In the late 1990s, Neil Peart—the legendary drummer and lyricist of Rush—vanished from the public eye. Behind that silence was unimaginable tragedy: in August 1997, his 19-year-old daughter Selena died in a car accident. Devastated, he told his bandmates, “Consider me retired.“
Less than a year later, his common-law wife Jackie succumbed to cancer. In a matter of months, Peart lost the two people closest to him.
“I remember thinking, ‘How does anyone survive something like this? And if they do, what kind of person comes out the other end?”
Importance of Family
Neil Peart was no stranger to family values. Raised by caring parents who nurtured his musical ambition from a young age, he learned early on the power of encouragement and perseverance.
His father, Glenn, once told him he could always come back to the family business if music didn’t work out—a moment of support that helped Neil join Rush without guilt.
He would later describe the band as a “second family,” with Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson becoming his lifelong brothers-in-arms.
So, when tragedy struck his own family—losing Selena and Jackie in such quick succession—it tore through the very foundation of who he was.
The Journey Begins
In August 1998, a month after losing his wife, he packed his BMW R1100GS motorcycle and rode away from his Quebec home with no fixed destination, desperate to “shake himself out of his misery.”
This journey became the basis for his acclaimed memoir Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road, a 55,000-mile (88,000-km) odyssey across North and Central America undertaken as a means to survive grief.
Over 14 months, Peart rode from the Canadian Arctic to the American Southwest, down through Mexico to Belize, and back again in stages. He needed to get away but had not really needed a destination—the journey itself was the therapy.
From the Canadian Arctic to the deserts of the American Southwest, from winding coastal highways to the jungles of Central America, Peart rode through grief, numbness, and despair.
“To be on the road, or on the march, that was the thing,” Peart reflected, suggesting that constant motion kept the crushing sadness at bay. On every page of Ghost Rider, you can feel the pain, the puzzlement, and the resolve of a man pushing through heartbreak one mile at a time.
He called himself the “Ghost Rider,” a persona he used to disconnect from fame, from memory, even from identity. As he rode, he sent letters to friends—many of which became the backbone of Ghost Rider. The miles rolled by, and slowly, so did his pain.
The Perennial Gift
To Neil Peart, motorcycling was more than a form of travel—it was, as he once called it, “a perennial gift.” In an interview with BMW Owners News (archived at 2112.net), he reflected, “It doesn’t get old. The same roads don’t get tiresome.” Whether navigating twisty mountain passes or desert backroads, he found joy and serenity in the ride itself.
Peart’s passion for BMW motorcycles began in the mid-1990s, when he bought his first R1100RS. That soon evolved into an obsession with long-distance touring and adventure riding. He and his riding companion, Brutus, clocked tens of thousands of miles together—often on tour with Rush.
During the Test for Echo tour in 1996–97, they rode nearly 40,000 miles between shows, with Brutus planning routes and Peart savoring every mile. “That put a whole new spark of life in it,” he said. “It transformed everything and became a big part of my life.”
His preferred motorcycle became the BMW GS line, which he praised for its comfort, durability, and ability to go just about anywhere.
“The spirit of the GS seems totally in tone with the spirit of us as motorcyclists,” he said. His beloved R1100GS was eventually replaced with newer models, but each bike carried the same spirit of adventure.
He was also meticulous in how he approached gear, preparation, and self-discipline. Peart rode with layered gear, carried multiple gloves for changing weather, and never got on the bike without a mental and physical check-in.
“Riding a motorcycle is never a casual undertaking,” he said. “It’s never like getting in the car. That process of getting suited up, mentally and physically, is part of the reward.”
From California’s redwoods to Utah’s canyons, from the Sierra Nevada to Big Sur, Peart explored the roads of North America with awe and reverence. “Every road is always beautiful. These roads don’t get old,” he said.
Motion as Medicine
Peart’s relationship with motorcycling wasn’t about thrill-seeking—it was rooted in discipline, awareness, and deep respect for the road. In an interview with American Motorcyclist, he emphasized the importance of safety, especially in light of everything he had been through.
“I feel a responsibility to traffic around me. One of my rules is not to be surprised on the road, and I don’t want to surprise anyone else, either—do anything unpredictable or make any sudden move that is going to cause worry or fear for anyone else.”
Peart approached riding with the same intentionality that marked his drumming. He believed in setting a good example: dressing and riding properly, signaling every maneuver, and always considering the drivers around him.
“The best I can do is set a good example, dress and ride properly. Signal every maneuver, position myself in the right place in the lane, and consider other drivers—not make a nuisance of myself,” he said.
For Peart, safe riding was not only a personal ethic but a way to help elevate the perception of motorcyclists everywhere.
Peart’s motorcycle became his therapist, his church, his sanctuary. He often described riding as a form of meditation. The rhythm of the road, the immersion in nature, the solitude—it gave him space to breathe. Each mile became a small step forward, a way to outrun the darkness long enough to catch his breath.
Along the way, Peart developed practical coping mechanisms to steady himself. He immersed himself in nature and solitude, camping and hiking while observing the natural world.
The beauty of a sunrise or the rhythm of the road offered soothing relief. The vastness of nature gave him perspective when human life felt cruelly small.
He also kept a journal, writing every day. Many of these entries later turned into letters to friends and material for his books. Writing gave him a private outlet to process his emotions.
Though largely solitary, Peart didn’t completely cut himself off. He occasionally met up with close friends or family during parts of his ride. These short visits offered grounding moments of connection and gave loved one’s peace of mind that he was still present in the world of the living.
From Absolute Zero
Peart described his emotional state as “Absolute Zero.” He had to rebuild everything from scratch—his beliefs, his identity, his sense of purpose.
And in that process, he began to rebuild himself. Nature, books, writing, and the kindness of strangers helped him begin again. As he later wrote, “You can’t tell yourself how to feel.” But you can keep moving. You can keep seeking.
One of the most powerful takeaways from Peart’s journey—and from Ghost Rider—is his philosophy on what gives life meaning: love and respect.
“Love without respect can be as cold as pity; respect without love can be as grim as fear. Love and respect are the values in life that most contribute to ‘the pursuit of happiness’—and after, they are the greatest legacy we can leave behind.”
By the end of the journey, he wasn’t healed—but he was healing. He eventually returned to Rush and remarried in the early 2000s, welcoming a new daughter. Life resumed, transformed.
Soon after his return, Rush began recording what would become the Vapor Trails album. Getting back behind the drums was not easy for Peart.
After so much time away, and having gone through such intense personal loss, reconnecting with his instrument took considerable emotional and physical effort.
But through that struggle, he found purpose once more in music.
In 2015, Peart would retire from Rush to focus on the life he had rebuilt. Touring had become increasingly difficult—after decades of intense, high-energy drumming, he suffered from debilitating tendonitis, and performing night after night took a heavy toll on his body.
He had a daughter, Olivia, and a profound awareness of the importance of being present for her. After decades of touring, he reflected, “I’ve been doing this for 40 years — I know how to compartmentalize, and I can stand missing her, but I can’t stand her missing me.”
When Olivia began referring to him as “a retired drummer,” Peart embraced the title with peace. He had spent a lifetime chasing rhythm, and in the end, he chose to stay still for the most important audience of all: his family.
Tragically, Neil Peart passed away in January 2020 after a private battle with glioblastoma, an aggressive form of brain cancer. He was 67 years old.
The diagnosis, which he kept closely guarded, only deepened his resolve to spend his remaining time surrounded by those he loved most.
His passing marked the end of an era—not only for Rush fans, but for music lovers and thinkers everywhere who admired his artistry, his intellect, and his resilience.
Even in his final years, Neil Peart remained a seeker, a writer, a father, and above all, a deeply thoughtful human being.