"You should feel good about yourself," he said pleasantly.

"You are making some definite progress."

14. Bicycle Ride--St. Ignes

Two weeks into the cross-country bicycle trek, I pedaled from Utica, New York, to Rochester, where I stayed with Noah, a childhood friend.

When I told him the story of my years with Atmananda, he congratulated me for having left what sounded to him like an abusive marriage.

In fact, he was surprised that Atmananda did not have s.e.xual relations with the men disciples as a way to control them. He also pointed out that while in medical school, he had observed self-proclaimed incarnations of Jesus Christ at psychiatric wards.

"How can you be sure that someone *isn't* enlightened?" I asked, puzzled by the certainty with which Noah expressed his opinions.

"How can you be sure that someone *is*?" he replied.

I thought about the visit as I continued the journey west to Detroit.

Noah's reluctance to give a person or an idea the benefit of the doubt, and the scrutiny with which he questioned words such as "enlightenment,"

seemed bizarre but not entirely unnatural, like a trusted habit long forgotten.

Several days later, I rushed down a long hill in northern Michigan toward an oncoming truck. It was twilight.

The trailer suddenly hit a b.u.mp, swung out from behind the bicycle, and slammed into my rear wheel. I nearly fell from the impact.

Then I lurched forward as the trailer disengaged.

"Nuna!" I cried, glancing back, but the wheel had stopped spinning and it took my full attention to balance the skidding, swerving bicycle. Moments later the truck smacked me with a wall of air as it thundered by, and the bike quickly came to a halt.

I ran up the hill to the wayward trailer and found Nunatak peering out from the doggie-carrier. She tilted her head as if to ask, "Is this something all huskies go through?"

I sat with the pup in the tall gra.s.s. I was devastated. The rig was the vehicle I had chosen to exercise and exorcise my body and mind.

It was also my means of transportation. Now, it was broken.

As the sky went from deep purple to black, the memory of Atmananda calling me his "chemical experiment" seemed to usher in the darkness.

Other recollections bubbled up from the murky depths, only to burst into vivid, unnerving images. Here was Atmananda telling me that he was a professional, that I was extremely sick, and that he was going to help me. Here he was telling me to swallow my pride.

And here he was telling me to swallow the Stelazine.

Cars zoomed by now and then, dispelling apparitions of my former mentor.

Headlights flashed an angry light at the severed trailer, the pretzel-shaped wheel, and the fallen gear strewn in disarray.

Then the lights were gone, leaving behind a fiery-comet afterimage.

I wondered why Atmananda had fed me the drug. Did he actually believe that he was helping me? If so, why didn't he recommend that I seek guidance outside his direct sphere of influence?

It seemed more likely that, unable to tell the difference between helping and controlling people, he gave me the drug to strengthen his grip on my mind. But I suspected another motive.

I knew that Atmananda had often used me as a sounding board for new ideas and, later, for LSD. He may have wanted to observe my reaction to the Stelazine before using it on others--or on himself.

As I meditated on Atmananda's possible motives, I swatted mosquitos and picked at scabs of aging stings. I did not yet know that he had given Stelazine to at least one other inner circle follower.

I tried to remember how I had felt during the Stelazine experiment.

I recalled feeling dizzy. I also recalled feeling at peace with myself.

The conflict between my rational and mystical natures did not seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter.

"You're doing fine, kid," Atmananda had told me each day.

"Just go with the flow and enjoy the process."

Stunned by the memory, I held the husky in my arms.

Nunatak was a wonderful traveling companion. Each day she tugged and leaped alongside the rig as if she were a full-grown sled dog.

She licked the drying sweat and tears on my face.

I tried to understand why I had followed Atmananda-Dr. Lenz's drug prescription. Perhaps the most compelling reason was because I was afraid not to. Since the coup, Atmananda had stepped up his effort to instill fear in his followers. He taught me, for instance, to fear the Negative Forces which he said were destroying the fabric of society. "Just read the papers," he would say.

"You'll see what I'm talking about."

He taught me to fear what would happen if I left the Centre.

"You know too much to leave. It's a greedy, materialistic world out there. Your soul would be miserable. Besides, the Forces would flatten you like a bug. You would lose thousands of lifetimes of evolution."

He taught me to fear, not just the Forces but people, particularly old friends and family. "It's best if you don't tell them what we do here.

Believe me, they won't understand. They'll end up blocking your progress and sapping your power."

And he taught me to fear for my sanity. "You can no longer deal with the real world. You're lucky I don't drop you off at a mental inst.i.tution."

Other reasons why I had felt compelled to take the Stelazine slowly dawned.

I realized that Atmananda's senatorial countenance, his smooth, commanding voice, and his Ph.D. contributed to an aura of authority which I had found difficult to dispute. He had combined Western rhetoric, Eastern mysticism, and American pop culture to entice me; vague language, long pauses, and repet.i.tion to hold me spellbound; and fear, fasting, and sleep deprivation to break me down.

Had Atmananda's techniques ended there, I might have seen him as a control freak--and left. But each time he had broken me down, he built me up again with kindness and with words of inspiration.

He spoke of saints, of beauty, and of the wisdom of the desert.

He spoke of selflessness, quixotic quests, literature, and wonder.

And he spoke of an unconditional love and of a multi-lifetime camaraderie.

Had Atmananda's techniques ended there, I might have seen him as a confused combination of Big Nurse and McMurphy--and left.

But he managed, by flipping between abusive and supportive personas, to keep me off balance on an emotionally gut-wrenching roller coaster ride. Genuine spiritual benefactors were supposed to keep students off balance, he maintained, because it was only then that they could "let go and make real leaps in spiritual progress."

It was primarily in his uncanny ability to read an individual or group, and to gauge the precise instance in which to flip, that Atmananda's brilliance could be found. I had been unaware that he was speaking to me, controlling me, through the rhythmic "off" and "on" language of intermittent reinforcement.

It was painful to grapple with memories of Atmananda and to see him in such a searing light. But it was far more painful to examine what it was about me that had complemented his techniques and allowed me to accept his authority. I thought about how, as a thirteen-year-old, it had been easier to journey into lives of sorcerers from the Castaneda books than it was to deal with the emotions of a family in conflict; years later, it was easier to follow Atmananda's narcotic program than it was to brave a suppressed conflict of my own.

I also realized that I had grown up feeling blessed, immortal, and immune to the dangers of the world; later, when Atmananda issued post-coup etiquette and Stelazine, I found it difficult to admit that I was so wrong for so long about so many things, and that I was just another victim of one man's *other* side.

The reluctance to view myself as a victim persisted, and now, draped with a sleeping bag to protect me from mosquitos, I found it difficult to admit that the "Atmananda phenomenon" may have had as much to do with Atmananda, and with me, as it did with the balance of society.

Years later, I wondered if modern American society had been replacing a system of mythology and religious dogma with a system of reason as a way to explain ourselves and the world around us.

I wondered if there were a genuine need in humans not only to categorize and comprehend, but to acknowledge and to address, in unscientific terms, the mystery of that which creates, binds, animates, and destroys.

And I wondered if teachers like Atmananda were increasingly exploiting such a need in millions who, for whatever reasons, had chosen a path apart from conventional religion. Perhaps by nurturing both mystical and rational inclinations, society could explore the realm beyond the surface world of reason while keeping pace with the charismatic predators of the New Age.

But in the darkness of a northern Michigan night, still angry and upset from memories of Atmananda's experiments, I sensed that a New Age of enchantment and wisdom had pa.s.sed me by. Yet I also felt cleansed and refreshed, like the air of a city after heavy rain.

I stood up and began gathering the fallen gear in a pile by the trailer.

Suddenly, I was staring into headlights which did not disappear.

A man got out of the pickup.

"What happened, son?"

As I recounted the bicycle incident, I tried to control the quiver in my voice.

"Officer Brown," he said, showing me a badge. He dropped me, the dog, and the rig off at a motel in nearby St. Ignes.

He also left me his number at the station, in case I needed help getting back on the road.

The following afternoon, the policeman pounded the wheel back into shape, fixed the derailleur, replaced spokes, and bolted steel bars over the aluminum which attached the trailer to the bicycle.