Bicycle Day
My feelings about LSD are mixed. It’s something that I both fear and that I love at the same time. I never take any psychedelic, have a psychedelic experience, without having that feeling of, ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen.’ In that sense, it’s still fundamentally an enigma and a mystery. — Jerry Garcia
Happy Bicycle 🚴🏿 Day — On April 19, 1943, Albert Hofmann, a chemist for Sandoz Pharmaceuticals, in Basel, Switzerland, ingested a minute amount (250 micrograms) of a compound he discovered (i.e., synthesized and derived from the ergot fungus),
while trying to create a stimulant to treat respiratory and circulatory problems. Almost immediately he felt different, intoxicated, and so disoriented that he rode his bicycle home as he experienced the onset of the intense psychedelic effects of lysergic acid diethylamide : LSD.
It wasn’t easy or pretty the first time around, however, for Dr. Hoffman. On the morning of April 19, he synthesized 0.5 milliliters of the compound, dissolved it in 10 cubic centimeters of water, and at 4:20 PM took 250 micrograms—0.000025 of a gram, the smallest dose he thought he might conceivably notice. At 5 PM, he began to feel dizzy and decided to bike home.
On the now famous bike ride, the symptoms became stronger: "I had great difficulty in speaking clearly and my field of vision fluctuated and swam like an image in a distorted mirror," he wrote at the time. "I had the feeling that I was not moving from the spot, although my colleague said I was moving at a fast pace." When he arrived home, he called his neighbor, who summoned a doctor.
The symptoms soon became overwhelming. Hofmann recorded them at the time as:
dizziness, visual disturbance, the faces of those present seemed vividly colored and grimacing; powerful motor disturbances, alternating with paralysis; my head, body and limbs all felt heavy, as if filled with metal; cramps in the calves, hands cold and without sensation; a metallic taste on the tongue; dry and constricted throat; a feeling of suffocation; confusion alternating with clear recognition of my situation, in which I felt outside myself as a neutral observer as I half-crazily cried or muttered indistinctly.
Given that Hofmann had taken a full-trigger dose of acid with no idea what it was going to do, it's not surprising he thought he was going crazy or dying. I know the feeling . . . it’s rather, shall we say, unsettling, an earth-shattering experience.
Word of and the molecule itself soon spread and LSD began its rounds through what can be called a transformation of the so-called Western Mind and spurred what became known as the “Counterculture” — in stark contrast (& opposition) to the Establishment (the reviled “Man”).
For the writer/intellectual visionary Aldous Huxley it was the next step in human evolution; for the CIA it was a potential tool for mind control; for psychologist and psychnaught Timothy Leary (and his partner Richard Alpert aka Baba Ram Daas) it was the liberator of humankind (a belief that led to Leary being branded “the most dangerous man in America” — “Tune in, turn on, and drop out!”); for bohemian funhog Ken Kesey (author of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”) and his Merry Pranksters it fueled the notorious Acid Tests (which gave impetus and rise to, among other things, the anomalous Grateful Dead); and it was the improbable common denominator that united such disparate figures as Allen Ginsberg, Cary Grant, G. Gordon Liddy, Charles Manson, The Beach Boys and, of course, the Grateful Dead. 💀
As for me, I took my first dose of LSD in 1984 (following a Dead show at the Hartford Civic Center) at the tender age of 15, while a student at Pomfret, an otherwise rather boring, nondescript boarding school in rural Connecticut. To say what happened to me was intense would be an understatement.
The experience was profound and changed the course of my life — the window 🪟 (or a door in the wall) opened and I got a glimpse of pure, unadulterated Truth (ἀλήθεια : aletheia — the unconcealed or disclosure) as I’d never seen/experienced or understood before. It was, at that point, as Huxley exulted regarding his own experience, the most “extraordinary and significant experience” I’d ever had. I was born again.
Suffice to say I achieved a new perspective on existence within and without myself in terms of exploring the farthest (and nearest or closest) reaches of inner/outer space. I actually lost myself and had to put the pieces back together, as if I died and, as I said, was reborn.
One trip stands out from all other. It was 1985, early winter (December I think), almost exactly a year or so after my first, initial trip (although I had dosed several more times in the interim, working my way towards, if not Enlightenment, at least some serious Mind Expansion) at a Jerry Garcia concert in Boston at the storied Orpheum Theatre, an old Gothic opera house — one of the oldest in America (built in 1852); the original home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra — on the Boston Common.
The shows (three consecutive nights) were billed “An Acoustic Evening With Jerry Garcia” (see link below from the same tour — but not the same show) where Jerry was playing solo acoustic guitar with his longtime wingman John Kahn (from Jerry Garcia Band and other projects such as Old & In The Way, Legion of Mary, and Keystone Encores, etc.) on standup bass.
The Orpehum is a charming, cozy, and tiny (seats less than about 2,700 people) venue, a great place with good acoustics to see a show (a year or so later I saw Stevie Ray Vaughn two nights in a row right up front that I’ll never forget either) and I was ramped up for some fun, although I didn’t have a ticket for the first night (or any night for that matter). No big deal. Most Dead shows (a Jerry show is still a Dead show in my book) I showed up without a ticket. That was standard operating procedure, just a wing and a prayer . . .
Anyway, long story short here, I got in on the auspices of someone else’s ticket (Becky Hendersen if I remember correctly — thanks, Becky!) who didn’t show up on time (she did later and got in on her own recognizance, as one does). Within minutes of entering, someone approached me under the dim lights in the wings of the theatre and said: “dose.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of impending fact. As I recall, I said nothing and simply extended my left hand, palm raised and open.
The travel agent (as I regarded him) took out a small glass vile containing a clear liquid. As he began to carefully pour a drop, someone behind bumped into him and he splashed a literal puddle of liquid LSD (the most potent, concentrated form of acid — usually it’s taken in blotter form or dissolved in a sugar cube) into my hand! I could see my own face reflected in the pool in my palm reflected back at me by the ambient lights. The travel agent Head looked startled to say the least. Incredulous, I said something like: “What do I do?” He said: “Just rub into your forehead, brother.”
So I did as I was told. I splashed my forehead with the puddle of LSD in my palm (probably way more than the 250 micrograms Hoffman had about 40 years before) and some of it actually splattered into my eyes with a mild sting. I could feel liquid pouring down my face, like tears. The Head was like: “Have a good trip, brother!” And he was off.
I stood there for a moment dumbfounded. At this stage, both experience and observation had taught me enough to know (or suspect) that I was in for something BIG TIME. Low and behold, within seconds (no kidding — less than a minute) something deeply profound and powerful washed over and within me as the entire Orpheum began to pulse — as if I was inside a living, breathing, moving (pulsing) organism, which, of course, I was in a manner of speaking. I never made it to my seat; and I lost my friends, neither of which was easy to do given how small this place is/was.
Nevertheless, I was on my own in an accelerating Whorl of intensity that defies description.
Jerry didn’t look good or healthy when he took the stage. He barley moved, in fact, and appeared morbidly obese, old, and gray (even though he was younger then than I am now — he’d be dead in 10 years). I found myself close to the stage, maybe third or fourth row, standing where I probably should have been seated (nowhere near the seat assigned on Becky’s ticket) and I felt deeply sorry for Jerry as he stumbled around getting ready to play. John Kahn, always the most casual dude, had a cigarette dangling from his mouth; and they started to play.
It was beautiful, sublime, comforting and exhilarating at one and the same time, each note had a visual accompaniment that wafted throughout the theatre and moved through me like cosmic electromagnetic energy radiating from the core of a Star. It was really intense. A most beautiful “Birdsong” stands out in memory.
Yet it all got simply too intense. And somewhere near the end of the first set, I did what very few people do — I just walked out of the theatre to get some fresh air. I simply couldn’t handle all the sound, vibes, and people and needed to escape or something like that.
It was silent, cold, and dark outside. There was no one around. Snow was gently falling. It was beautiful. I immediately felt much better — relieved and received by the night — and started to walk. And walk.
I marched across the Boston Common as the snow fell peacefully; and from there across the Boston Garden, over the footbridge and then all the way down Commonwealth Avenue . . . through Kenmore Square (now at least two or three miles from the Orpheum where I began) in the dark, silent night. I was powering! There was no “I” anymore — something was striving — existing — on a myriad of different levels and dimensions.
From Kenmore, I strode on and on out of Boston and found myself in Chestnut Hill, near Boston College, at the mass transit “T” (trolley) stop. It must have been late. I had no sense of time or distance (I’d walked about 10 miles), but I instinctively “knew” where I was. I picked up the pay phone, dropped a dime, and called home (326-8230). My step-father, Lee, picked up the second ring and said: “Where are you?” You? Me? I? I of what was left of it had no idea; but I managed to blurt out: “Chestnut Hill T station.” Lee said: “Wait. I’ll be there soon.”
And so he was. He pulled up in his car, talk-radio on low (as always with him), and opened the passenger door for me (or whatever it was) to get in. It/I did without a word. Lee said nothing either. He must have known something was up; but he was very compassionate, gentle, and non-confrontational that night (probably early morning wee hours at that point). We drove together back to Dedham in silence as the snow fell. Ours the only car on the road. I/it felt safe. I loved him (still do).
When we got home and drove down our long driveway, with the poplars dusted in snow lining the way, warm lights were on in the kitchen and my mom could be seen in her robe, sitting in the kitchen, apparently waiting for us. Lee said: “Just go up to your room and go to bed.” I/it said not a word and did as he advised.
Startled, Mom said something; but I/it just walked past her and went upstairs. I/it didn’t sleep that night. It was a long, extraordinary night (I was visited by a dancing ghost, et al.). A few hours later, the sun rose.
Something like me/it or embodied sat at my old oak desk (actually it was Lee’s mother’s — Tiger’s desk), I/it was drawing pictures (I still have some of those sketches). I/it just sat there. Later that morning, my friend, Jay (who I had gone to the show with the night before) came by to check on me (or it). The expression on his face said it all when he saw what was left of me/it. He handed me/it a pack of cigarettes (Camel straights) and said: “Let’s go.”
As we made our way down and out through the kitchen (it must have been around 10 in the morning), my mom was very upset and began to shriek — but Lee calmly intervened and basically let (encouraged) me leave (rightly intuiting that any intervention at this stage would not only be problematic but potentially traumatic). Lee was wise in that way. My poor mom was, as she would say, “at the end of her rope” and obviously extremely concerned. There was nothing she could do or say. Nevertheless, Jay and I were off — like a shot — in his white Audi back to Boston for the second night’s show with Jerry.
It was a strange day. I was tripping hard. I can’t even describe much less explain the force and power of it all, which came in waves on/in a multiplicity of different dimensions (physical, mental, emotional — the world, as Heidegger would say, was “worlding” — “world disclosure” — and I/it was in a pure state of Das Sein).
Jay had my back, though, and we smoked some opium tar (they called it the “Persian” — it came, reportedly, from the close-knit circle around Jerry that some referred to as “the pleasure crew”) and it seemed to calm me while simultaneously stimulating and recharging the batteries — it definitely “worked.” I was feeling very loose, fluid . . .
No ticket again. This time I just ambled right in the midst with everyone else — and when the ticket guy (actually I think it was a woman) said: “Hey, kid! You got a ticket?!” as I waltzed through the turnstile, I simply stated: “Yeah, I got a ticket.” And strolled in. That was the first thing I said (verbally) since “Chestnut Hill T station” about 14 hours before. Like Lee and my dear mother, the ticket gal just gave me a pass — I guess it was written all over my face: “we’ll give this kid a break.”
That night’s show was insane in sublimely beautiful and surreal ways. Each song, every note and lyric, was a trip in and of itself. Somewhere in the second set, as the proverbial tide rose and washed over me, I began to find the pieces of my former self and put the patchwork back together in a way that seemed to make some sense or at least work for the time being. Dancing! Constant movement . . .
Out on the lonely hillside in a cabin low and small
Lived the sweetest rose of color my Rosie McFallHer eyes were bright and shining and her voice was sweet to me
Knew that I would always love her and I hoped that she loved me (Charlie Monroe, “Rosa Lee McFall”)
The music healed me — I healed myself. It felt so good although I was still a little lost, disoriented.
After the show, we had a rather harrowing drive home in Jay’s Audi. He was a good driver, even and especially when high, and this night was astonishing. It was snowing again. The roads were slick, covered in snow and ice. There was a girl in the backseat (I don’t really know how she got there) sitting cross-legged like a Boddhisatva; and I had a little fire made of matchbooks lit in the center console as Jay speeded home to Dedham.
Somewhere along Common Street, near a place called the “Queen of Apostles” (a seminary or something) Jay looked at me devilishly and pulled the E-brake (he did that sometimes: he called them “shitties” — like: “let’s pop a shitty!”) — and we proceeded to spin at full speed into not one but two (2) complete 360s at something like 60mph! Time slowed and I could clearly see the world outside revolve around us: trees, stone wall, trees, stone wall, trees, road (like a kaleidoscope) and then an abrupt skid to a stop in the middle of the road.
The chick in back was unfazed. I was speechless. My little campfire burned and smoke filled the cab. Jay just laughed, threw it into gear, hit the gas and spun out — onwards toward home.
Didn’t sleep that night either — although I ate several giant bowls of cereal (Buc-wheats! My favorite!), devoured a box of frozen fried chicken, drank half a bottle of scotch whiskey, and smoked a couple packs of Camels. Two days and two nights: awake and alive to the world! Hunter Thompson had nothing on me!
Next day we went back for the third night and last, final show of the Orpheum run. And, once again, sans ticket, I got into the show . . .
There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go, no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone . . .Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow — Garcia/Hunter
Over the course of subsequent, multiple trips — blood, sweat, tears & all — I’ve gained (and lost) tremendously from the insights, lessons, struggle, and pathos of the psychedelic experience.
The lessons learned began with pushing the envelope as far and wide as possible into an “other” world — the inner wilderness of soul — and evolved into simply being here now in this one: once & always in The Zone.
Life is a dance essentially, where, as the Dead sang, the “music plays the band.” Flow. Rhythm. Attunement. Fleeting, joyous, terrifying, consoling epiphanies of something like wisdom . . .
Mahalo Nui Loa to Hoffman — and his greatest protege, the genius brainchild alchemist: Owsley “Bear” Stanley (“a cocky little guy with a strange wound-up nasal voice” said Tom Wolfe)
— for stumbling on the gift that keeps on giving: “acid.” 👁 🌀Now: Go For A Ride!
Pau.
Huelo Hale, Paumalu 2022
https://relix.com/articles/detail/q-a-with-jerry-garcia-portrait-of-an-artist-as-a-tripper/.
SEE also:
However “minute” 250 micrograms may seem, it’s a massive dose of LSD, as any experienced psychonaught knows.
By the time the doctor, Walter Schilling, arrived, "The peak of the crisis was already past." Schilling’s notes, preserved in the archive, record that he was struck by Hofmann's "motor disturbances and anxious mood" but that he could find nothing seriously wrong with him. "Objectively his heart action was regular… his pulse was average, his breathing calm and deep." It's here that Hofmann's later memoir parts company with the report he wrote at the time. "Now, little by little," he wrote 36 years later, "I could begin to enjoy the unprecedented colors and plays of shapes that persisted behind my closed eyes." Then come the kaleidoscopes and colored fountains. But there’s little of this in the original report, which mentions "sensory distortions" but describes the visions as "unpleasant, predominantly toxic-green and blue tones." The next morning, Hofmann wrote in 1979, "A sensation of well-being and renewed life suffused me…. The world was as if newly created." But his report at the time simply states that he woke "feeling perfectly healthy again, if somewhat weary, but remained all day in bed on the advice of the physician." The first psychedelic hangover in modern history.
SEE: “Storming Heaven: LSD and The American Dream,” Jay Stevens (1988): " . . . The most compelling account of how hallucinogenic or psychedelic drugs became an explosive force in Postwar American history.”
All I know is something like a bird
Within her sang
All I know she sang a little while
And then flew on
Tell me all that you know
I'll show you snow and rain
If you hear that same sweet song again
Will you know why?
Anyone who sings a tune so sweet
Is passin' by
Laugh in the sunshine, sing
Cry in the dark, fly through the night
Don't cry now, don't you cry
Don't you cry anymore, la, la, la, la
Sleep in the stars, don't you cry
Dry your eyes on the wind, la, la, la, la
If you hear that same sweet song again
Will you know why?
Anyone who sings a tune so sweet
Is passin' by
Laugh in the sunshine, sing
Cry in the dark, fly through the night
Don't cry now, don't you cry
Don't you cry anymore, la, la, la, la
Sleep in the stars, don't you cry
Dry your eyes on the wind, la, la, la, la
All I know is something like a bird
Within her sang
All I know she sang a little while
And then flew off
Tell me all that you know
I'll show you snow and rain — Garcia/Hunter
The inimitable Augustus Owsley Stanley III — The Bear (1935-2011). Truly ONE OF A KIND. Perhaps the most mysterious figure in the Grateful Dead Universe . . . and much more. To say that this Southern Gentleman Genius (chemist, “soundman”/audio-engineer, underground artist, jailbird, metal-worker extraordinaire, ex-pat, et al.) changed the course of Western Civilization would be, well, an understatement. Let’s put it this way, if Albert Hoffman invented (discovered might be more apt) LSD (lysergic acid diethylamide) on April 19, 1943 (“Bicycle Day”), then Owlsely refined and perfected it — and made it available to the masses. The rest, shall we say, is history. By his own account, between 1965 and 1967, Stanley produced no less than 500 grams of LSD, amounting to a little more than five million doses! And that was just the beginning! The Wall of Sound . . . and more. SEE: “Bear: The Life and Times of Augustus Owsley Stanley III,” Robert Greenfield (2016). SEE also: “Long Strange Trip: The Inside Story of the Grateful Dead,” Dennis McNally (2002) esp. pp. 104, 118-119, 127-128, 130-139, 204, 299-304, 354, 440.
I experimented with LSD during the late 70’s and mid 80’s.
Always alone, I’d drop before going to school (Waianae high) I despised school. Couldn’t wait to get out. A small cliquish crowd. I was a band geek, but the only girl who surfed at the time.
Your writing brought back memories that I had forgotten, an escape for me.
Music and books my only comfort until I could get out.
Never could share the expansion that LSD gave me (My friends never knew I was flying)
So reading your story brought home a lot of things.
Thanks for the openness. I could relate
Thank you. I remember, remember this