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Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road
 
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Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road [Kindle Edition]

Neil Peart
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Produktbeschreibungen

Amazon.de

Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road, the second motorcycle memoir (following 1996's The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa) from the author best known as drummer and lyricist of the legendary Canadian rock band Rush, chronicles a journey of healing. In the late-90s, Peart suffered a pair of life-changing tragedies: he lost his daughter and his wife of 20 years within a 10 month period. In the autumn of 1998, in an effort to distract himself from grief and re-evaluate his life, he embarked on a trip that took him across Canada and through the US and Mexico. Through diary notes and letters written over the course of 55,000 miles, Peart chronicles his feelings of loss and envy, and the slow rebuilding of his life through the support of friends and family. Ghost Rider is also an alternative travel guide fuelled by the author's detailed descriptions of towns, roads, hotels, restaurants and the people he encounters. "Moab proved to be the perfect small town, at least by the Ghost Rider's exacting criteria," he writes, "those being that a town should have a decent motel, a small museum of local history, a friendly post office and a well-stocked liquor store." Thought-provoking and even humorous at times, Peart reveals in straight-ahead prose the emotional turmoil following such an epic loss--and we ride shotgun as he gradually acquires a renewed sense of purpose. --Eric Wilson, Amazon.ca

Amazon.co.uk

Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road, the second motorcycle memoir (following 1996's The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa) from the author best known as drummer and lyricist of the legendary Canadian rock band Rush, chronicles a journey of healing. In the late-90s, Peart suffered a pair of life-changing tragedies: he lost his daughter and his wife of 20 years within a 10 month period. In the autumn of 1998, in an effort to distract himself from grief and re-evaluate his life, he embarked on a trip that took him across Canada and through the US and Mexico. Through diary notes and letters written over the course of 55,000 miles, Peart chronicles his feelings of loss and envy, and the slow rebuilding of his life through the support of friends and family. Ghost Rider is also an alternative travel guide fuelled by the author's detailed descriptions of towns, roads, hotels, restaurants and the people he encounters. "Moab proved to be the perfect small town, at least by the Ghost Rider's exacting criteria," he writes, "those being that a town should have a decent motel, a small museum of local history, a friendly post office and a well-stocked liquor store." Thought-provoking and even humorous at times, Peart reveals in straight-ahead prose the emotional turmoil following such an epic loss--and we ride shotgun as he gradually acquires a renewed sense of purpose. --Eric Wilson, Amazon.ca

Kurzbeschreibung

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

Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

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.

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