Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

by Neil Peart

  A lifelong bachelor, at 70, Freddie was full of energy and enthusiasm, and was a certifiable one-of-a-kind (Buddy had once called him that, Freddie told me, then a year later had said, “I’ve changed my mind — you’re none of a kind!”). To be around Freddie was to hear a thousand stories about Buddy, and about his own eventful, even outrageous, life. Freddie’s stories would meander from the streets of Harlem or Greenwich Village in the ’40s and ’50s, or the Hollywood Hills in the ’60s and ’70s, and inevitably end up with a capper like, “and that young man on the Harlem rooftop who called himself Detroit Red later became known as . . . Malcolm X,” or “That young actor in New York who stole my girlfriend was . . . Marlon Brando,” or, “the man with the English accent by the pool next to Jack Nicholson’s house on Mulholland Drive was . . . Stanley Kubrick.”

  I had first met Freddie during the Burning For Buddy sessions in 1994, when I listened to Steve Smith’s playing — always a great drummer, he had suddenly become a monster, so musical and with such beautiful technique — and I asked him, “What happened to you?” He had smiled and said, “Freddie.”

  So I arranged to get together with Freddie myself later that year, in New York City, and over that week (and the next year or so of daily practice) he guided me through a complete reinvention of my approach to the drums (no small undertaking after 30 years of playing, but a challenge that proved rewarding and productive). Thus Freddie had become one of the key people in my life — those who appear exactly when you need them, and only when you are ready for them. I call it the “principle of serendipitous confluence.” Or more simply, finding the right person at the right time.

  [Letter to Brutus]

  May 6, ’99 Encino, CA

  Buenas dias, compañero —

  Yep, here I am, hangin’ at Freddie’s “pad,” man. How can I begin to put you in the picture? Well, it’s a quiet suburb in the San Fernando Valley, tidy streets with manicured postage-stamp lawns, cypresses, pines, lemons, and orange trees symmetrically placed, and the small lots entirely filled with narrow bungalows, and back yards usurped by modest swimming pools. One of those narrow bungalows is Freddie’s, and the driveway features a faded brown Rambler two-door from about 1960 (his late mother’s) and a ’71 Firebird, also faded brown, and also a neglected non-runner. Behind them is an early Infiniti, a black convertible-conversion job, and on the street out front is a mid-’70s Dodge four-door, the “daily driver.”

  Inside is where the description becomes difficult. Small rooms filled with bits and pieces of flea-market furniture, boxes stacked against walls, table covered with neatly stacked papers and photos, an ancient stereo, a built-in bar with white naugahyde padding, behind it a four-foot stack of bags and boxes full of stuff, closets and racks of hanging clothes that probably go back 50 years, those crammed into a room with a battered drumset, muffled with pads and towels, and the little kitchen, wallpapered long ago in formerly bright yellow flowers, every surface covered with dishes, pots and pans, unused appliances, bits of paper, and a miniature TV. Everywhere in the house, thousands of magazines about drums and jazz, and nothing else. (No current events, no gossip, no American “lifestyles.”)

  And you know, I like it here. After escaping the insidious temptations of La-la (more about that in a minute), I rode up through Laurel Canyon to Mulholland Drive (given new meaning these days, not only knowing who he was, but what a gigantic figure he was in local history), with hazy L.A. on one side and the hazy valley on the other, and some truly great riding through those treacherous and famously deadly curves. I stopped here yesterday afternoon, just to see Freddie and maybe have a coffee, let him talk for awhile, then continue on my way.

  But now I’m settled into the sweltering back bedroom with the roll-away cot, Mickey Mouse comforter, boxes, magazines about drums and jazz, a “trilight” pole-lamp in the corner, a broken aluminum lawn chair, a TV table (no TV), a bedside lamp that doesn’t work, and a bottle of The Macallan — and I don’t want to leave! It’s a hideaway, a sanctuary, a place where a guy can just hang. Though it’s obvious that Freddie totally puts me to shame at being “bachelor with a vengeance” (an inspiration!), the whole thing simply works, perhaps like Le Corbusier’s description of a house: “a machine for living.” Like the old Rambler or the naughahyde bar, it might not be exactly fully functional, but really, what’s that got to do with it?

  In context of Freddie, it’s simply right. The machine works. You don’t use the dishes in the cupboard, for they’ve been stacked there since he moved in — 14 years ago. So you use the ones in the drying rack. The freezer is packed with white plastic bags of something-or-other, but no ice. The fridge has a few containers of prepared deli food, stuff that Freddie can heat up in the middle of the night when he gets hungry. If the gold velvet couch is covered with bags of laundry and magazines, Freddie moves them aside, covers them neatly with a striped towel (!), and you stretch out. Apparently the blinds in my little room haven’t been opened in 14 years — never mind the window — but hey, they open! The old Dodge runs. The pool is clean. Lemons grow in the yard. The sun shines. I’m not leaving.

  See, I had a very confusing time back there, “over the hill.” And yes, as you might expect, it’s about a woman. Oh man. You remember I told you about meeting that young Canadian girl, Gabrielle, the last time I was here? At the time I didn’t even think about thinking about her (for about a million good reasons), not even for a second, but later Andrew told me that she was always talking about me, and said I was a “hottie” (nobody ever called me that before!). I blushed and was pleased about that, especially given my present state of existential insecurity, but I didn’t take the idea at all seriously. Especially given my present state of existential insecurity.

  This time, however, she got to me. You know — she shot me with that look that wimmen have. [Recap of the “Don’t leave town without talking to me” night.]

  So, as we began, I’m hiding out at Freddie’s pad, my retreat, my hideaway, my sanctuary, where hopefully I can talk some sense into myself, and stop thinking about that girl.

  Say it again, “No, no, no.”

  You know me well enough to understand there’s no being “casual” about a thing like this, and I sure don’t want to mess with her life — especially given my present state of etc.

  I mean, really.

  But of course, one is helpless in the grip of such thoughts and feelings, and I can only try to summon the strength to keep running. Get back on the road and ride. I’m far from ready to deal with the ramifications of what all this means — even presuming the notion should even be entertained for, like, two minutes. How stupid can a guy be? Well, in the words of the Brain, “Time will tell, Pinky, time will tell.”

  I’m sure you get the picture. One confused and scared little soul sitting here on Freddie’s gold velvet couch. Drinking. Freddie’s out at the dentist and nutritionist, or I’d never have got a word in edgewise (even on paper), but even when he’s here, part of Freddie’s uniqueness is that he’s so damn oblivious to the rest of the world. Right now, this works for me.

  He has this radio station playing all the time (from the bathroom, at the moment) with a format of “America’s greatest music,” pretty much regardless of era or style, and they do play a lot of great songs. Like, “Go Away Little Girl.” “Crazy.” “Unchained Melody.” “I Got it Bad, and That Ain’t Good.” “I’ve Got a Crush on You.” “I’ve Got You Under my Skin.”

  And one that got me last night, dedicated to you and me: “Our Day Will Come.”

  Now they’re playing “The Way We Were.” Oh man. Weigh that one up, for you or for me, and fall to little tiny pieces.

  May 8, ’99 Bishop, CA

  I stole away from Freddie’s place about 10:30 this morning, leaving him a note, then headed up the “eastern California” route — 395 through Mojave, Big Pine, Lone Pine, and past Owens “Lake” to Bishop, the center of the whole Owens Valley ripoff. The same road goes all the way up through Reno, t
hen back into northern California, Oregon, and right into Washington. The other day I noticed the Grand Coulee Dam (the biggest?) on the map, so I might pass by there on the way (to where I’m not sure — maybe Vancouver again).

  Right now, the main thing is: Get the hell out of California! Especially given my present state of existential insecurity.

  Bye Bye, love — Or at least infatuation . . . A rattled Ghost Rider

  My little baby soul had been thrown into total disarray by these totally unexpected — and just as totally unwanted — feelings, and as I rode northward, I went over and over it in my mind. In a way it seemed simple enough; if this girl was interested in me, and I was interested in her, I should just ask her out on a date and see how it went. But it was not in my nature ever to be so casual, about anything, and there were so many complications my wretched brain had to sift through, from trying to understand the real nature of my feelings (never easy), to the heavy-duty question I couldn’t help asking myself: What would Jackie and Selena think about this?

  My journal entry that night captures my state of mind pretty well:Still tormented and confused, but moving in the right direction — away.

  Can’t believe the state of me, in all ways. Trying hard to get a grip, but part of me says “surrender” — turn around and go back.

  How did I let this happen?

  After all my big talk about bachelorhood etc.

  What a fool.

  So for the time being I just kept riding, hoping time and distance would help me regain whatever “balance” I had attained before that fateful second stay in Los Angeles. I was learning a lesson about how much I could “control” my feelings, and along the way I adopted a new motto: “You can’t tell yourself how to feel.”

  With the kind of serendipity novels sometimes provide, or reveal, it happened that at the time I was reading Joseph Conrad’s Victory (which I had been inspired to pick up because of a fan letter Jack London had written to Conrad praising it), and I was struck by the parallels with my recent experiences and their effects with those of the main character, Heyst. While I was reading, a couple of times I made myself stop and copy out a passage into my journal, so wonderfully did they reflect my own state.

  Where could he have gone to, after all these years? Not a single soul belonging to him lived anywhere on earth. Of this fact — not such a remote one, after all — he had only lately become aware; for it is failure that makes a man enter into himself and reckon up his resources. And though he had made up his mind to retire from the world in hermit fashion, yet he was irrationally moved by this sense of loneliness which had come to him in the hour of renunciation. It hurt him. Nothing is more painful than the shock of sharp contradictions that lacerate our intelligence and our feelings.

  “I’ll drift,” Heyst had said to himself deliberately.

  He did not mean intellectually or sentimentally or morally. He meant to drift altogether and literally, body and soul, like a detached leaf drifting in the wind-currents under the immovable trees of a forest glade; to drift without ever catching onto anything.

  “This shall be my defence against life,” he had said to himself with a sort of inward consciousness that for the son of his father there was no other worthy alternative.

  He became a waif and a stray, austerely, from conviction, as others do through drink, from vice, from some weakness of character — with deliberation, as others do in despair. This, stripped of its facts, had been Heyst’s life up to that disturbing night. Next day, when he saw the girl called Alma, she managed to give him a glance of frank tenderness, quick as lightning, and leaving a profound impression, a secret touch on the heart.

  [Letter to Brutus]

  May 11, ’99 Salish Lodge Snoqualmie Falls, WA

  Hey-Zeus,

  This is definitely a Scooter Trash kind of place. Overlooking the actual falls from the opening of “Twin Peaks” (a lot of the locations were shot in this area, according to Deb’s TV America book, which we’ll have to get. For example, did you know that “Grizzly Adams” was shot in Kanab, Utah?). It’s a four-diamond hotel, with a four-diamond restaurant — which is where we two are now, just finishing an exquisite salmon chowder with a delicate Sonoma wine (we’re snobs about that now, after our visit to St. Helena last fall, where we found the relatively quiet Sonoma Valley — and Jack London State Park — much more simpático than the parade through Napa), and awaiting the main course of sturgeon (had to try it; how often do you see that on a menu?), though you might opt for the venison, or the rack of lamb.

  So, since my last letter, mailed from Alturas, California, another superlative day on 395, which we hereby christen one of the great American roads. This morning I rode through the treeless grasslands and center-pivot-irrigated farms of eastern Washington, thoroughly enjoying the underrated scenery and empty, winding roads of the Columbia basin, and stopped at the Grand Coulee Dam (it was large).

  But first let me tell you about yesterday’s ride: 834 kilometres [521 miles] from Alturas to Connell, Washington, a tiny farm town, where I got tired enough to stop. Looking over my journal notes, they might give a good sketch of those two days. So here goes:

  May 9 Bishop — Alturas 108,208 (620 kms) [388 miles]

  Here at the “Pizza and Pasta Place,” for the lasagna special. Nice enough day, bright and sunny, though cold — always around 5,000 feet, with snow-capped mountains in view most of the time. Sagebrush and junipers, rather than forested mountains I expected from map — or half-expected, more like.

  Restaurant full of older couples for Mothers Day, which is both cute and cruel. One presumes that Alturas hasn’t much more to offer than this place. Note Super 8 guy described it as an “Eyetalian” restaurant.

  Called Mom this morning (two years ago, Brutus and I called our Moms from Coalinga, not so far away), but got no answer. Caught her later, and talked to Deb too.

  Playing in Reno: James Brown, Lou Rawls, Engelbert, Wayne Newton.

  Small town trying to stay alive — county seat of Modoc County, with courthouse, few motels and restaurants, one old hotel (are any of those places habitable?), sporadic cinema, video rental store, grocery store, bottle shop, couple of “antique” stores. Nice little place, really, with park, museum (closed unfortunately) and decent-looking streets, murals on many old walls — cross-country skier, cyclist, fly fisherman, old cars on GM dealer wall. Altogether, probably in better shape than 10 years ago.

  Reading Great Plains by Ian Frazier — obviously a kindred spirit.

  May 10 Alturas — Connell, WA 109,042 (834 kms) [521 miles]

  Onward up 395, truly a great American road. Cold this morning: ice under irrigation wheels. Saw temp. 44°F at noon. Farmland, rangeland, sage and juniper, alkali lakes, long stretch alongside Goose Lake with “rimrock” formations, Hogback Summit at 5,039 feet, then pure sage and rocky outcrops to Wagontire, Oregon. Up into pinewoods around John Day (got in trouble for passing in “pilot line”), then out to rounded grasslands after Battle Mountain. Suddenly open far and wide. Across the Columbia twice, through franchise nightmare of “Tri-cities,” Pasco, Kennewick, and Richland [at confluence of Columbia and Snake], and on into irrigated farmland.

  Now dinner at Michael Jay’s family restaurant. Staying next door at M & M Motel, $30. Lots of truckers and construction pickups. Good long ride for thinking. Only busy around Columbia, otherwise smooth cruising.

  And we’re in the bar now, enjoying a Martell Cordon Bleu with espresso. Quite a step up from the past few days of Super 8, M & M motels, and “family restaurants.”

  And well-deserved, after the day that today turned into. The only two times on this whole long journey (taking it all together, from the beginning in Quebec last August) when I’ve had serious stomach problems were after a dinner at the “Home” restaurant in Hope, B.C., and after breakfast at “Michael Jay’s Family Restaurant” this morning in Connell, Washington. And that includes criss-crossing Mexico and Belize. Today, caught out in the middle of wide-open sage
brush and low, irrigated fields, without a stick of cover, found me crouched behind a couple of hay bales at the roadside, groaning and purging . . .

  Then there was the weather. Here’s the journal entry, with a couple of early scribbles I didn’t want to forget:

  May 11 Connell — Snoqualmie Falls 109,588 (546) [341 miles]

  Lind, WA — Combine [harvester] demolition derby!

  Center-pivot irrigation everywhere.

  Bird: orange head, black and white wings [Yellow-headed blackbird]

  [Later] Well, here at Salish Lodge. Seems to me only the waterfall was in “Twin Peaks,” but it is cool. Made the run to Grand Coulee Dam, great ride on excellent, empty roads, and even better after: river bluffs, lakes, winding road. Great part of Northwest around there, for scenery and weather.

  ALSO: actually called Gabrielle! The words came into my head this morning: “The answer is yes.” Felt like a goofy teenager about it, but got her number from Andrew and made myself call her. Made a date to go back there after Vancouver. Now I’ll be increasingly terrified for the next week. Oh well. It’s certainly sparked up my life already, just thinking about her. And now, making a move. Well done.