Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

by Neil Peart

  By the trail map it looks as if there’s a good little loop I could do on the Viking trail, and maybe today I’ll try that. (Navigating ski trails can be like figuring out Mexican roads, so if you don’t hear from me in a week or so, call somebody.)

  Oh yeah: I’m glad you liked Islands in the Stream. It was made into a beautiful movie too, with George C. Scott, Claire Bloom, and David Hemming as the “rummy.” (Maybe the boys would like to rent it one night, hmm?) In the movie version, they did a great job with that last line: “You never understand about anybody that loves you.”

  Haven’t my last couple of letters been talking about just that kind of stuff?

  Deep, man.

  Later, baby, NEP

  [Letter to Hugh Syme, my partner in the art direction of Rush album covers since 1975, as well as the cover of The Masked Rider book, the instructional video on drumming, A Work in Progress, and the two

  Buddy Rich tribute albums which I had produced]

  Feb. 11, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.

  Dear Hugh,

  Sorry I’ve been out of touch for so long, but . . . I’ve been having a bad year. (I’ve also developed a certain gift for understatement.) However, I’m sure I’ll get over all this, and get back to some kind of a life, in, oh, about 10,000 years. Until then, I’ll just try to stay active. That’s it — just look busy. (Like the bumper sticker, “Jesus is Coming/ Look Busy.”)

  I’ve been back here in Quebec for about six weeks now, after a four-month motorcycle odyssey on what I came to call the “Healing Road.” That road doesn’t really have a destination, of course, but there are some nice views along the way, and that’s what did me good. You can imagine that coming back from Barbados, after losing Jackie too, I was pretty much shot down. I didn’t like anything, didn’t care about anything, and didn’t want to do anything. A dangerous time.

  So, in the process of trying to rebuild something, I tried things I used to like, to see if they were any good. A few of life’s “consolations” crept back to me; though nothing was ever how it used to be. During the six months Jackie and I spent in London, I started to be able to read again, and then started walking: for miles around London, Regents Park Canal and Primrose Hill in the north, along the river to St. Paul’s in the east, west through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens to Holland Park, or south through Kensington and Chelsea to Hammersmith Bridge. March, march, march . . .

  In Barbados, it was bird-watching, which has continued to divert me on my recent travels, and in Barbados I also took up bicycling again. With Jackie’s blessing (as the one, after all, who had bought me my first grown-up bicycle, which really started something, and then my first motorcycle, which started a whole other something), I bought a mountain bike, and every second morning got out and lost myself in the hills and the heat of the northern part of the island.

  Rowing came back to me last summer, and out on the lake I hauled furiously at the oars of my sleek little rowboat, venting some energy, and some anger. (Yep, I carry around a fair amount of that useless commodity, and say lots of bad words in the course of a day.)

  During my long, dark teatime of the soul, dragged under by that maëlstrom of unending nightmare and horror, I could only cling to family and close, family-type friends, and fortunately they came through for me in a life-changing way.

  From experience and the reading of many “grief books” (now there’s a cheerful area of study), I know that it’s up to me to reestablish contact with the people I want to continue to have in my “new life.” (Them that’s willing, anyway.)

  These days, I’m slowly starting to reach out to other old friends, a letter at a time, and I do still enjoy this process of putting words together, of trying to express things. However, at the moment my ambition ends there. Or here. Letter-writing is sufficient for now, and I’m certainly not about to push myself too hard. It’s enough for me to do a little “communicating” every day, and to take my little baby soul out for a ride. With a few other bits and pieces of daily chores, that’s my job.

  Sure I know there’s probably a powerful book to be woven out of my life, out of my recent “travels,” both existential and geographical, and even including strands from the Rush tour, but I also know that making a book like that would be perishing hard work. I’m not ready for that yet. As the Kilimanjaro guides advise you on making the ascent, pole, pole. Slowly, slowly.

  My previous enthusiasm for life and work has taken a serious blow too. Now it’s hard to imagine that anything matters very much, and of course that’s just the opposite of the mindset it takes to get obsessed with doing something. So I just keep moving.

  Out on the road, I started calling myself “The Ghost Rider,” for I felt so alienated and isolated from all the normal life around me, I carried so many “ghosts” with me (in my “baggage” as it were) and was often travelling in the “vapor trails” left by older ghosts too, as I visited landscapes reminiscent of Jack London, Ernest Hemingway, Lewis and Clark, pioneers, prospectors (even some “ghost towns,” which made for a deep metaphor), Pony Express riders, Mormons, Lakotas, Apaches, Aztecs, and all the lost souls of the past.

  I started a series of “Ghost Rider” photographs, where I would stop in the middle of an empty road, park my bike on the centerstand so it looked as if it was riding along, then run back down the road to take a photo from behind, of bike, diminishing highway, and surrounding landscape. Once I hit on that idea, it became my “device,” and I’ve got some great shots like that taken in the sagebrush desert of the Great Basin, the creosote desert of the Mojave, the massive stone monoliths of Monument Valley, the cactus deserts of Arizona and Baja California, and even on muddy roads through the rainforest in Central America.

  Long ago, Geddy told me that he was working with you on the packaging for a live album, but I’ve neither heard the music nor seen the artwork. That’s another area where I feel seriously divided, for all of that kind of work came out of the old me, and I feel especially alienated from “the guy that was in the band.” (Some serious personality breakdown here; I could be doing a “Sybil” in reverse, fragmenting from one into many. Cool!)

  But whenever I’ve tried to listen to Rush music, or even watch my instructional video, it just doesn’t feel like me. Hard to explain, but even harder to live with, so I stay away from that area. In fact, music in general is weird for me. I can hardly imagine life without some kind of music in it, but I have to be careful of its emotional power. You’ll remember from your art history that Aristotle defined the purpose of art as catharsis, the vicarious trigger and release of emotion. Well, I don’t need none of that Greek stuff; I’ve got plenty of emotion being triggered and released all the time, and it ain’t vicarious.

  Also, if you think of music as “the soundtrack of your life,” then perhaps you’ll understand that these days, that’s the kind of music I don’t need reminding of. (It was a bad movie, man, at least the ending was, even if the music was good.) And I’m no longer interested in exploring new music, or keeping “current,” and don’t listen to the radio.

  So I’ve been listening to neutral sorts of things, like Big Frank (Sinatra, of course, the “swinging” stuff more than the sad songs), and a lot of ’80s music: stuff I can listen to for entertainment without none of that darn catharsis stuff.

  And now Brutus is “away” too. Fuck. (My favorite word lately.) I’m supposed to carry on without my daughter, my wife, my dog, and now my best friend. What kind of a test is this? And who signed me up for it?

  Well, I can only cling to the “Roll The Bones” philosophy, and not torment myself with questions of “why” and “fair.” It happened ’cause it happened; I’m here ’cause I’m here, and I’ll try to make the best of that shitty information.

  Otherwise, I’m doing “as well as can be expected.” I hope you are too.

  Your much-embattled friend, NEP

  [Letter to Mendelson Joe]

  Feb. 26, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.

  Dear Joe,
<
br />   First, a heartfelt “thank you.” That’s one of the most thoughtful things anyone’s done for me in a long time. The day I received your package [of acrylic paints, brushes, and artboards] I happened to be having a particularly bad day, so the beauty of your offering shone even brighter.

  I haven’t yet “squeezed any pigment,” but I notice that just the idea has already affected the pattern of my thoughts. For example, I find myself looking at the paintings in my house with different eyes — not just admiring the effects, but thinking about how they were done.

  One winter landscape of yours (lozengy yellow full moon over a frozen lake with ice-fishing hut) is one that I’ve always liked to “drift into,” but the other day I found myself thinking about those cunning shadows in the snow, “Hmm . . . how would I go about getting that effect with paint and brush . . .”

  Or I sit looking at my Ducati in the living room, watching the way light plays across its curvaceous shape in different tones of red, and think how I might mix the paints to capture a shape like that in pure color, rather than outline. These are “adventurous” thoughts, and you can see that your gift has already given my brain an interesting workout. We’ll see where it takes me from there.

  This week’s crisis for me has been the reverse of Spring Fever: the thaw is definitely coming, and I’m scared. Although we still have plenty of snow, and last week I went cross-country skiing every single day in perfect conditions, this week it’s already noticeable that the days are getting longer, the sun is getting stronger, and it will soon be over. Rain and mud and gloom are on the horizon, and my little baby soul doesn’t want to go out and play in that.

  Through January and February, I have been able to assemble a reasonably tolerable way of getting through the days and nights, as I’ve described to you before, but it’s time now to start thinking of new alternatives. You can be sure I’ll try squeezing pigment, for one thing, and there’s always my GS in Mexico City, if I need to find a way to move.

  I was mentioning in a letter to Brutus lately that since I’ve been back from my journey, I don’t miss the travelling so much, but I do miss the riding. Even when I go into the village here to the post office or grocery store, I wish I could take a motorcycle, and earlier this month I had to make a quick trip to Toronto, for business, medical, and dental reasons, and I would actually have enjoyed it if I could have made the journey on two wheels. Same with any invitations to visit friends or family: “Wait ’til motorcycle season.” (Up here, that can be as late as May, with all the sand, gravel, and broken pavement winter leaves behind on the local roads.)

  Geddy gave me a book recently called The Perfect Vehicle (“What It Is About Motorcycles”), by Melissa Holbrook Pierson, and I highly recommend it to you. This woman is a fine writer and a serious motorcyclist (Moto Guzzi, of all makes), and I’ve been joking lately that I may have to marry her — if she’s got any money.

  She writes movingly about the romance of motorcycles, and makes the same connection I have about the natural human yearning for motion. “We quiet our babies with cyclic movement, and we quiet ourselves by going.”

  Obviously, this woman understands my little baby soul . . .

  Funny you mentioned the ice on the lake. That’s something I’ve always been very cautious about, and have never liked to cross frozen water alone even when I know it’s safe (like now, when it’s been good and cold for months, and the ice is several feet thick). Sometimes I’ll go out there if I’m with someone, on snowshoes or skis, but I make them walk 40 or 50 feet away to the side, and carry ski poles as well. Just in case.

  Well, I got tired of guessing how thick the ice might be, especially early in the season, so just last week I bought an ice auger, like ice fishermen use, so that I can drill down and see for myself. Haven’t tried it yet, but it will be interesting to do some exploratory drilling here and there.

  Otherwise, I’ll hold onto these last few days of perfect winter, try to use them well, and know that they also give me something to look forward to next year — and that’s pretty important for me right now. Some days I don’t feel I’ve got all that much to look forward to (or perhaps much that I care to look forward to), so when I can think of cutting new trails next summer, or skiing and snowshoeing on them next winter, then that’s good for me.

  My little feathered friends have also offered another distraction, which is feeding them, and now I have three differerent kinds of bird feeders outside the kitchen window, offering mixed seeds, sunflower seeds, and a suet ball. So far I’ve only managed to attract a few chickadees, but they’re cute enough, and there are blue jays and lots of woodpeckers around here that should pick up the “free food” message, plus the spring migration will soon start (ach!) and bring in the “travellers.”

  Did you ever hear anyone lament the coming of spring so much? Well, of course it’s a matter of circumstance with me; I’ve got a tenuous balance going in my life right now, and the changing season is enough to disrupt it. Plus I think there are certain ways winter’s moods suit my little baby soul: the bleakness and cold austerity of the white landscape, the dormant woods, and the way my house, my sanctuary, is enclosed and protected by high banks of snow. Right now I’m more-or-less comfortable as a “winter soul,” and can’t really imagine being a “springtime soul.”

  I was reading somewhere lately that the chickadee might be considered the quintessential Canadian bird, for even on the bitterest winter day they’re cheerful and chirpy and active. Chickadees are winter souls too.

  However, they too must follow the seasons — adapt — and that’s the name of my game these days. Adapt or perish. So I shall carefully guide my little chickadee-soul into the grave new world of Spring.

  I remember you once describing the order in which you put together a landscape painting, starting with “what was there first,” and I’ve found that my own process of world-building has had to start with the land. The first things I began to appreciate were landscapes, highways, and wildlife, and of course they were the elements I needed to start building a world — from the ground up. Quite the task I have ahead of me: build a world, a person, and a life.

  Well, things are tough all over.

  Thanks again for your thoughtful present, Joe, and know that it’s already given me the great gift of “something nice to think about.” That’s pretty precious stuff to me these days, on the roller coaster ride of my so-called life.

  Last week I had a few days when I felt pretty good in the here-and-now; but this week I’ve had a few days when I felt pretty bad about everything. After the good days I actually suffered a twinge of guilt over whether I was maybe “getting over it” too easily, but I needn’t have troubled myself — the crash soon came. Those are the kinds of cycles I will also have to adapt to, I suppose, for which Dog give me the strength!

  (Or chickadees, anyway.)

  Yours, NEP

  [Letter to Brutus]

  le petit oiseau d’hiver

  Mar. 1, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.

  Hey Fahrvergnügen!

  A new day, a new week, a new month, and almost a new season too. Me, I’m not too happy about any of that, and this week I’ve had a bad attack of “reverse Spring Fever.” I sense the change coming, and it makes me feel cold and afraid.

  Hell, I was just getting some kind of grip on the idea of being a winter soul! I’ve come to realize that it’s not just the snowy activities that have been good for me and my little baby soul; it’s also as pervasive and elemental as the way the world around me looks — the austere and light-filled landscape. (When you think about it that way, to the visual cortex, summer is actually darker than winter.) In all these ways, the winter season suits my mood, and I also like that closed-in feeling, my sanctuary tucked away behind the deep snow and high snowbanks. Cozy, like.

  Though it’s not over yet, of course, for the snow is still deep and winter is most definitely still heavy upon the land, but last week the first signs of change started to appear. The days
are longer, and the sun is stronger, so that even when the temperature rises only one or two degrees above freezing, everything starts melting. Dripping off the eaves, pooling in the driveway, and gurgling in the eavestroughs.

  Yesterday was a particularly gloomy day of rain and sleet, though at least it turned to snow in the evening, and by this morning a few inches had “refreshed” the landscape nicely. The trees had been bare, the roads reverting to brown, and the snowbanks were pock-marked like that Athabasca Glacier we walked on in the rain up in the Columbia Icefields.

  However . . . I’m pleased to report that my bird-feeding station is becoming a big success in the neighborhood, at least with the chickadees, and I also had a couple of purple finches the other day. As the migration season approaches (alas!), I’m sure I’ll get more “exotics” passing through. It’s nice to have the little birdies to look at from my kitchen window. A bit of life out there.

  From The Birds of Canada:

  Whoever saw a dejected chickadee? Even on the greyest day of midwinter, when the thermometer remains below zero and the snow lies deep over the land, the chickadee is the personification of cheerfulness and good nature.

  Right on. So now my soul is a chickadee (though I don’t know about the “personification of cheerfulness and good nature,” but we’ll work on that). Trouble is, the robins are coming, and I can’t really picture my little chickadee as a “springtime soul.” So this past week has been a difficult one for me. “Transitional,” I suppose I could call it, to put the best possible gloss on it, but it felt more like . . . oh, let’s say “miserable.” This pathetic little question keeps rising to the scum on the surface of my brain: “What am I going to do?”