Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

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by Neil Peart
     
 

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In less than a year, Neil Peart lost both his 19-year-old daughter, Selena, and his wife, Jackie. Faced with overwhelming sadness and isolated from the world in his home on the lake, Peart was left without direction. That lack of direction lead him on a 5  See more details below

Overview

In less than a year, Neil Peart lost both his 19-year-old daughter, Selena, and his wife, Jackie. Faced with overwhelming sadness and isolated from the world in his home on the lake, Peart was left without direction. That lack of direction lead him on a 5

Editorial Reviews

CNN Headline News
An account of Peart's self-imposed exile and travels to grieve the deaths of his wife and daughter, who both died within a year of each other.... Peart's story reminded me of Theodore Roosevelt's travel West to overcome the sorrow of losing his wife and mother, who both died on the same day....Why is it that many troubled souls seek out the open road for comfort and clarity? ...When the chemistry of outward experience and inward soul searching combine, it makes for good traveling on the healing road.
—Mike Fink
Altfresh
Well-written, harrowing and filled with just-right touches of levity, Ghost Rider is a necessary story about the human condition.
Library Journal
Peart (The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa), drummer and lyricist for the rock band Rush, suffered unthinkable tragedy in 1997: his only daughter, Selena, died in an automobile accident and, shortly thereafter, his wife of 22 years died of cancer. Feeling that he had no reason to live and unable to sit still, Peart climbed on his BMW motorcycle and rode 55,000 miles in 14 months in an attempt to escape the pain by remaining in motion. The motorcycle journey took him from Quebec to Alaska, down the Canadian and American coasts and through the western regions, to Mexico and Belize, and eventually back to Quebec. This touching book is a collection of his journal entries and letters to friends as he rides through all kinds of topography and weather and meets various characters and relatives along the way. Peart's writing is lyrical and his tale poignant, fully capturing an extraordinary journey, both as travel adventure and as memoir. Recommended for most collections. [This book is already a best seller in Canada.-Ed.]-Melinda Stivers Leach, Precision Editorial Svcs., Wondervu, CO Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781554907069
Publisher:
ECW Press
Publication date:
06/01/2002
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
400
Sales rank:
100,175
File size:
2 MB

Read an Excerpt

Ghost Rider

Travels on the Healing Road


By Neil Peart, Paul McCarthy, Kevin Connolly

ECW PRESS

Copyright © 2002 Neil Peart
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55490-706-9



CHAPTER 1

INTO EXILE


You can go out, you can take a ride
And when you get out on your own
You get all smoothed out inside
And it's good to be alone

FACE UP, 1991


Outside the house by the lake the heavy rain seemed to hold down the darkness, grudging the slow fade from black, to blue, to gray. As I prepared that last breakfast at home, squeezing the oranges, boiling the eggs, smelling the toast and coffee, I looked out the kitchen window at the dim Quebec woods gradually coming into focus. Near the end of a wet summer, the spruce, birch, poplars, and cedars were densely green, glossy and dripping.

For this momentous departure I had hoped for a better omen than this cold, dark, rainy morning, but it did have a certain pathetic fallacy, a sympathy with my interior weather. In any case, the weather didn't matter; I was going. I still didn't know where (Alaska? Mexico? Patagonia?), or for how long (two months? four months? a year?), but I knew I had to go. My life depended on it.

Sipping the last cup of coffee, I wrestled into my leathers, pulled on my boots, then rinsed the cup in the sink and picked up the red helmet. I pushed it down over the thin balaclava, tightened the plastic rainsuit around my neck, and pulled on my thick waterproof gloves. I knew this was going to be a cold, wet ride, and if my brain wasn't ready for it, at least my body would be prepared. That much I could manage.

The house on the lake had been my sanctuary, the only place I still loved, the only thing I had left, and I was tearing myself away from it unwillingly, but desperately. I didn't expect to be back for a while, and one dark corner of my mind feared that I might never get back home again. This would be a perilous journey, and it might end badly. By this point in my life I knew that bad things could happen, even to me.

I had no definite plans, just a vague notion to head north along the Ottawa River, then turn west, maybe across Canada to Vancouver to visit my brother Danny and his family. Or, I might head northwest through the Yukon and Northwest Territories to Alaska, where I had never travelled, then catch the ferry down the coast of British Columbia toward Vancouver. Knowing that ferry would be booked up long in advance, it was the one reservation I had dared to make, and as I prepared to set out on that dark, rainy morning of August 20th, 1998, I had two and a half weeks to get to Haines, Alaska — all the while knowing that it didn't really matter, to me or anyone else, if I kept that reservation.

Out in the driveway, the red motorcycle sat on its centerstand, beaded with raindrops and gleaming from my careful preparation. The motor was warming on fast idle, a plume of white vapor jetting out behind, its steady hum muffled by my earplugs and helmet.

I locked the door without looking back. Standing by the bike, I checked the load one more time, adjusting the rain covers and shock cords. The proverbial deep breath gave me the illusion of commitment, to the day and to the journey, and I put my left boot onto the footpeg, swung my right leg high over the heavily laden bike, and settled into the familiar saddle.

My well-travelled BMW R1100GS (the "adventure-touring" model) was packed with everything I might need for a trip of unknown duration, to unknown destinations. Two hard-shell luggage cases flanked the rear wheel, while behind the saddle I had stacked a duffel bag, tent, sleeping bag, inflatable foam pad, groundsheet, tool kit, and a small red plastic gas can. I wanted to be prepared for anything, anywhere.

Because I sometimes liked to travel faster than the posted speed limits, especially on the wide open roads of the west — where it was safe in terms of visible risks, but dangerous in terms of hidden enforcement — I had decided to try using a small radar detector, which I tucked into my jacket pocket, with its earpiece inside the helmet.

A few other necessities, additional tools, and my little beltpack filled the tankbag in front of me, and a roadmap faced up from a clear plastic cover on top. The rest of the baggage I would carry away with me that morning had less bulk, but more weight — the invisible burdens that had driven me to depart into what already seemed like a kind of exile.

But at that moment, before I'd turned a wheel or even pushed off the centerstand, I reaped the first reward of this journey, when my thoughts and energies contracted and narrowed their focus to riding the machine. My right hand gently rolled on the throttle a little more, left hand wiped away the raindrops already collecting on my clear faceshield, then pulled in the clutch lever. My left foot toed the shifter down into first gear, and I moved slowly up the lane between the wet trees. At the top I paused to lock the gate behind me, wiped off my faceshield again, and rode out onto the muddy gravel road, away from all that.

Just over a year before that morning, on the night of August 10,1997, a police car had driven down that same driveway to bring us news of the first tragedy. That morning my wife Jackie and I had kissed and hugged our nineteen-year-old daughter, Selena, as she set out to drive back to Toronto, ready to start university that September. As night came on, the hour passed when we should have heard from her, and Jackie became increasingly worried. An incorrigible optimist (back then, at least), I still didn't believe in the possibility of anything bad happening to Selena, or to any of us, and I was sure it was just teenage thoughtlessness. She would call; there'd be some excuse.

When I saw headlights coming down the driveway to where the house lights showed the markings of a police car, I remembered the previous summer when the provincial police came to ask about a robbery down the road, and I thought it must be something like that. A mother has a certain built-in radar detector, however, and the moment I announced that it was the police, I saw Jackie's eyes go wide and her face turn white; she knew.

Instinctively, I took her hand as we went out to the driveway to face the local police chief, Ernie Woods. He led us inside and showed us the fax he had received from the Ontario Provincial Police, and we tried to take in his words: "bad news," "maybe you'd better sit down." Then we tried to read the black lines on the paper, tried to make sense of the incomprehensible, to believe the unacceptable. My mind was reeling in a hopeless struggle to absorb those words. "Single car accident," "apparently lost control," "dead at the scene."

"No," Jackie breathed, then louder, "NO," again and again, as she collapsed to the floor in the front hall. At first I just stood there, paralyzed with horror and shock, and it was only when I saw Jackie start to get up that I felt afraid of what she might do, and I fell down beside her and held her. She struggled against me and told me to let her go, but I wouldn't. Our big white Samoyed, Nicky, was frightened and confused by all this, and he barked frantically and tried to push between us. Chief Ernie was afraid to touch the dog, I wouldn't let go of Jackie, and Nicky was trying to protect somebody, to make us stop this, so it was pandemonium as the two of us kicked and yelled at him while his shrill barks echoed through the house.

I held onto Jackie until she was overcome by the numbing protection of shock, and asked Chief Ernie to call our local doctor. Time was all meaningless now, but at some point Nicky crept away to hide somewhere and Dr. Spunt came and tried to say comforting things, but we were unreceptive. Sometime later, Chief Ernie left, then Dr. Spunt too, and for the rest of the night I walked endlessly around the living-room carpet (what I learned later is called the "search mode," in which I was unconsciously "trying to find the lost one," just as some animals and birds do), while Jackie sat and stared into space, neither of us saying anything. In the gray twilight of morning we put the downcast Nicky in the car and headed for Toronto, driving through the rain to face the end of the world.

Just before those headlights came down the driveway to turn our relatively pleasant and tranquil lives into a waking nightmare, Jackie had been fretting on the porch while I blithely watched a TV documentary about the Mormon trek west in 1847. It quoted a woman who had survived the ordeal about the terrible hardships they had endured, and the last words I remember were, "The only reason I am alive is because I could not die." That terrible phrase would come back to haunt me in the months that followed. It soon became apparent that Jackie's world was completely shattered forever; she had fallen to pieces, and she never came back together again.

And neither did the two of us, really, though I tried to do everything I could for her. As my life suddenly forced me to learn more than anyone ever wanted to know about grief and bereavement, I learned the sad fact that most couples do not stay together after losing a child. Outrageous! So wrong, so unfair, so cruel, to heap more pain and injustice on those who had suffered so much already. In my blissful ignorance, I would have imagined the opposite — that those who most shared the loss would cling to each other. But no.

Maybe it's because the mutually bereaved represent a constant reminder to each other, almost a reproach, or it might run as deep as the "selfish genes" rejecting an unsuccessful effort at reproduction. Whatever it was, it was harsh to think that Jackie and I had survived 22 years of common-law marriage; had managed to stay together through bad times and good (with only a couple of "temporary estrangements"); through poverty and wealth, failure and success, crises of youth and midlife and middle age (she was 42; I was 45); through all the stages of Selena's childhood and adolescence; and even my frequent absences, both as a touring musician and an inveterate traveller. We had made it through all that, and now the loss of what we each treasured most would drive us apart.

During those first awful weeks in Toronto our friends and family filled the House of Mourning day and night, trying to distract us and help us deal with this unbearable reality as best they could, but Jackie remained inconsolable, pining and withering visibly into a fragile, suffering wraith. One time she shook her head and looked up at me, "Don't be hurt, but I always knew this was the one thing I just couldn't handle."

She wouldn't let me comfort her, and didn't want anything to do with me really. It was as though she knew she needed me, but her tortured heart had no place in it for me, or anybody. If she couldn't have Selena, she no longer wanted anything — she just wanted to die. She had to be coaxed into eating anything at all, and talked of suicide constantly. I had to keep a close watch on her sedatives and sleeping pills, and make sure she was never left alone. When she did surrender to a drugged sleep, she held a framed picture of Selena in her arms.

After a couple of weeks I took Jackie away to London, England, accompanied by our friends Brad and Rita. I had known Brad since childhood, and in the early '70s he and I had shared a flat in London, where he had met Rita, a refugee from the Shah's Iran, and brought her back to Canada. Brad and Rita had known great tragedy in their own lives, so they were a good choice to help Jackie and me begin our exile. After they went home, other friends came to stay with us for a week or two at a time, and eventually we moved into a small flat near Hyde Park, where we stayed for six months. We started seeing a grief counsellor, "Dr. Deborah," several times a week at the Traumatic Stress Clinic, which seemed to help a little, and at least got us outside occasionally. It was hard for me to try to force Jackie even to take a walk, for she was tortured by everything she saw — by advertisements for back-to-school clothes (Selena!), children playing in the park (Selena!), young girls on horseback taking riding lessons (Selena!), pretty young women in the full pride of youth (Selena!). These same triggers stabbed me too, of course, and I also felt bleak and morose and often tearful, but it seemed I was already building a wall against things which were too painful for me to deal with, wearing mental blinkers when I was outside in the busy streets of London. I would just flinch and turn away from such associations, but Jackie remained raw and vulnerable, unable to protect herself from the horror of memory.

In an effort to keep her eating nutritiously, I even learned to cook simple meals in our little kitchenette (thanks to the food hall in the Marks and Spencer store on Oxford Street, which offered cooking instructions with every item, even fresh fish and vegetables), calling myself "Chef Ellwood," after my unfortunate middle name. But none of it was enough. As I tried to look after Jackie in every way I could, only ever leaving her alone for a fast afternoon walk around the park or through the London streets (with the pills locked in the safe), or to buy the day's groceries, it was like witnessing a suicide brought on by total apathy. She just didn't care.

The following January, when we were finally thinking about returning from London to try to find some kind of life back in Canada, Jackie began to suffer from severe back pain and nocturnal coughing. She refused to let me get a doctor, saying, "They'll just say it's stress," but Dr. Deborah finally prevailed on me to make an executive decision and get a doctor anyway. On the eve of our departure, Jackie was diagnosed with terminal cancer (the doctors called it cancer, but of course it was a broken heart), and a second nightmare began.

Jackie's brother Steven met us in Toronto and soon took over the household, controlling the number of visitors (who called him "The Gatekeeper"), and supervising Jackie's care as I felt myself slipping into a kind of "protective insanity," a numb refuge of alcohol and drugs.

Jackie, however, received the news almost gratefully — as though this was the only acceptable fate for her, the only price she could pay. After months of misery, despair, and anger (often directed at me, as the handiest "object"), she never uttered a harsh word after that diagnosis, and rarely even cried. To her, the illness was a terrible kind of justice. To me, however, it was simply terrible. And unbearable.

After two months of dissipation in Toronto, I pulled myself together, and we fulfilled Jackie's wish to go to Barbados. Two years previously we had enjoyed a memorable family vacation in that pleasant island-nation, and it offered sufficient medical services to allow us to continue providing home care for Jackie, even when she began to decline sharply, needing oxygen most of the time, slipping away both mentally and physically, until a series of strokes brought a relatively merciful end.

Exhausted and desolated, I flew back to Toronto, staying there just long enough to organize the house and put it on the market, with more help from family and friends, then got away to the house on the lake, still not knowing what I was going to do. Before she died, Jackie had given me a clue, saying, "Oh, you'll just go travelling on your motorcycle," but at that time I couldn't even imagine doing that. But as the long, empty days and nights of that dark summer slowly passed, it began to seem like the only thing to do.

I didn't really have a reason to carry on; I had no interest in life, work, or the world beyond, but unlike Jackie, who had surely willed her death, I seemed to be armored with some kind of survival instinct, some inner reflex that held to the conviction that "something will come up." Because of some strength (or flaw) of character, I never seemed to question "why" I should survive, but only "how" — though that was certainly a big enough question to deal with at the time.

I remember thinking, "How does anyone survive something like this? And if they do, what kind of person comes out the other end?" I didn't know, but throughout that dark time of grief, sorrow, desolation, and complete despair, something in me seemed determined to carry on. Something would come up.

Or maybe it was more like the Mormon woman's statement, "The only reason I am alive is because I could not die."

In any case, I was now setting out on my motorcycle to try to figure out what kind of person I was going to be, and what kind of world I was going to live in. Throughout that first day on the road, as I traced the rain-slick highway north across the rocky face of Quebec, my shaky resolve would be tested a few times. Tense and shivering, peering through the turbulent wash of spray behind a lumber truck for a chance to pass, more than once I thought about packing it in. "Who needs this? I'm really not having fun, and I don't think I'm strong enough to deal with this right now. Why not turn around and go back to the house by the lake, hide there a little longer?"

But no. That too would be a perilous road.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Ghost Rider by Neil Peart, Paul McCarthy, Kevin Connolly. Copyright © 2002 Neil Peart. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Meet the Author

Neil Peart is the drummer for the rock band Rush and author of Masked Rider. He lives in Toronto, Ontario.

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Ghost Rider 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 63 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was nothing but disappointing. After reading Mr. Peart's previous book, 'The Masked Rider,' I had high hopes for this one, only to have them dashed by over 400 pages of what I can only call 'not much.' What makes the book even more disappointing is to see the clearly talented author's writing gone to waste on this material. There's very little story here or plot in a traditional sense in this book. Instead, what the reader gets is a slice of the inner workings of Mr. Peart's mind from a period covering a little more than a year during which the author attempts to recover from the deaths of both his wife and only child by removing himself from town and driving around North America on his motorcycle. Readers will undoubtedly understand just what he saw on his travels and just how he felt. This is what the reader gets, plain and simple. It is an unfiltered, raw, painful, intimate and very honest account. This is no lightweight material. The author has terrific talent for putting words together and conveying just exactly what was on his mind at the time. The book's brazenly and almost proudly unapologetic style is unmistakable; the author really doesn't care what the reader thinks. Most of these things are promising ingredients for this or any book. But after a while, one is reminded of a teenager far too full of his own bluster and self-purpose not to share it with the rest of the world, yet too immature to understand that the rest of the world has its own share of problems and that life does not and should not revolve around himself. When reading the book, one eventually feels like saying 'enough about you already, what about something for me!' And that's the main problem here and the key ingredient that's missing: the author has nothing to say that's of real interest to anybody. There's nothing for a general audience. They can't learn anything or grow from anything in this book because it doesn't seem as though it's written for the actual people who will be reading it. It seems to be a gift to a husband or a wife only; an intimate sharing of oneself that is satisfying and full as an offering to someone close, yet empty and meaningless as an offering to strangers, presumably the vast majority of the readers. It's as if only a mother or a lover could enjoy this book. To sum it all up, one can only wait eagerly for the next book and hope that it will be much better.
Guest More than 1 year ago
After reading Peart's earlier book, The Masked Rider, I took up Ghost Rider in search of more adventure, and perhaps an insight or two on grief. I slogged through the entire thing, certain there HAD to be a jewel or two in all that verbiage, but came away sorely disappointed on both counts. In The Masked Rider, Peart proved himself capable of being one of the guys. In Ghost Rider, he shows he can be an elitist prig, as well. The book is littered with disparaging references to people he encounters on the road. There's also precious little 'adventure' here. The author travels the width and breadth of North America, and never once camps out, mingles with the natives, or stays at anything less than a Best Western or Super 8 Motel. His biggest 'gamble' is whether he'll get a proper wine with his poached salmon. Worse yet, while his motorcycle eats up the miles, Peart travels not at all. He begins and ends his account in the same emotional and spiritual place. He survives his grief, but gives no indication that he's grown through it, or learned from it. Another failing, in my opinion, is in editing. I couldn't tell, with a visit to their website, if ECW is a 'vanity press' or an actual publisher, but it's obvious no one there reined in Peart's penchant for excruciating minutiae, and outsized excerpts from letters to family and friends. I do give Peart props for two things. First, he is a SERIOUS long-distance rider, and with almost 30 years of motorcycling behind me, I know what that means. Second, as a storyteller, he would probably make a pleasant enough dinner guest, provided we serve the proper wine!
Guest More than 1 year ago
As a drummer, I am aware of Mr. Peart's impressive musical skill and imagination. I also have long appreciated his considerable talent for condensing abstract concepts into song lyrics clearly and concisely. So it was with eager expectation that I ordered this book, wanting to experience the wordsmithery of Mr. Peart unfettered by rhyme and meter. And in reading it, I was astounded... astounded at its utter lack of depth. This book has no storyline. Nor does it have a point. This is not, as one might reasonably assume from the title, a sharing of insights obtined through hardship and endurance, from which others may gain hope, strength or guidance. Half the book is a dry iteration of Mr. Peart's meanderings. The other half is a collection of letters most of which were written to a beloved former traveling buddy who is in jail facing life in prison after being busted the third time for dealing drugs (oh, the unfairness of it all!). The Limelight can be deceiving to onlookers, but Mr. Peart, apparently inadvertently, reveals a lot about himself in "Ghost Rider"--not flatteringly. Bigotry rears its ugly head; he seems incapable of using "American" in a sentence unaccompanied by "fat", and jokes that the main thing wrong with Mexico is its proximity to the USA (seemingly unable to grasp the significance of the ever-widening stream of humanity stealing north across the Mexico/Texas border). It was eye-opening to learn that the author of the words, He's got a problem with his poisons But you know he'll find a cure He's cleaning up his systems To keep his nature pure considers two cartons of cigarettes a necessity for a bike trip and, by the picture he paints of himself, teeters on the brink of alcoholism while scoffing condescendingly at those in recovery. Nor is accepting personal responsibility a strong suit; his pristine driving record is marred by a ticket due to the "[illegitimate son]" (bn.com won't let me quote the word) highway patrolman who wrote it for 15 miles over the limit; Peart's speeding evidently had nothing to do with it. Throughout the book, the author routinely reveals by illustration or discussion how little regard he has for the rest of humanity. The reader's initial assumption that this springs from his loss and suffering is dispelled by a deadpan declaration, toward the end of the book and well on the way down his "healing road", of his steadily diminishing respect for humans individually and as a whole. It is especially ludicrous to see him returned to his Canadian home and trying to keep busy, wrestling with the tough decision of what to do to ride out the winter. His choices: Go snowshoeing? Skiing? Birdwatching? Practice on the drums? Write some more on this book? Read some classic of great literature? Write another letter to Brutus? (This interspersed with grumblings about how he's living beyond his means and money's getting tight) He tries to tell us about an early venture into the dating game, but never fleshes out the woman enough for us to get to know her. When things don't go smoothly between them, he takes to referring to her in his writings as "that woman". He never explains why, though, and we don't know her well enough to guess; so we're left to watch him from a distance, wondering, "Why's he doing that?". At length it comes time to end the book so it can get out on the store shelves; and in one final quickie chapter some (but not all) of the loose ends of the non-story are tidied up in the style of a b-movie: "Brutus got probation. I met a nice girl and got married. Deb couldn't handle it. Oh, well..." It's eye-opening that one who seems to me, from his lyrics, to have such clearsightedness and a solid grasp of what's important in life, reveals himself here to be startlingly shallow and in serious need of some personal work. If there is any reason for reading this book, it is that those who know Mr. Peart only from his musical career may get this closer, clear
Guest More than 1 year ago
I cried uncontrollably throughout the first chapter as he talks of Selena and Jackie's deaths. I laughed at all of his little pitfalls he enounters on the road. I feel a big connection with him because he writes and describes details in the same manner in which I would and I have also suffered a major tradgedy however not nearly as devastating as his and the fact that he made it down the healing road and found a second soul mate is a god send, and a beautiful happy ending. I love how he is so shy and reserved about women, despite the fact that he is an international known musician. I am still on my personal healing road, and this book has even helped me some. I laid out a map of Canada to help me follow him along so I would know exactly where his travels took him. I recommend this book to everyone because it makes you think, laugh, and cry.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was enjoyable to if your a fan of the author. The one thing we have to remember is... It doesnt hurt to be rich wile riding your motorcycle across the the US, Canada and Mexico. If you break down who cares. Yes he does ride a long way, but he has all the resources in the world to help him.
Guest More than 1 year ago
If you're fan of Peart because of his drumming (such as I), and are looking for something related to drumming, you're not going to find it here. If you're a motorcyclist looking for stories about a motorcycling adventure, you're not going to find it here, either. This book was written from the perspective of a man that lost his whole world and was attempting to find himself and his way, by escaping into the 'unknown', and traveling 55, 000 miles using his 'vice', a motorcycle. He wasn't on the road simply touring north american highways and hotels. He was on a journey of self discovery, hoping to find something left inside of himself, to let him know he really did have continued purpose, and to carry on. Along the way, he let us in on many private letters, thoughts, and emotions. Also along the way, he included very nice imagery and descriptions of the landscapes he was traversing. I enjoyed the book very much and found it to be very revealing of Peart in a most personal way. I've been a fan of his, and Rush for some 25 years, so I was acutely aware of his passion for reading and writing. As much as I've respected him as a musician and player, I have even more respect for him as a human, dealing with tragedy. I would recommend this book to someone looking for a deeper insight into who Neil Peart is, aside from the person we, as music fans, think he is. Hope you enjoy.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Neil is an outstanding lyricist and drummer but I have found this book, as well as his past books mildly entertaining. The first chapter was the only chapter that consisted of truely good writing. The rest of 'Travels on the Healing Road' was a long, long journey which described hotel rooms and Niel's menu choices... as well as his drink choices.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is not just for fans of the rock band 'Rush'. Neil Peart, the band's lyricist, takes you on an unforgettable journey. From the two tragedies that shatter his life, through the unbelievable motorcycle trip he takes to find the means to keep living. For anyone who has lost someone close to them, a must-have book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Great book, well-written. Tough at many times to read.. very descriptive writing, open. Suffice it to say were it not Neil, a guy from Rush, I would certainly not have read it, nor would I choose to read it in the future. Therefore, it's bit ironic that his fame 'allowed' him to publish this book, despite what he might otherwise believe. I cannot imagine going through what he did... I would not read the book again.. it gets a bit pathetic at times, and the publishing of letters found me wanting to 'Turn the Page' [without reading them].. again, I am not making light of what transpired in the man's life. We all know Neil is articulate, calculated.. but when they started selling 'Ghost Rider' tshirts during their latest tour, I just rolled my eyes.. nothing against him.. I just found the book to be lamenting vs soul-searching. And understandably so. I don't think Americans are portrayed in any manner within the book.. and we all know Neil lives in CA, has for some time. We wish him well, but I wish he could simply NOW write about why we WANT to read his writing.. his drumming, writing, and work for Rush. Great book, thoughtful, recommended, just very long. There is one part where he rides in America and mentions Toronto's countryside.. also too many other depictions and excerpts from others' works (long-winded at best). Get thee.. an editor, please.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Neil Peart, drummer for the rock group "Rush" is seemingly devastated when both his daughter and wife die nearly consecutively. He hops on a motorcycle and drives across Canada and then south into SW America as a form of therapy. The first half of the book is very good and insightful. After that, its all pomp and pretense. He writes many letters to his friends, often with asinine and ridiculously stupid topic headers and content. It seems as if he's already forgotten his pain and is all ready to party. Its obvious to anyone by mid-way that the man hates Americans, especially if they're fat or tourists. He even thinks: "die, die, die!" when addressing Americans in a buffet line. He even goes far enough to trash somebody's child. Why didn't he pummel into submission the Canadian gas station kid who gave Neil the Diesel fuel pump(instead of gas) to put into his motorcycle? This guy is as confused as they come. At the end of the book he ends up getting married to an "All-American" girl and moves in with her at Santa Monica, CA (America). Go figure! I used to have a decent respect for this guy, but he proves his massive hypocrisy in these pages. There isn't even a fleeting glimpse of anything remotely close to being intellectual from a man who's thought to be so. He even goes on to berate or ignore his fans, they few times that he mentions them. I wonder if his intent is to ostracize his following. He's sure done this to me... Good Luck
Guest More than 1 year ago
Neil covers the same ground more often than he should in this book. What initially draws you in becomes tedious towards the end. Still, his is a compelling and enjoyable story to read. At least half of it anyway.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Ghost Rider was truly a mesmerizing journey of a deeply effected by tragedy father and husband that I could relate to. Everyone has tragedy in their lives and deal with it differently. In some ways you never fully recover and unfortunately tragedy strikes the people who are suffering. Neil was close to that. You learn here how one copes in his own way, and pulls himself from his own tragedy after a long journey across Canada & the US. The story gives you a defined picture of that journey. You will learn not only about places you may never hear of and their beauty, but how one person fights to keep his sanity while trying to find answers to why this has happened. Yes Neil Peart is a very wealthy successful man. Many people strive for that in their own lives. This book will show you that family is everything and not a trillion dollars could replace what was taken or cure the deep hurt that one encounters when losing a family. Awesome book!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
UncleHammy More than 1 year ago
I am a lifelong Rush fan from the first time I heard "Working Man". I knew the basic story behind this book Neil Peart lost his wife and daughter within a 10 month span of time and took to the road on his motorcycle as part of his healing process after those tragic losses. As a Rush fan I wanted to know where the lyrics for the last three albums came from. How do the lyrics relate to Neil's experience as the Ghost Rider. Some lyrics on the "Vapor Trails" album seemed obvious like "Ghost Rider" but others were more obscure like the reference to Tarot in "Peaceable Kingdom" or what inspired "Earthshine". Reading "Ghost Rider" answered those questions and gave glimpses into others such as, "Faithless" from the "Snakes and Arrows" album and even "Halo Effect" from "Clockwork Angels". Not only is Neil Peart an exceptionally gifted Lyric writer and musician, he is an equally gifted prose writer. After reading "Ghost Rider" I feel that I know Neil Peart. I feel like he has allowed me into his life in a personal way. I laughed at his humor and I wept for his pain. In one passage Peart writes to an author friend congratulating him for the ultimate feat as a writer, which is to make the reader wish that the activity that he enjoys was over so that he could go back to reading the author's work. I felt that way about this book, of all places at a Rush concert. Now that is powerful writing, I congratulate you Mr. Peart. Mostly I would like to thank you Mr. Peart for sharing your story, your pain, your thoughts, your humor, and your adventures.
jokearney5 More than 1 year ago
Sad story but a great read for a real getaway.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A great read. A friend recommended it to me. A Non Motorcycling friend. She really liked the book. I was pretty stoked because it talked about a bunch of rides and places that I;ve done myself. But the key is the journey of the heart that Mr Pert takes. You can see in his writing the healing that takes place. I am ready for the meditation of the healing road. Thanks for the inspiration and the great music.
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yanluodian More than 1 year ago
A great read, though the ends of several chapters were missing at the time of my reading it.