He pulled off at Buellton, where an odd windmill by the side of the road caught his attention and took him back to the Europe of his youth. He wandered his way north, through the yuppified cafes and wineries of Los Olivos. And then, on a whim, he turned up Figueroa Mountain Road, its flat run through horse pastures eventually giving way to steep, rough-paved switchbacks. This was more like it, he mused; the air was getting cooler, and there was no traffic to dodge as the Ural lurched from corner to corner.
Then he saw it: a flash of blue and white up ahead, appearing and disappearing as the curves unwound. A motorcycle. A lone rider. A mission.
Mushman was minding his own business, winding up the mountain, watching the valley shrink below him as he climbed closer to the clouds. The road had just turned from asphalt to gravel when the camouflaged sidecar rig appeared behind him, a strange black hulk of a man hunched over the handlebars like an obese vulture.
"Who is that guy?" he wondered. "Whoever he is, he looks like he drove right out of The Great Escape-sidecar, helmet and all. And I'm on a Triumph, just like in the movie. Weird. Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide. No escape from reality...
"What does this strange oaf want from me? Why is he riding a rig straight out of Stalag 13? And why am I humming an old Queen song?"
Mushman picked up the pace, sliding flat-track-style over the dusty road, the Triumph's street tires catching and skittering on the loose sand. Still, the sidecar crept closer, ever closer, its rider's eyes glaring behind his absurd Eric Von Zipper goggles.
"Gott in Himmel," Schulzski muttered to himself. "This Triumph guy is trying to run away from me. Vas it something I said?"
He threw himself into his work, grunting from the exertion, tossing the Ural back and forth across the road.
As he closed, closer, ever closer, rocks and gravel shot-gunned his rig, but he refused to back off. He could make out the distinctive blue enduro jacket, the faint USA markings on the shoulders. The tall, wiry figure of the rider. Why does this seem familiar? It seemed like it was dja' vu-all over again.
Mushman was now riding for his life. He was sliding the front going into every slick, hardscrabble turn, drifting the back coming out, his boots catching on rocks and ruts. He could almost smell the rancid Braunsweiger on his pursuer's breath as the Ural bore down on him, filling his mirrors on the straights.
It was then that he saw his escape. The road was barricaded up ahead, a steel pole closing it off for winter. But if he hit that hillock off the road just right, he could jump the barrier and disappear-the nutjob in the sidecar would never make it.
He faked left, then ran right, off the road and up the embankment. He nailed the throttle, sending the Triumph soaring, higher than he'd ever soared before. Jumping was easy, he thought, just like the old days. Then he remembered: Oh, right, the landing!
To Schulzski, it was like watching a train wreck in slow-motion. He saw the Triumph run off the road, climb the hill and then launch itself, like a diseased cow from a trebuchet, into the air over the yellow barrier. He brought the Ural to a gravel-plowing halt, just as he saw the Triumph land, bounce, slide sideways and skitter to a halt, its rider tumbling like a rag doll.
He ran to the fallen figure lying in the middle of the road.
Slap! Slap! Slap!
"Are you all right, you strange McQueen-like person, you? Are you okeydoke?
"Uh, yeah, I think
I'm all right," said Mushman.
"Then stop slapping me!" roared Schulzski.
"Sorry."
Mushman shook his head, staggered to his feet and dusted himself off as he took inventory. No major damage, and even the bike seemed OK, save for a liberal coating of dust. He turned to the strange, black-clad German: "What the hell were you trying to do? Why were you chasing me?"
"Vhy vere you running from me?" Schulzski shot back. "It vas making my feelings hurt. I'm a lonely guy, you know."
Mushman looked at the absurd, sweating behemoth, his helmet slightly askew. "Yeah, that figures," he said. "Say, you must be pretty thirsty after wrestling that rig up the road. You want to head down the hill and get a drink?"
"Ja," said Schulzski,"but iff anyvone orders Merlot, I am leaving. I am not drinking any fichting Merlot." MC