Bob Scott Campground, Nevada
Two months ago a friend suggested I read Neil Peart’s memoir
Ghost Rider. I started it two
weeks ago and have found it to be equal parts solace and inspiration. After Neil’s daughter and wife died
(separately) within ten months of each other he was close to suicidal. He took off on his BMW motorcycle and chronicled
his grief and growth in this well-written book of adventure. I highly recommend it to anyone but
particularly to people who have lost a spouse.
Neil's love of being on the
road matches mine and his stories made me want to leave as soon as possible. There is no measurement for grief, but losing
a spouse is not something people understand until they, sadly, come to know. There is great solace for me in reading his
words; I do not feel so alone. In
addition, he and I have traveled on many of the same roads, including my route today
which, on the Nevada road map, is labeled “The Loneliest Road in America”. I kid you not.
As is usual for both Neil and myself, I was anxious to get
on the road this morning. But I made
myself take time for a walk with the Noses over to the Mono Lake Visitor Center
(closed for winter) where we took a few minutes to sit on a bench and enjoy the
view.
Sitting there, I was filled with gratitude for living on
this planet and enjoyed noticing how the pixels aligned themselves into tall,
distant mountains, then closer, rolling hills, then the water, then the islands
and the birds. I felt a pang when I realized
I would love to share that moment with someone; someone I trust who is
different from me. Their perception of
the morning might bring about even more appreciation. That, to me, is one of the greatest parts of
sharing your life with someone—it makes the world twice as big and twice as
beautiful.
I found myself talking to Alan which is a rare thing indeed;
I have often yelled at him over the past few years but rarely do I speak to him. This morning I said, “I hope you are
somewhere as magnificent as this planet, sitting with Rosco and enjoying your place.” Just like Neil would, I let myself cry which
felt good.
And then I realized that I had thought of Alan as not being
on Earth.
For the first time.
Ever.
In over three years.
And so I borrowed a phrase from Neil who simply said, when
he walked back into his house after months on the road and saw pictures of his
wife and daughter, “I know.”
After saying goodbye to my camp neighbors, I set off down an
unfamiliar highway. It was early and
there were very few cars. Just a long,
straight road leading from California into Nevada. Honestly, I was a bit scared so I tried to
focus on the lovely scenery. (Back at
home I wrote on my white board, “Remember Kit, if you aren’t a little scared
you aren’t getting anywhere.”)
About an hour into the drive, I saw a sign, “Accident Ahead”
and thought, wow, it must be some accident for someone to put up that
sign. Then, in about half a mile I came
to a complete stop. There was a line of
cars ahead of me and, as we sat there, the line grew longer and longer behind
me.
I ventured out of the car and the motorcyclist in front of
me struck up a conversation. I immediately
thought of Neil Peart—here was the Ghost Rider right in front of me. We sat for over an hour before the cars began
to come toward us in the other lane. We
would move about a quarter mile up and then have to stop again; clearly they
were alternating the east and west bound traffic through one lane. Our final stop was just as Mr. Motorcycle
reached the accident.
It was a horrendous site; a semi and a motorcycle. The semi’s front fender was bent under, the
truck on its side, the motorcycle in a million pieces, the body of which had clearly
lit on fire. There were no survivors present,
the cyclist’s helmet sat, oddly shining and seemingly unscathed, amongst the
rubble.
I briefly closed my eyes and wished his soul a quick
departure for places unknown and sent a wave of compassion toward the people
who loved him but must remain.
Then I wished Mr. Motorcyclist a safe journey.
-K
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