Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

by Neil Peart

  And it illustrates the gap that often separates people who apparently like the same things: like what I felt in Belize, for instance, at the nature lodges. One night, I was looking around at all the other guests, in their Tilley Endurables and soft-looking, yet pinched-up faces, and said to Steve and Shelly, “Does this mean we’re eco-tourists too?”

  Shelly said, “No way; we smoke and drink and swear too much.”

  Right on. Good thing, too.

  You’ve probably run into references to Abbey being considered an “embarrassment” to the Cause by the usual run of self-styled environmentalists (“No way, man — he’s not one of us”), because he liked to chase women, drink booze, smoke cigars, shoot guns, and kill snakes. (Somewhere I read that he used to throw beer cans out of his pickup onto the highway, as he explained, “Because it’s a highway.”)

  Another thing made me think of you today. As you know, I’ve been having trouble being decisive about what to do now; and I do mean now. Until yesterday, I hadn’t even left the house for three days (I feel like a prisoner, ha ha), and was starting to get a little . . . dark. Heavy. Dispirited.

  Today I was really trying to kick my ass to start making some phone calls and doing some serious organizing, but first I kicked that droopy butt o’ mine out the door, and made it go for a long walk. The rest of me went along too, to keep an eye on it. (Not easy, as you know.)

  The snow’s getting patchy on the exposed ridges hereabouts, islands of rock and brown leaves showing through, but where the snow is, it’s still deep. So I did the lap around Lac St. Ellwood once again, which, since Deb and I walked it a couple of weeks ago, I have measured with the car odometer and found to be slightly over 10K. It was sunny and about +5°C [42°F] but the wind had a real “cut” to it. Even so, with all those hills, I managed to work up a modest sweat, and most important, to “lose myself ” for awhile. (I couldn’t get away from myself completely, because I kept catching up to myself. Just think about that.)

  It being a Wednesday afternoon in mid-April, I didn’t see another soul. Only two or three cars in driveways, wood smoke from one chimney, and the sound of somebody hammering. The walk actually worked pretty well in inducing the “vacuum-brain” trance, but of course it didn’t produce any decisions, or get any organizing done.

  Later in the afternoon, I drove into town for flowers, groceries, and post office (just to show I could get something done), and what made me think of you was that, just past the village, a utility truck was blocking one lane as they worked on the lines. And what do you think? They had flag babes out there! [The signal workers, often female, who control the flow of traffic past a construction site.]

  Man, no one else I know would understand the effect that sight had on me, but you know there is nothing more evocative of the open road, at least our kind of roads, than flag babes. I laughed out loud at the strangeness of that notion, and all it conjured in me, and I knew right then it was a sign. Time to go.

  By the time you read this, I will be gone. (Sounds like one of those melodramatic letters from a dame or something.) Brad is driving up tomorrow to hang for a couple of days, then give me a lift to Tarannaw, where I’ll spend two or three days (oh joy) taking care of beeswax, collecting last-minute supplies, and like that.

  Last night, I called Andrew in L.A. to get the number of the Automobile Club of Southern California, so I can renew the insurance I bought from them, which expired on January 1st. He is urging me to stop by there and “rage” with him, and he was teasing me about Dave Foley’s girlfriend (apparently they’re not dating anymore) wanting me to come back there too — the one who said I was “a hottie.” (Me?) Well, I don’t know about any of that, but I had been thinking about riding that way; I wouldn’t mind seeing Freddie [my drum teacher, who lived in the San Fernando Valley], and maybe the Rich family [Buddy’s widow, Marie, daughter Cathy, her son Nick, and husband Steve, who I had become good friends with during the making of the Buddy Rich tribute records] in Palm Desert. But I don’t think I’ll know where I’m heading until I get there. (Now there’s an existential manifesto.)

  That’s the way it was last fall, and it worked okay; the decisions of routes and destination always seem clear on the day, so I’ll follow the laissez-faire approach.

  Might be I’ll just want to get back here as quick as I can.

  To add to the stuff that I have to deal with before I can fly away, the Toronto house appears to be sold. Given the family real-estate curse, I hesitate to believe it until it’s a done deal (closing May 28th) but it looks good, and of course, it would be a relief. After Jackie’s bequests to her family are taken care of, the remainder will at least help to pay my taxes this year. Oh joy.

  I’ll just be glad to have it all done, done, done.

  And now I’m gone, gone, gone, baby. It’s time for me to quit messing around, close this letter, and get on the phone. There’s a lot to do. I’ll write you from somewhere, of course, and hopefully it won’t be long before I’m right back here — where you know where to find me!

  Later, Chimichanga, Ghost Rider

  Though we live in trying times —

  We’re the ones who have to try

  Though we know that time has wings —

  We’re the ones who have to fly

  EVERYDAY GLORY, 1993

  Chapter 11

  BACK IN THE SADDLE

  Too many hands on my time

  Too many feelings —

  Too many things on my mind

  When I leave I don’t know

  What I’m hoping to find

  When I leave I don’t know

  What I’m leaving behind . . .

  THE ANALOG KID, 1982

  As the first part of my escape plan for mid-April, my good friend Brad drove up from his home in St. Catharines to spend a couple of days at the house by the lake. Of all my friends, I had known Brad the longest — since childhood — and with his wife, Rita, he had shared so profoundly in my bad times (Toronto, London, Barbados) that there was no one who was so comfortable for me to be with, or so comforting. I rode back with Brad as far as Toronto, where he dropped me at a hotel, for I needed to take care of some business before I flew out to Mexico City.

  Toronto had become a “ghost city” to me. I had lived there with Jackie and Selena for almost 15 years, and I still didn’t like spending time there. On those familiar streets, sudden memories could leap out and grab me.

  In a controlled environment like the house by the lake I had learned that I could arm myself against those memories, so that looking at the photos of Jackie and Selena everywhere, for example, became a part of something I was used to, and to which I had somehow adapted or accepted, maybe. Even in that house I would sometimes chance to look over my shoulder and get an unexpected glimpse of one of those photos, and feel a physical stab of unguarded pain.

  Thus, when I did have to spend some time in Toronto — where most of the “business of my life” was, after all, my doctor, dentist, accountant, lawyer, all that, as well as many of my friends — I would arrive in town wearing my “armor,” prepared to keep a close guard on where I went, what I looked at, and what I let myself feel.

  I had begun to develop the thinnest of skins around my little baby soul, and could sometimes steer my thoughts away from certain directions, and even actively prevent myself from feeling sad or despondent. Sometimes I could do that . . . but not all the time.

  One day it might even feel alright to be driving down Avenue Road and to look over at Brown School, where Selena had gone from kindergarten to Grade Six, while on another day it might make me crumble. One day I might be able to visit the cemetery plot and picture how the monument to the two of them was going to look when it was finished; other days just the idea of going there was unbearable.

  The cycle of grieving still felt to me like “one step forward, one step back,” though the progress I had measured since the summer might indicate it was “one step forward, one step back — less an inch.” My l
ittle baby soul moving in baby steps. Sometimes it seemed I was getting a little stronger, others it just felt like I was putting on a better performance, and if I was fooling anybody, I wasn’t fooling myself.

  I also noticed that I had started to grow different “masks” to go with that armor, and in retrospect I could see this process had begun back in August, when I first set out to go travelling. Because I still felt so raw, vulnerable, and alienated, it had been necessary for me to find a way to cope with the world, a “stance” from which I could face strangers every day — to make the normal small talk while checking into a motel, say, or during a chance encounter with a friendly stranger.

  My first defensive persona was John Ellwood Taylor, after the alias I had created for my credit cards (and my new Super 8 discount card), and the name went with the need for a character who was pragmatic, stoic, and quietly courteous. A travelling man, he kept to himself, looking after the motorcycle, reading maps and road signs, choosing motels, and giving strangers a shy smile.

  The Ghost Rider was another fairly separate facet of my personality, a more romantic, reflective character; the one who gave me the restless urge to keep wandering, who responded to the highways, landscapes, and wildlife; who chose the roads and scenery through which John Ellwood would navigate us.

  As time went on, I would notice more of these “adaptive personalities” emerging to fill necessary roles in my ongoing drama, all of them amplifications of some facet of the real me (whoever he was) which I could hide behind when I needed their protection, as it were. My ghostly bodyguards.

  However, I always felt centered as an entity, however amorphous (or polymorphous), and I thought of myself simply as a man made up of the remains of “the fool I used to be.” I was learning to face the world in all its guises, and I was starting to feel more comfortable with people, whatever mask and armor they might wear.

  Another factor driving me away was Selena’s approaching birthday, on April 22nd, and I knew I didn’t want to spend that day in Toronto. One thing I had learned from the books on grief and bereavement was that it was better to make a “ceremony” out of those kind of days — to find a way to memorialize the lost one in an appropriate fashion, and not think you could just glide by such a heavy date on the calendar. Like the memories, if you didn’t find a way to face up to them, they would ambush you.

  Thinking of what I had felt in the church in La Paz, down in Mexico, I thought the ancient cathedral in Mexico City might make a suitable setting for a private memorial service for Selena, so as haphazard as the rest of my life might be, I had carefully made my plans to get to Mexico City before that date.

  On April 21st I caught the overnight flight to Mexico City, and once again began to document the story of my life in “letters to Brutus.”

  Apr. 26, ’99 Creel, Chihuahua (Barranca del Cobre) [Copper Canyon]

  ¡El Cuervo Fantasma!

  It all started badly. At about one in the morning I arrived at the Four Seasons in Mexico City to find they were overbooked. So I got shunted over to the Marriott for a night. (Free, though!) Next morning, I allowed them to bow before me. Especially that sweet thing Monica, at the front desk. Man, they got some pretty señoritas around that place, as I’m sure you remember. (Not that we care.)

  That first day in Mexico was Selena’s birthday, and I had made careful plans on how to “memorialize” that day. Early in the morning, I walked to the big cathedral in the Zócalo, went inside and bought two princess-sized votive candles (the biggest they had, of course) and lit them in front of the chapel for “Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe” (because of a plaque about “mujere et niño,” so I substituted “niña”). I sat there awhile, and cried some (well, a lot), amid the pious old ladies, tourists, and construction workers.

  (From Cadillac Desert, I learned that the cathedral is sinking one foot a year, because of over-pumping the groundwater. Seems like that city just don’t have a chance. I also learned recently that 1,000 people a day are moving into the surrounding shantytowns. But things seem a little better than last year — the peso is up slightly, due to higher oil prices, which my buddy Erik at Moto Altavista [the BMW dealer] told me accounts for 60 per cent of Mexico’s exports.)

  After sitting there for a couple of hours watching the candles burn and sifting through some memories of Selena, letting the tears fall as they would, I went out and wandered around the streets of Mexico City in a jetlagged (and grief-drained) daze for the rest of that day, then had a good dinner and went to sleep.

  Next day, I made another visit to the Museo Antropológica to have a look at the exhibit on Palenque, then went down to San Angel to have a look at my bike, the poor old Viajero Fantasma. And don’t she look sweet now!

  All cleaned up, and fixed up with a new front fender, some other new “nose bits,” the scratched-up windscreen polished like new, and they even repainted the tank. On the negative side, they lost my little spare gas can (every time I’ve tried to buy one here, they’ve offered me a milk jug!), one passenger peg has disappeared, they forgot to install the tank-bag mount (noticed too late — they’ll mail it to me), and the “rider information display” doesn’t work, so no temperature gauge, fuel gauge, or clock. Oh well. (Not that we care.)

  Some more Mexico City facts for you: the population is thought to be 18 million now, and I saw an article in the Los Angeles Times about the dog-shit problem in the streets — apparently it dries up, floats into the air, and lands on the street food. (I can tell you what I wasn’t going to be eating in Mexico City.)

  Once again I noticed lots of heavily armed soldiers all over the city, especially outside the banks — I saw an armored car parked outside one bank, surrounded by about 10 soldiers with big guns.

  For obvious reasons, I planned my departure from Mexico City for Saturday morning. After four months off the bike, let’s start off with that kind of traffic. You know about that (‘course it wasn’t dark too!), and it sure felt weird for an hour or two. That first day I headed north, around the old Periférico, then a long stretch of “cuota” [toll highway] to San Luis Potosí, and over to Zacatecas.

  Much easier to find the Quinta Real this time! (Why, they even had some signs around town to help.) That place was great once again, at the end of a 640-kilometre [400-mile] first day, and they even had that same waiter in the restaurant — the guy with the amazing decorative orthodontics who chased us to our rooms to sign the bill. He looked older though. Not like us.

  Next day I finally got on some proper roads, empty two-lane through dry yellow country with scrub mesquite, prickly pear, creosote, and some tall yucca trees, similar to Joshuas, stretching back to the haze of distant hills. I made a brief photo-stop at Canutillo, the hacienda the government bought for Pancho Villa (to keep him quiet, I’m sure), then 80 kilometres [50 miles] north to Parral, where he got his “just deserts.” A group of townsmen, fed up with the dictatorial ways of the “generalissimo,” shot him and his buddies in their car. Now they have a huge equestrian statue of him there (though not as cool as the one on La Bufa in Zacatecas, which I could see silhouetted from my room at the Quinta Real), and apparently the Dodge touring car he was driving at the time is on display in Chihuahua. Bullet holes and all.

  And speaking of guns and bandidos, I had to go through a few army and police roadblocks today, but only one T-shirt-wearing cop felt he had to poke through my stuff. Man, I hate that. That one spoke English, at least, though that doesn’t really help — makes him more insistent in his questions, and me “mouthier” in my answers. Really ought to watch it.

  Just last night I finished reading Treasure of the Sierra Madre, which ought to remind me of what Mexico can be like! Then I started In Cold Blood (another cheery story) which mentions Treasure early on, as one of the bad guys’ favorite books.

  Anyway, that was another pretty long day — almost 700 kilometres [438 miles] — but by then I was back in the old scooterin’ groove, and it’s a good thing, because I was ready for today. I hadn’t bee
n thinking of coming this way, but my buddy Erik told me the road through Copper Canyon was “the best motorcycle road in all Mexico.”

  In mock disbelief, I asked, “Better than El Espinazo del Diablo?”

  He laughed at that, and said, “Even better.”

  He wasn’t lying.

  Everything good about that ride we did back in ’95 — the high Sierra, fragrant pine woods, incredible views, stunning rock formations in red and gray, twists and turns and terrifying dropoffs — but almost no traffic, and perfect pavement all the way. The bluest sky, the freshest air, the sweetest smell, the bestest riding. I thought of you so much. (Don’t think you’d have been able to keep up, though; I was using a lot of my Freddie Spencer moves. And all of my tires!)

  Then there was a side trip, about 60 kilometres [38 miles] of dirt leading to a Tarahumara [Indian] village at the bottom of the canyon. Well, yeah: we’re there, right? It combined the scariest elements of the road to Mike’s Sky Rancho (narrow track of rock, stones, dried mud, and loose gravel and dirt) and the road to Telegraph Creek (lonely, winding, tight switchbacks, and appalling dropoffs right beside you; don’t look down!), and it got hotter all the time. About 30 kilometres [19 miles] in I stopped at a sign in the middle of the road, “Camino Cerrado Por Obras.” Now, I figured if a Mexican road was closed, it must be really bad, and being sweltering, dusty, and scared enough already, I decided on “the better part of valor,” and turned around. Later I met some guys on a dual-sport tour (company called “Rosen-Rides,” out of Texas), who said they’d gone through and it had been “no worse,” but . . . well, I’ll save the rest of it to share with you.