Don't Think Twice: Adventure and Healing at 100 Miles Per Hour - Hardcover

Schoichet, Barbara

3.73

126 ratings by Goodreads

9781101981801: Don't Think Twice: Adventure and Healing at 100 Miles Per Hour

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1101981806 ISBN 13: 9781101981801

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2016

View all copies of this ISBN edition:

A late-in-life coming-of-age escapade told with humor and heart, Don’t Think Twice is a moving and irreverent account of grief, growing up, and the healing power of adventure.

Within six months, Barbara Schoichet lost everything: her job, her girlfriend of six years, and her mother to pancreatic cancer. Her life stripped bare, and armed with nothing but a death wish and a ton of attitude, Barbara pursues an unlikely method of coping. At the age of fifty she earns her motorcycle license, buys a Harley on eBay from two guys named Dave, and drives it alone from New York to Los Angeles on a circuitous trek loosely guided by her H.O.G. tour book and a whole lot of road whimsy.

On the open highway—where she daily takes her speed to a hundred—Barbara battles physical limitations and inner demons on a journey that flows through the majestic Appalachian Mountains, the enchanting Turquoise Trail, and all along America’s iconic Route 66. She is awed by the battlefields in Gettysburg, stunned by the decadence of Graceland, and amused by a Cadillac graveyard in the middle of nowhere. She meets kind strangers, odd strangers, and a guy who pulls a gun on her for cutting him off. She is vulnerable but sassy, broken but determined to heal . . . or die trying.

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

About the Author:

Barbara Schoichet has a Ph.D. in creative writing from Lancaster University in England. An avid biker, she’s owned (and wrecked) several motorcycles and logged more than ten thousand miles, including the nearly four-thousand-mile journey chronicled in Don’t Think Twice.

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright � 2016 Barbara Schoichet

One

Motorcycle Therapy

Bart Mange swaggered into the classroom reeking of cigarette smoke and scratching his bedhead. He was a mutt of a man, middle-aged, kind of like Nick Nolte’s mug shot come to life, except his hair was red and I don’t think he was drunk.

“Good morning, lady . . . and gentlemen.” He threw me a grin. “I’ll be your motorcycle instructor, and if I do my job right, you’re all gonna live.” He looked around the room, attitude up the wazoo, sneering at everyone. “Anybody wanna leave?”

I sat there, the only woman in a room full of guys. They all looked like they’d just gotten out of jail, and I looked like their grandmother. We had nothing in common except a desire to learn how to ride and an instant fear of the Dirty Harry doppelganger who was supposed to teach us. At least he wasn’t two or three decades younger than me. In fact, the tread marks on Bart Mange’s face were proof he’d logged in lots of mileage on and off the road. Weathered like indoor furniture left outside, his skin was as leathery as the outfit he wore, and whatever age he was, he looked ten years older than that.

I liked him immediately. He looked like he wanted to punish someone, and I didn’t have to think twice to know I was in the right place. I was used to pain.

Just a year ago, riding a bike meant sweating my ass off in a spinning class, but my life had gone awry since then, and I needed to go beyond my comfort zone to regain my equilibrium. I’m not sure why balancing atop a machine that could kill me seemed like a good way to stop wanting to die, but it was worth a try since everything else had failed to kindle my interest in living.

Bart tapped his name on the chalkboard. “My friends call me Bart Mange, but none of you will ever be my friend, so you can call me Mr. Mange or Sir.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and blinked like he was trying to stay awake. It was probably just nicotine withdrawal, since moments before class I’d seen him standing outside sucking so hard on a cigarette I thought he might inhale it.

“Okay, the first thing I want you to do is look at how I’m dressed.” He beat his chest. “Leather jacket.” He slapped his thigh. “Leather chaps.” He stamped his foot and clapped his hands. “Leather boots and leather gloves. I smell like a cow, don’t I?”

“More like a Camel.” One of the guys in the back snickered. “Or a Marlboro.”

Bart pointed his stubbly chin at the guy’s chest, thick and muscled in his wife-beater undershirt. “My friend thinks this is all a big joke, but I’m serious as the stomach flu. Anyone not wearing an extra layer of skin tomorrow doesn’t get on a bike.”

I raised my hand to inform Mr. Mange that tomorrow’s schedule said we wouldn’t actually be on the motorcycles until after lunch.

“And your point is . . .?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be ninety-five tomorrow and this classroom isn’t air conditioned.”

“Uh, huh.” He sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms.

“I was just saying—”

“Look, lady. I’m a nice guy. I want you covered in cowhide to remind you that your own hide is vulnerable each and every time you’re on a motorcycle.” He slapped his butt and looked around the room. “Got it?”

“Got it!” we all yelled, except for the guy next to me, who just popped his gum.

Bart was on him like a crow on carrion. “You—the clown with the gum—you don’t get it, do you?”

“My name is John, Mr. Mange, and I definitely get it.”

“Jawn will really get it when he doesn’t wear a jacket and scrapes off an elbow!”

Everybody laughed nervously.

“You think that’s funny? I knew a guy who wore tennis shoes one day and scraped off a toe. Funny, huh?”

Everyone gasped, and one person quietly left the room.

“One down . . . anyone else?” Bart shook his head and chuckled. “Man, I saw some idiot wearing flip-flops and shorts doing eighty up the coast the other day. I wanted to drive him into the ocean myself!”

He stared wistfully out the window as if the idea of killing someone was pleasing, then he clapped his hands and grinned. “Okay, let’s get real. You might start out one morning dressed in full gear, and you’re warm and cozy because it’s a little nippy out. But as you’re riding along—laa dee daa—all of a sudden the cool air disappears and the sun starts frying you like a chicken breast. What do you do?”

“Whip off a layer!” One of the gangbangers slouching two rows over called out.

“Okay, Aerosol Can over there would just peel himself like a banana, but what if you don’t have saddlebags? Do you toss your leathers by the side of the road?” He waited then screamed, “You do nothing! You grow a set of balls; and you just keep on riding!”

I felt a disturbing twinge between my legs as I imagined how uncomfortable testicles must be. But what was even more disquieting was the unsettling itch Bart had ignited in me. For the first time in months, I was excited about something. I sat on the edge of my seat and listened to Bart like he was the Dalai Lama.

“Now keep in mind, children, even if you do have a place to stow your gear, sometimes the road is just too rough to ride without protection. You get my meaning? If you go down, it won’t be clothes you’ll scrape off.”

A bald guy with HAIR tattooed on his scalp called out, “What if—?”

“There are no what ifs in motorcycling. If the road is smooth as a snake’s belly, you wear leather. If you’re afraid of helmet hair, you still wear a full-on brain bucket with a facemask. Those boys in Nazi beanies are just vegetables waiting to happen.”

Bart let the image sink in and then smiled. “Listen, the truth is there are two kinds of bikers—those who’ve had a wreck and those who are going to. You have a better chance of not turning into a piece of broccoli wearing protective gear, okay?”

I gulped hard. If Bart wasn’t wearing a helmet and did a face-plant on the 405, he’d probably just leave a tobacco stain; if I did the same I’d wind up brain dead. I shook off the image then felt a strange wave of relief. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad . . . not feeling anything.

I must have drifted off because suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You okay, Buttercup?” Bart laid a workbook on my desk. “You’re looking a little green.”

“I’m fine. I always look sick to my stomach when I’m excited.”

“Well, don’t get too excited.” He gave me a gentle pat then grinned at the class. “Okay, children, tomorrow we ride. Today we dissect the motorcycle like a guinea pig.”

For the next couple of hours Bart browbeat information into us. We learned the parts of a motorcycle from headlight to tailpipe. We learned which part of the road we were supposed to occupy in order to be more visible, and that most drivers wouldn’t see us anyway. And despite describing every possible way we could wind up crushed beyond recognition, Bart also left us with the main reason why motorcycling was worth the risk.

“Freedom,” he said with a huge grin. “Freedom with a big, fat, fucking F.”

***

As it turned out, there was a Harley dealership near my house, so after class, I raided the place with the help of a gnarly-looking saleswoman who could have been Bart’s twin sister. She also smelled like a pack of cigarettes and looked like she’d just crawled out of bed. Her nametag said Proud Mary but she said I could call her PM.

“I call my old man AM cuz we’re like night and day.” She winked, coughed, and chuckled at the same time. “His real name is Punk.”

I followed her around as she talked me into buying a lot more gear than I needed. She would have talked me into a bike, if my therapist Muriel hadn’t called while I was eyeing a set of Harley-Davidson dinnerware.

“You wouldn’t believe how cool all this shit is!” I wrapped a scarf imprinted with tiny skulls around my neck. “I swear, I look like Amelia Earhart!”

“Take a deep breath and cut your credit card in half,” Muriel said calmly. “Are you still coming in to see me tonight?”

I told her I was, then I told PM to take the Harley shot glasses off my bill. The clothing was enough, and I wore everything out of the store, feeling more comfortable than I had in months. The jacket, the chaps, the boots, the gloves, and especially the helmet—they all seemed to contain me. They’d keep me focused on staying intact, on keeping it together, and on not falling apart. And best of all, they’d keep me covered.

Two

The Catalyst

We’ve all had them—those unbelievably bad years in which one thing happens after another, and we begin to think that something greater than ourselves is trying to tell us something. In my case, it seemed like I was taunting disaster, because before my life went to hell, I was completely unaware I was heading for a storm.

“If it’s true that God gives people exactly what they can handle,” I used to say, “then I guess I can’t handle anything.”

That’s how good I thought my life was before it wasn’t. I had a great job writing publicity for a major studio, and even though juggling egos was tough, I loved what I did. And I had a wonderful family that accepted my hellcat of a girlfriend. We’d been together for six years, and even though she was a bossy little thing, she was unbelievably cute and I adored her. I was blissfully unaware of the winds beginning to stir.

And they were.

Anyone could’ve predicted what was coming by the songs on my iPod. It makes sense now that I got chills hearing “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” or went hoarse yelling, “Hey, You! Get Off My Cloud!” But when asked why I chose songs portending doom or preaching defiance, I maintained I was just reliving high school trying to get it right. On weekends I slept till noon and buried my face in fiction. I was happy with my adequate life and clung to it like a toddler to a pants leg. I needed a kick in the pants, a potch in the tush, before I’d open my eyes to anything happening or not happening around me.

Then kick-potch, one of the head tyrants at the studio called me into her office and told me I was being sacrificed in a merger. This was code for “a younger person is going to take your place.” I went into my office, closed my door, and cried. People kept poking their heads in to see if I was okay, but all I wanted was to get to my girlfriend’s house so she could comfort me. I called her on the way over but got her voicemail, so I left a message saying I needed to see her right away. She called me three hours later.

“Holy shit, that’s terrible,” she said, “and I feel just awful I can’t be there for you tonight, but I’ve already made dinner plans with Gayle.”

It was the third time that month that she and her hairdresser had gone out.

“Can’t you cancel?” I asked. “I really need to see you tonight.”

“Listen, I’ll try to come over after dinner, okay?”

At midnight I called my friend Lynn.

“She is not having dinner!” Lynn screamed. “Leave her before she leaves you.”

Throughout the next week, I suffered through my unemployment alone. Then one day my girlfriend called to say she was coming over to give me my Christmas present.

“Christmas isn’t for another week,” I said. “I haven’t gotten you anything yet.”

“Don’t worry about it. What time should I come over?”

“What do you mean, don’t worry about it?”

She sighed. “Do you really want to do this over the phone?”

“Do what?” I was starting to feel the same way I did just before my boss told me I’d been laid off. I gripped the phone. “You can’t be serious. You can’t be thinking about what I think you’re thinking about.”

She laughed. “You are such a nutcase. I think that’s why I love you, but . . .” She took a deep breath. “Please, can’t I just come over?”

I was only forty-nine, not menopausal yet, but I felt such a rush of heat blast through me I was sure I was having a hot flash. “Yeah, come over.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “Around seven. I’ll pick up some Thai.”

She said she wasn’t sure she could make it by seven, and though I told her not to worry about it, I worried about it . . . especially when she didn’t ring the doorbell until after ten.

“What’s with the doorbell?” I asked, standing before her sweating in my new suede jacket, the one I’d just bought to wear to her house on Christmas Day. “Why didn’t you use your key?”

She walked in, sat on my couch, and handed me an Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt unwrapped in a paper bag. “Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah.” She smiled weakly. Then she took my key off her keychain. “I’m sorry, honey.”

I sat next to her on the couch, a little drunk with nothing but a half-bottle of wine in me. “I’m guessing you’ve eaten,” I said, trying not to sound bitter, trying not to slur. “There’s ice cold Thai on the kitchen counter, help yourself.”

“I’m not hungry, but I could use a glass of wine.” She grabbed my empty glass off the coffee table, went into my kitchen, and split what was left in the bottle between us. “Why don’t I fix you a plate? You really should eat something.”

I sat there holding my brand new sweatshirt to my chest and thinking of the beautifully wrapped present that was now under her pillow on my bed. I didn’t have time to shop for a proper gift, pick up dinner, and shave my legs before seven, so I’d slipped my diamond stud earrings into a silk pouch and tied it with a lace ribbon.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll just drink.”

“Come on, Barb.” She put a glass of wine and a plate of Thai on the coffee table in front of me. Then she took her place on the couch and squeezed my hand. “I think we both know this has been over for awhile.”

“The only thing I know is that you’ve got unbelievably bad timing.” I took a gulp of wine. “For fucks sake, I just lost my job.”

She didn’t say a word. She just took the glass of wine out of my hand, grabbed her own glass, and headed for the bedroom.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “That’s what you want to do now?”

She stopped halfway down the hall, turned, and gave me that look she always did when she was trying to get away with something. “Come on,” she said. “Once more for old time’s sake?”

Oh, yeah . . . she got the earrings.

* * *

I got through Christmas by going to a friend’s party, drinking shots of tequila, and thinking seriously about going back to men. I got through New Year’s Eve by telling everyone I had a date, then bringing home lobster risotto from my favorite Italian restaurant and eating it in front of my TV with a bottle of expensive chardonnay. The risotto tasted like Elmer’s glue, the wine like water, and the white roses I sent to myself on Valentine’s Day made me laugh and cry at the same time. The card, which I’d dictated to the salesperson over the phone, was sweet, pathetic, and stolen from Bob Dylan. “You don’t have to worry any more. I’ll be your baby t...

"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.