by Duff McKagan
TAKE LONDON OUT FOR A CHEAP DATE
This is probably my favorite city in the world outside of Seattle. London boasts every modern amenity while remaining a historical wonderland that one can get lost in forever. Transportation by subway (the Tube), bus, or train is impossibly easy. And a trip in one of their famous black taxi cabs is an absolute must.
I visited the city for the first time in 1987 when my brand-new band, Guns N’ Roses, came to play the Marquee Club at the outset of the release of our first record, Appetite for Destruction. We had no money, but we had an apartment for two weeks in the Kensington area just off of Hyde Park. We had an absolute blast. You don’t have to be a high roller to enjoy London. There is plenty to see that’s cheap or free. Put the Natural History Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum at the top of your list.
I have indeed been a high roller in London, too—or at least been around the highfalutin upper class. The private social clubs—often with an associated club in the country—is a peek into an age-old sort of caste system. The royals (dukes, earls, princes, ladies, sirs, and princesses . . . no shit) come to these clubs and so do the gilded upper class, actors, pop stars, bankers, and industrialists of every bent. Having dinner at one of these clubs one night with some friends who were members, I couldn’t shake the feeling of a bygone era when the blue bloods (so named because of blue stains on their hands from handling too much silver) dined in these halls.
For everyday food, though, my favorite place is a chain called Pret A Manger. I know they have some shops in the States, but they started here, it’s where I discovered them, and they’ll always be a London destination for me. Pret has hot and cold wraps of all kinds (try the hot jalapeno chicken!), healthy sandwiches, great salads and soups, and strong espresso. This is always the first place I try to get to when I go to the UK, and they are on about every street corner in London. Cheap, fast, and kick-ass.
12
CHAPTER
CONVERT DARKNESS INTO PRODUCTIVITY
THE SERENITY, RELAXATION, AND HUMANNESS I FELT in Madrid turned out to be a fleeting sensation.
After we played the gig, I came out of my euphoric fog and realized that I was still sick. Really sick. And getting worse.
Our next show was in Barcelona. Ideally, we would have hit the van immediately so we could rest up at our hotel halfway down the road. But our merch was still selling, and we couldn’t leave it behind. So we stayed, knowing full well that our van would be parked in by Biffy’s crew and we’d have to wait another four hours until they packed out and we could hit the road.
It was 1 a.m. before we made it out and 4 a.m. when we arrived at our hotel in Zaragoza, Spain.
When I’m on the road, I put my blinders on and focus on maintaining a fitness of body and mind. Without it, I can start to think about the dark. Darkness and I don’t go well together. Working out in a gym, in a dojo, or backstage at an arena is the thing that cures me. When I’m this sick, the downtime can be a mental trick. That’s why, instead of sleeping in, I got up early to sweat out the sick on a stationary bike.
For a few minutes, I was able to trick my brain and body into a state of being that shunned the sickness. On the way to the gig, I realized that the workout had made me much more ill.
To keep me above water in times like these, I employ a meditation that I learned early on in Ukidokan martial arts with Sensei Benny Urquidez. I’ve got a safe house in the meditation that I can build myself up from. One day I will be able to stretch my muscles and float above ground in meditation. I also know that there will come a day when my muscles won’t propel me forward anymore, and this meditation will be all I have. For now, I’m grateful it can stave off the dark.
I used to spend a lot of time looking for drugs and drinking in bars or looking for bars with bathrooms in which to score drugs. Now, whether I’m on the road or at home, I try to put the time once reserved for darkness into healing my body and mind. To me, a workout is a reminder of my blessings: “I am lucky as hell to be here doing push-ups, jumping rope, lifting weights.”
But I didn’t lose a dependency. I merely exchanged one for another. If I miss a workout, I go through withdrawals. I hit the bag just as hard as I used to hit the drugs. Guys like me need something extreme to help center ourselves.
Finding gyms and temples of fitness becomes a sport unto itself when you’re on the road. I’ve done yoga outside at 12,500 feet elevation in La Paz, Bolivia. I’ve found grand gyms with all new equipment in Hungary and Germany. I’ve worked out in fighter gyms with rusty weights in Birmingham, England. I’ve hit the bags in Fortaleza, Brazil, and Des Moines, Iowa. Years ago, I guess I’d have been bragging that “I did pharmaceutical cocaine in X location, and smoked some tar in . . .”
In English-speaking countries, it’s easy to look up fitness centers, but the curvy and confusing lanes of England and Scotland make it almost impossible to find a gym.
One of my default moves is to just walk around town with a gym bag. I have no problem asking people on the street for directions. Wearing gym clothes and carrying a gym bag always seem to disarm people who would otherwise be a little freaked out by a tall, tattooed American walking in their direction. When I spot a local who’s also wearing gym clothes—and, in the UK, you’ll almost always spot someone coming from or going to a gym—I ask them if they can direct me to the same. Scoring a gym is no different than scoring dope: you look the part, ask for directions, and head to the right part of town.
Once, in Oxford, I woke up early on the tour bus, and, after fueling on coffee and packing my bag, I hit the streets. Sure enough, I spotted a fellow who looked like he had just come from a gym. Being the social guy that I am, I stopped him and asked if he knew where a walkable gym was. “Sure, mate,” he said. “Just go down the road, take a left for a bit, then take a right, cross THAT road, and you will see a gate. There is a nice gym in there where all of the students work out at.”
I must have just been concentrating too hard on this dude’s directions to put two and two together. I took the left, and the right, crossed the road and, bam! There it was, Oxford’s massive gym: Oxford University Sport. I guess the bloke did say something about students, didn’t he?
I was convinced that there would be no way I would be allowed into the place. There, on a huge bronze plaque, was the inscription that Roger Bannister had first broken the four-minute mile (the very track was right there, to my right). I mean, this is OXFORD, for crying out loud! They don’t let long-haired, tattooed stragglers like me just wander in, do they?
I meekly walked up to the receptionist, and, without much scrutiny at all, they said that for the equivalent of about US$9, I could get inside. Cool!
Inside, I was surrounded by athletes from the Oxford rowing club, the Oxford karate team, the rugby team, the football club, and, of course, the Oxford badminton team. I swore I saw an ’80s version of Rob Lowe out of the corner of my eye.
Jet lag is a constant challenge for me. And there’s nothing like a good workout to get you right after a long flight.
Once, after a brutal twenty-four-hour flight from Sydney to Dubai to London, I found a 9 a.m. Bikram yoga class. Landing at 6:30 a.m. at Heathrow, I knew I’d have to do something that would sweat out that flight. I’d heard that Bikram was sort of gnarly in this department, so I googled away and found a class that was relatively near my hotel.
By the time I got to the class, sleep deprivation was treating me to trails and noises that nobody around me had the pleasure of experiencing. As I got downstairs to the very hot room, a loud voice suddenly boomed into my frayed consciousness. Welcome and namaste for making it here. The hard part is over. Just breathe. Yeah. Really nice words—and I appreciate the gesture—but the yogi leading this class had a headset microphone attached to her, and the speakers were in like a 5.1 Sensurround configuration. Totally freaky.
She asked if there was anyone new to the class who hadn’t done Bikram before, and I raised my hand from a face-flat lying p
osition. “What is your name . . . name . . . name . . . name?” The speakers had some sort of delay on them, or I was really starting to trip. I’m not sure which one it was.
“Uh, my name is Duff.”
“Welcome, Doug!”
“No. Uh, sorry, it’s DUFF!” I said it a little louder in hopes that she’d catch it and we could move on.
“Jeff! Okay! Welcome, Jeff!”
Either way, I made it through the class, showered, and got about three cans of energy drink inside of me. Going to sleep in the middle of the day is a huge faux pas that will just lengthen your jet lag experience. Walk and drink energy drinks. Coffee will take you down. Take it from me. Stay up till 11 p.m. no matter what.
Gym etiquette is a learned skill that will be recognized in any language or locale. Keep your shit tight and your gym clothes clean. Bring a towel, and, to stave off an international incident, put deodorant on before you go to the gym, you damn animals. When I do cardio, I sweat like the proverbial whore in church. Sweating is fine and dandy in a gym, of course, but just clean up after yourself. This is appreciated in every time zone.
But even those who follow the aforementioned rules will be subjected to people who are just grumpy at life and find the gym a great place to exercise not only their body but also their grumpiness.
I once vacationed in a hotel in Hawaii that had a gym that was just steps from the beach. After a morning swim in the salty surf, I went to my room and changed for the gym. When I got to the gym, there was still some saltwater up my nose, and so I took a paper towel with me to an elliptical machine in case any saltwater was still left up my sinuses (we’ve all been there, right?). About fifteen minutes into my cardio workout, I wiped my nose as some water came out. I heard the guy on the machine next to me make guttural noises—I thought he was kicking ass on his cardio machine. A few minutes later, I wiped my nose again (don’t forget, we are just steps from the saltwater, and the sound of people clearing their noses runs pretty much hand in hand with the beach). Again, the guy next to me started making noises again. As I looked over to make sure he was okay, he barked at me with a sharp German accent “YOU MUST KEEP YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD CLEAN!!!” My what?
This dude pointed at my paper towel, and said I must not come in with “ze flu!” I explained to him that I had just swam and that maybe he should chill the fuck out and that we were in Hawaii. “Just keep your neighborhood clean!!” was his only response.
Everyone has bad days. Some have bad days that turn into bad weeks and bad lives that cannot be cured when they’re on the steps of heaven. When you encounter a situation such as this, leave it there. Never take that kind of stuff with you into your day.
As we progress through life, added peculiarities and challenges invariably arise along the way. Whether it’s something physical, like tearing a meniscus in your knee or getting wrinkles on your face, to things of the mental nature, like depression or adult ADHD, having something physically wrong is seldom a thing to be publicly embarrassed about. I gotta have shoulder surgery for a tear in my rotator cuff is really not a big deal to expose to friends at lunch or to a stranger at the gym. But it remains taboo to talk about mental issues.
We are born with what we are born with. Some people have genetically strong shoulders and will never have a torn anything. Knees and teeth and receding hairlines are often predetermined. So, too, are mental issues.
I’ve dealt with something called panic disorder since I was sixteen years old. It came crashing down on me one morning at home while I was getting ready for school. I got into the shower, and suddenly the earth felt as if it had dropped down four feet. I thought it was an earthquake or that the foundation of my mom’s house had crumbled. Then I started to sweat. I couldn’t breathe. I yelled for my mom, and she got me to an emergency room as my breathing got shallower and my vision blurred intensely. I thought for sure I was curtains or that the LSD I had done at thirteen and fourteen was stored somewhere in my system and I would be stuck in a huge, nightmarish flashback.
When the doctor came into the room at the ER, he knew instantly that I was having a panic attack. What? I wasn’t panicked about anything. After a nice dose of Valium, he sent me across the street to a psychologist who laid out the mental reasons that my brain would ignite into panic. He also cautioned that panic was a symptom of depression, or at least in the same family as depression. At the time, and for years to come, I would suffer many panic attacks, but nothing near depression. Hell, the panic attacks were enough to handle! And depression? Nah. Not me.
Over the years, a few of my good friends suffered from depression, and, in the course of trying to be a friend and be understanding, I’d listen and try to help. But I had no clue what depression was all about.
Then in 2012, my wife and I went to see the movie The Iron Lady. We went to one of our favorite art-house theaters in Seattle, and, as an armchair historian, the flick was right in my wheelhouse. I was sitting with my sweet wife, watching a good movie in a great theater. But halfway through the movie, my chair started to sink into the ground. My body became heavy. My thoughts suddenly darkened. This was not a panic attack. This was depression.
Where the hell did this come from? My life wasn’t hectic or fucked up. My book had come out, I was in a good band, and my kids were doing great. No. I was terrified and really didn’t know what was happening. We left the movie, and Susan called my boyhood friend Andy, who came over to the house and helped Susan talk me down.
I’m not the guy you’d peg for having bouts of depression. I generally look at the sunnier side of things and have learned to fight the good fight through life’s ups and downs. What I’m finding out about this malaise, however, is that it has nothing to do with how my life is actually going at the time. It’s a chemical malfunction in my brain that decides what it’s going to do whenever it wants.
But this has to be looked at as an opportunity. I now have insight into something I really didn’t know anything about, and now I can apply all of my martial arts training and long-distance bike and running training toward.
Once something like depression or panic rears its ugly head, the pathway is cleared for more episodes. I’ve had more of these bouts with depression. And, make no mistake, they are bouts. Fights. Knock-down and drag-me-the-fuck-down brawls. But it’s something I’m up for.
I like to kickbox. I love to train very hard. Sensei Benny taught me how to train for fights. Fights can be long, and if you haven’t trained to last twelve or fifteen rounds, you can get hurt. The way to train for that length of a fight is to remember that you must train harder than the guy you are fighting. Always train harder than the other guy. Whether it’s a physical thing like boxing or a mental thing like depression, be the last guy out of the gym.
Depression wants you to stay still. It wants you to lie in bed. That’s when you have to get up and run. If I am having black thoughts, I force myself up, and then I go and break a personal best record—or at least try. This has been my secret and savior. I run through it. I hot yoga with weights through it. I jump rope through it and lift weights through it. I write when I don’t want to and ask my kids how school was and actually listen back through it. I make love through it and climb steep hills with a pack on my back through it.
I’ve got a weight on my chest and hope is trying to flee. My body is achy and heavy, and my neck hurts. This is my cue. This is the bell at the beginning of the fight. I put my running shorts and shoes on. Lace up, motherfucker, it’s time to move. I smile and let the outside light in. Let the light in. Outside thoughts stay outside of my head. I stretch and drink water and plan my route. I run with my head up and my chest out and shoulders back. “Be lighter than you are . . . ” Sensei Benny’s voice rings in my ear. “Pick your feet up before they land, and be soundless. Be light. Be light!”
I pick up my pace and head for the stairs. I see people, and I send them all of my best thoughts. I run faster and leap up the stairs and do push-ups at the top and sprint, flat out, back
to my route. I see another runner ahead of me, and I pace him, then pass him. I call these runners my angels. They pace me back to my light, and my chest heaves and my muscles strain and I break through.
As I reach the end of my run, I count down my strides, starting a half mile away at eight hundred steps. I know these eight hundred steps, and I also know they are bringing me home. Home. I also know that I have won this fight today. I have trained harder than the other guy. Today, the other guy was named Depression.
Running Workout
—Stretch
—Run 3.5 miles at an uncomfortable speed. Always push faster. Add sprints in the middle of your run. Stop and do push-ups and leg lunges every 1.2 miles. Always end the run at your fastest.
—Stretch
When I’m not on the road, one of my most therapeutic exercises is spending time in the ring.
Having balanced physical strength will bring more confidence and levity to your life. You will be more sure of your gait as you walk down the street. That confidence and endorphin release has the effect of letting the gluelike bad thoughts out of your system. Learning to box or doing some type of hard martial art will also make you lighter on your feet and put you in competitive face-to-face situations on a regular basis.
Sensei Benny calls the boxing ring the “square jungle.” In this jungle there is opportunity to not only deal with your own fears and deep-seated angers but also to deal with the fears and angers of your opponent. Once you have your game together—your defense and cardio and footwork and combinations—your mind will begin to relax, and your confidence will take over. This square jungle is life. These are the same things you deal with outside of the gym. The ring is a gift to yourself and your opponent to work on the base necessities of being a better and happier human.
My first foray into the kickboxing ring was rather surreal. After working with Sensei Benny on a daily basis for ten months, he deemed me ready for the ring. I had trained physically and mentally and had sparred outside of the ring a bunch of times, but the ring was another level. If my sensei said I was ready, I too believed that I was ready. But my first real “opponent” was one Peter “Sugarfoot” Cunningham, a kickboxer who was training to retain his world middleweight championship. I was to be one of his many sparring partners.