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This bold narrative written by the drummer and lyricist for the band Rush shows how Peart tried to stay alive by staying on the move after the loss of his 19-year-old daughter and his wife. The book will be sold as part of the band's official merchandise during its 47-city American tour. 20 photos. 15 maps.
- Sales Rank: #23627 in Books
- Brand: ECW Press
- Published on: 2002-09-01
- Ingredients: Example Ingredients
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.04" h x 1.12" w x 6.06" l, 1.67 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 460 pages
- Great product!
Review
"Peart’s story reminded me of Theodore Roosevelt’s travel West to overcome the sorrow of losing his wife and mother..." -- Mike Fink, CNN Headline News
About the Author
Neil Peart is the drummer and lyricist for the rock band Rush and the author of Masked Rider. He lives in Toronto, Canada.
Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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.
Most helpful customer reviews
8 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
For Those About to Grieve
By DJCwell
I read Ghost Rider two years ago as I was a fan of Rush and Neil Peart. As I write this review I am not sure why I read it the first time. It's a journey about grief and at the time my world was perfect. While I read the book I marveled at how Neil survived and made it from one day to the next. A few months ago my 45 year old wife died suddenly. We had been married for 26 years and have 4 sons. She was my wife, mother of my children and best friend. I received numerous books from family and friends regarding grief. I read parts of those books and they all told me the same thing and each one confirmed what I was feeling. While flipping through my kindle I found Ghost Rider. I read Ghost Rider again and it's impact was meaningful to someone who was grieving. While it is impossible to compare yourgrief to someone else's grief Neil talked about many of things I felt and was thinking about. Neil's journey brought me a measure of comfort and the thought that I might be ok. The book was so inspirational that I bought a BMW F800GS and I am planning a trip up the Dawson Hwy!
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
this great lyricist is a great writer
By Joseph M Ewing
I'm torn on this one.
As a fan might expect, this great lyricist is a great writer. And you really feel his pain as you read about the death of his wife and daughter.
But he's also a rather arrogant soul and that comes through loud and clear, making the books and it's author less amiable. Plus half the book is a reprinting of letters he wrote to his drug dealing friend in prison.
I'm glad I read it. As an avid motorcyclist, I loved reading about his journey.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Yes, I am an abashed RUSH fan, however not to denigrate Alex and Getty, I have Neil Peart drumsticks.
By Peter V
It helps that I've read the other books from Neil Peart and find his travels fascinating, pleasant to read and allows me to feel his journey as if it were my own. Reading The Healing Road, then moving to Far & Away and finishing up with Far & Near, it is like; even if only a little bit, like sitting on his shoulder as Neil travels the road of life and sometimes death. I am well aware of Neil's aversion to worship, however sometimes it is the impetus to do things subconsciously that we really wanted to do anyway, however we just don't have the push. The Healing Road led me to buy my first "real" motorcycle at 52 years of age (no, it was not midlife crisis) The travels in all three books gives me the urge to just ride and enjoy the moments we see and the people along the way. There is good writing and pictures that give life to the story. There is also the unwritten parts that explain how the "Working Guy's" get along so well while living such different lives off the stage and out of the rehearsal halls. Now, if I could just figure out the meaning to the words in "The Tree's".
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