those muscles so you’ll feel like a new woman.”
OUR BODIES AS ONE, THE MOON AND THE
SUN, INTERTWINING SATELLITES TO
SATELLITES, TO SATELLITES, TO SATELLITES.
It’s past midnight, Sweik closes his eyes and I turn out the light. Sandy and I undress in the dark. We climb into bed and curl into each other. This time it’s peace and closeness all the way; we hold on to each other without tension and I think we’re both asleep in five minutes or less. It’s like the best part of being married to someone you love: deep mutual trust, a feeling of safety. I’ve been missing it; I’ll be glad getting back to Kate.
WRAPPED IN WARMNESS, SMELLS, TWITCHES,
ITCHES, ALL TOGETHER, TOGETHER.
In the morning, Sweik is awake before we are. He’s flat in bed, except for his cocked knees, staring at the ceiling again. I go over.
“You know, Scum, I don’t think I can get up. I’m afraid to move.”
“How does it feel?”
“It doesn’t hurt as long as I stay like this.”
“Well, let’s give it a try; you can’t stay here. I think we ought to tell Lubar we’re going back. You shouldn’t be on a bike with a back like that. I also think you should drive my bike down. It’s lighter, closer to the ground and the suspension’s softer. I’ll take yours, with Sandy on back.”
I reach down and pull with both hands so he can sit on the edge of his bed. He winces. Sandy is looking on from the big bed, covers tucked under her arms, her bare shoulders beautiful in the morning light.
I hand Sweik his clothes one at a time and he dresses. When he stands to pull on his pants, he can’t straighten up. He sits back again. I slide his socks and shoes on. In the meantime, Sandy has gotten dressed. She comes close, runs her hand across my head.
“I’ll go tell Lubar we’re going back down. You see if you can help Sweik out to the café for some coffee. We’ll meet you there.”
We make it out to the café but Sweik is suffering. When Sandy comes back, she has two more of the Midol. Sweik washes them down with his coffee. Lubar and Dale join us.
“What’s the matter, man, you copping out on the old Paris-American Motorcycle Club?”
“I’m in deep pain, Lubar. I just hope to hell I can get down this damned hill and back to some kind of real bed.”
Lubar looks at Sandy and me.
“Jesus, he’s really bad. How’ll he ever make it back up to Paris?”
“First, let’s just get him back to Torremolinos, huh? We’ll check in with a doctor there. In the meantime, he’s taking my bike down; it’s light and has good soft shocks. I’ll take Sandy on Sweik’s bike.”
We finish breakfast and as the Midol begins to take effect, we maneuver the motorcycles out of the courtyard and into the street. We pay for the rooms, the bike storage. Sweik has driven a little Honda like mine before, so that’s no problem. He gives me instructions on how to start the Ariel and I get it going. The kick start has quite a kickback. I climb into the saddle, then try a few tours up and down some little streets, around the plaza and fountain, to get the feel. It’s like riding a big Percheron stallion after riding a quarter horse, but it feels good, tight. I ease up beside Sweik and stop.
“I think I’m on to it, you think you can make it?”
“I’ve got to, right?”
Lubar turns over his bike, Dale climbs behind him. He foot-pushes back beside us.
“I’ve figured a way on the map we can drop directly down to the coast road. We’ll be on smooth highway in less than five miles.”
We nod. He starts off. I put the Ariel up on its stand, go over and kick-start the Honda for Sweik. He shifts into first and rolls out after Lubar. I get back on his bike; Sandy swings herself up behind me, grabs tight and we go off trailing Sweik.
I don’t know how he sticks it out, but we make it all the way to Torremolinos without stopping. I must admit, r
iding that Ariel is a great experience. The machine has so much dignity it’s like Sweik. I feel as if I’m a king reviewing his troops. It is a bit hard maneuvering in rough parts with Sandy up back, but while we’re on the highway it’s like flying.
When we get to the hotel, we literally lift Sweik off the bike. He can’t swing his leg over and he can’t lift himself up enough to slide off the back. He can’t even push the kickstand down. Sandy holds the bike while Lubar and I lift him up, one on each side, and move him into the hotel room. We undress and slide him onto the bed. I go down to the registration desk and ask where I can find a doctor. I try explaining with my rotten Spanish that my friend has a hurt back but I can’t remember the word for back. I just keep saying “doctor” and “mucho dolor.” He writes out an address and a name. I walk into town and find the place; it’s a small clinic. The doctor says he’ll come “muy pronto.” He speaks a little English, about as much as I speak Spanish.
The upshot of it all is the doctor says what we knew. Sweik has a ciática and must remain in bed for two weeks. Definitely no riding a motorcycle, maybe never. He gives Sweik a prescription for some real painkiller, which I buy at the farmacia. It’s loaded with codeine. At least he won’t suffer.
We meet downstairs and walk up to the Bar Central. Lubar says he can cover Sweik’s classes for a week or two. We chip in and find we have enough spare money to pay the hotel. It turns out Sandy has some spare cash stashed away, more than enough to buy the train fare. She also volunteers to stay down and take care of Sweik if Lubar will cover her classes, too. Lubar nods.
The big trouble is the bike. We can’t leave it here and it’d be a shame to sell it. Old things don’t have much value in Spain, where everything’s old anyhow.
I find myself volunteering to drive it back. I say I won’t go with Lubar and Dale, because I’ll be taking it easy; I’ll take off tomorrow and give myself at least six days to make the trip, stopping regularly on the hour for a rest, resting both my old body and that old bike.
A JOURNEY, UNPLANNED, UNEXPECTED, UNWANTED:
A REMINDER. OF WHAT? OF THE EVENTUAL TRIP!
We go back upstairs to tell Sweik our plans. He listens through, looking back and forth at us.
“God, I feel like such a shit. I’ll pay you back, I promise, soon as I get some money. Sandy, you don’t need to stay. I can get somebody to send food up.”
“Hell, I want to stay, I like it here. I’ll give you some more of my expert massages, make you good as new in no time.”
He looks over at me. He shakes his head, smiles, half laughs, half cries.
“And you, old man. You’ll never make it over those goddamned hills with that bike. There’s forever between here and Paris, one long twisting snake of a road cluttered with stinking trucks all the way to the border. Leave the bike; maybe I can advertise, find somebody to buy it. You heard the doctor—said I shouldn’t ride a bike anymore anyway.”
“What’s a Spanish doctor know? Probably bought his medical degree from his uncle in Madrid. You’ll be back on that bike in a month. Look, I’m just going to cruise softly across those hills, drift in the sun, take it easy. If it rains, I’ll pull over, stay at an inn. I won’t have any heavy stuff and nobody up on back. That bike of yours is a joy to drive. We could never leave it down here; it’d be treachery. Don’t you worry, Sweik, we two old farts will burp and belch our way straight to the Place Saint-Sulpice. We’ll be there long before you will.”
A PRIVATE CHAUTAUQUA, RACING, PACING MY
OWN LIFE, OVER SPACE, THROUGH TIME AGAIN.
So it’s settled. I’m running out of time if I’m going to make it home for Easter vacation. I’ve been looking forward to some good time down at the mill with my family. I start packing the saddlebags. I borrow one of Sweik’s heavy sweaters and his leather jacket, because he says it gets cold as hell on top of those hills. I roll up to Sture and Anna’s to say goodbye. I tell them I borrowed the bike; I don’t tell them I’m driving it to Paris. They’d jump me, hold me down, put me in a straitjacket. That’s probably where I belong. But this is some kind of ultimate challenge. It can be the final purge to all my black thoughts, the sense of failure, emptiness. If I can’t make it, I’ll leave the bike in a garage somewhere and take a train the rest of the way. To be honest, I think I’d rather chance it on the bike than with those Spanish railway conductors and my blotchy pass.
Sandy and I spend the night in her sleeping bag on the floor. Sweik absolutely needs the bed. We softly, passively give each other comfort; no sex, only soft stroking, and some quiet tears and deep sleep.
BRIGHT, SOFT SEEDS OF LOVE HOVER INTENTLY
WAITING IN GREEN BUDDINGS, THE LIGHT OF
UNBIDDEN QUEST.
I’m awake early the next morning. My plan is to drive only in the daylight. This time of year it doesn’t get too hot, so I can drive straight through the day. Sweik said the best time is from noon till three, while the truck drivers are off the roads having lunch and a siesta. I’ll concentrate my serious travel during that time.
Sandy comes with me outside. I roll Sweik’s motorcycle out of the court. It turns over on the second kick. I sure hope this machine has some idea of how much I’m counting on it to keep going without any trouble. There are tools but if anything serious goes wrong, I’m a goner.
Also, there’s something psychological involved. I’m wed to that machine for this trip, the ultimate trip.
I straddle the bike. Sandy leans against me, turns my head with her hand pulling on my beard and looks into my eyes. She winks. For just an instant, I wish she were coming with me, but I’d never make it with the two of us; neither the bike nor I am strong enough; besides, Sweik needs her now. I think she needs Sweik, too.
“Have good days, Sandy. Sop up plenty of sun and help Sweik work that back in shape.”
“Think of me sometimes, OK, Scum? Think of me on those long steep curves.”
She steps back. I tighten the worn leather strap on the tiny brown leather helmet and shift into first. I look at her once more and gently let out the clutch to move along the quiet street and on the road to Málaga.
I TRY RIDING AGAIN, CYTHEREAN. BLOWING
UNHURT THROUGH CANYONS OF UNENDING
CONFIDENCE. I CAN’T BUY IT BACK, THE
PRICE IS TOO MUCH BY ANY ACCOUNT.
I find a station open just outside Málaga and fill the bike with gas, check the oil. Everything seems fine. If I don’t ask too much of this machine or myself, we’ll be all right.
Soon, five kilometers from Málaga, the road starts going up. It’s a good road, well kept and not much traffic going my way. The sun is rising and as different hills get in the way, I watch at least five different sunrises and sunsets. The motor is purring away. I could go by way of Linares, but the Cordova road is better. I head up that direction.
As I climb higher, turning, leaning into each of the curves, keeping in third most of the time, it’s almost hypnotic. I watch the vegetation change. I ride past little towns, dirt, white buildings with black painted around the bottoms, women in black. Kids run out at me from some of the towns. It’s a weekday and I wonder why at ten o’clock in the morning they aren’t in school.
I’m way up in the mountains when I take my first break. I’m not particularly tired but the bike feels hot under me from so much uphill pulling. I find a nice place beside the road, stretch out and gnaw on a piece of roll I saved from breakfast. I’ll drive until eleven-thirty, then take a good rest before my twelve-to-three marathon run. Sweik’s right, the worst part of the trip so far has been getting around trucks. They go about twenty miles an hour up the hills, are diesel and stink to heaven. With the tight curves, it’s tough finding safe passing places.
I get to Cordova at about four in the afternoon. It’s been years since I’ve visited the cathedral, so I head for there as soon as I’ve gotten a room.
There are practically no tourists. The vast courtyard is haunted with echoes of sandaled Moslems in djellabas. The d
ark interior is a forest of thick barber-pole-like stone columns, nothing to do with a Christian church. It’s too bad a trade can’t be made with Santa Sophia where the Moslems have a Christian church being used as a mosque, mosaics whitewashed over. The whole thing’s an accident in time and space.
I walk along smelling the mold, the age, the deep mystery of eternal aspirations. It makes a nice way to finish off my first day, a day doused in the high sky and dust from the road.
I wander through back streets and eat as soon as I find a restaurant open; this isn’t till nine o’clock. I wonder how things are back in Torremolinos. I’m in bed by ten-thirty and hope to get out and riding with sunrise.
REMEMBERING BACK, STILLED YEARNING,
PRETTY DAMNED OLD BUT STILL LEARNING.
The next leg is a long one. I’m trying for Madrid in a day. I put in three hours straight, from early light until about ten. I rest half an hour, then drive till noon. The riding’s easier because I’m out from the worst of the mountains. The motor’s running smoothly. I filled up in Cordova but I’ll need more gas before I reach Madrid. On the twelve-to-three sprint, I go fifty kilometers looking for a gas station. I finally find one open when I have less than an eighth of a tankful left.
I pull in to Madrid at seven in the evening. This time I’m dead beat. I’m beginning to understand what Sweik meant. It’s tough concentrating, knowing your life is on the line all the time. There are so many things to watch for: bumps in the road, holes, trucks, fast Mercedes coming up behind, every vehicle throwing dust, pebbles.
My mind’s tired but my body’s even tireder. I don’t exactly have a bad back but it’s stiff. I rent a room near the Prado and spend half an hour doing various Yoga positions to help stretch and loosen up. I could use one of Sandy’s massages. I try not thinking of her.
I go out and walk around the Puerta de Sol for half an hour, stop in a bar, have some fried clams with two glasses of wine, then back to bed. I sleep like a dead man.
The next day I head toward Burgos. It has one of my favorite cathedrals, a cathedral with a wonderful quality of spatial openness, airiness, yet with mysterious deep purple and blue windows. It’s one of the more religious-feeling churches I know.
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