Life lessons on two wheels to the tunes of the
Grateful Dead
This Week in Grateful Dead History
Week 1
I wish I was a headlight on a northbound train.
Even the most cursory examination of the lyrics of Grateful Dead songs quickly uncovers one of the most fundamental aspects of the band’s identity: This is an American band, rooted in American culture, and built around easily recognizable locales and deeply American principles and history.
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This Week in Grateful Dead History: Week 34 - August 21, 1983
Ain’t nobody messing with you but you.
When I began my studies at the University of California at Santa Cruz in ’75, the countercultural vibe of the ’60s was still alive and well. Having spent my junior high and high school years in Southern California, my primary exposure to the Grateful Dead was the well-known reference in the Cowsills’ 1969 song, Hair (“It’s not for lack of bread, like the Grateful Dead”). But once I arrived on the Central California coast (Santa Cruz is just 75 miles south of San Francisco) the Grateful Dead could be heard seeping out of the cracks of dorm rooms all over campus, and providing the ambiance for every cafe in town.
This Week in Grateful Dead History: Week 42 – October 16, 1974
Once in a while you get shown the light
There are so many things I love about mountain biking is that it would be impossible to list them all. But if I had to pick the aspect of the sport I love best, it would be the way getting out on two wheels represents a true “sabbatical” from life. Once the rubber hits the dirt, and I embark on another adventure in the wilderness, all of my troubles seem to melt away. And after conquering a completely different set of obstacles on the trails, the ones waiting for me at the trailhead somehow seem more manageable than they did just a couple of hours earlier.
This Week in Grateful Dead History: Week 15 - April 5, 1971
Goin’ down the road
Deadheads invariably have a great story about the moment they knew they were a Deadhead. For most, it was the first time they saw the band live, but for me the magic moment arrived a full four months before my first show. It was the Summer of ’74, and I had returned home from my sophomore year at UCLA, ready to spend the summer working at a day camp, saving money, and partying with my high school friends who had scattered to various colleges in a virtual teenage diaspora.
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