The growing season is short in the mountains.
In the spring, I will dutifully cover the new seedlings or starters when there is any chance of a damaging frost. There is a whole growing season to look forward to.
However, in the fall, I’m somewhat hesitant. I know at some point soon, these plants are going to die no matter what. Then it becomes a question of whether to give them another few days of life, or just throwing in the towel to the inevitable.
As I quipped on Facebook recently, I’m often mistaken for a musician.
Attending NedFest this year inspired me to give being a musician another try. Maybe it was the old Hammond C3 on stage, the relative ease that musicians could play in each other’s bands, or just the simple fact that everyone was having fun playing music.
I have three previous attempts at learning a musical instrument in my history.
The first was piano lessons at some point in my early childhood, probably age 7 or so, given to me by my step-mother. I barely have any recollection of these, and for all I know, they may have only lasted a month.
The second attempt was guitar lessons at about age 12. My mom rented a guitar for me and signed me up for lessons at the local music store. The teacher was more interested in killing time by noodling on this guitar. During those months I was not taught a single chord. I did learn to pick out Jingle Bells and Norwegian Wood, but it was mostly scales and rudimentary mechanical stuff. I lost interest pretty quick and the guitar was returned. Although I could barely play it, I loved that guitar and was sad to see it go.
The third attempt was made as an adult, in my early 20’s. By this point I had owned a couple of synths and a sampler, but I was more interesting in programming and sampling different sounds. Even before that, I had designed my own synth, sequencer and a drum machine. It was high time I created something that would pass as music. So I signed up at the local community college for group piano lessons. We each had a Rhodes electric piano and a pair of headphones.
At the end of the semester, I pretty much hated the idea playing anything on a keyboard. I concluded that I didn’t have the coordination to read music and control my hands doing separate tasks. Looking back, the only thing that stands out in my memory is playing scales over and over, doing various exercises and playing the song I had to be proficient at by the end of the semester. (I don’t remember what song it was, which is surprising because I remember hating it because I played it over and over and over and never became good at it.)
All three of these attempts have some things in common. They started from the same place of learning exercises over and over and over, like playing scales. It was so boring. I remember practicing one evening and literally falling asleep while I did. They taught the mechanics before the music.
But I wanted to learn to play music. I wanted to know about chord progressions. I wanted to know what makes a song. The epiphany I had at NedFest was that I need to try again, but this time to teach myself. It’s not that hard. I’m an engineer. I can do this. I need to start with my interest in music and let that drive my need to learn the mechanics and technique. I need to decontruct some songs that I like and find out how they are put together tonally and rhythmically and put them back together again.
I believe most everything else I need will fall into place with time. At least that’s my hope. And I think it will be a more enjoyable experience. So even if my musical coordination turns out to be impaired and maybe I’ll never be able to play two-handed and read music a the same time, at least I’ll have control over the learning process based on my interest and abilities; I’ll learn the stuff I can do.
One of the samplers and analog synths in Reason
I like how I can make connections on the back side.
I already have Reason 4, which contains a virtual rack of keyboard synths and drums. I bought this with my econmic stimulus check a few years ago. And, I have a 44-key MIDI controller for playing it, although at some point I would like to upgrade to a 61-key keyboard.
I’ve had all this for a few years now but have rarely taken the time to do anything with it. With winter approaching, it seems like a good time to re-embark on this endeavor. I don’t need to be in a band or be proficient enough to play on a stage. My only goal is to make music.
Often after work, I get on my bike and ride some mountain trails. Although summer is waning, there are still a few hours of daylight remaining.
On Friday, I rode up to West Mag. I could tell pretty quickly that I wasn’t mentally into it. Some days I ride the trail, other days it feels like it’s riding me. I couldn’t focus. My mind was everywhere but on the ride. I even warned myself to go slower, that I was going to wreck. So I went slower. At a point where I could break off and ride back to town, I didn’t. I thought that if I continued, I’d eventually find my groove. It was just below the surface.
And I did find it. And it felt good.
A few minutes later, the groove was gone. I slowed down again. I don’t remember if I came to a full stop or whether I was just riding very slowly. It was at a corner in the trail that had a view of the mountains to the northwest. I wobbled. I lost my balance. Unfortunately this was right next to a mining prospect hole, filled with jagged rocks and fireweed, about 8 feet deep and 8 feet wide.
This is where the slow motion starts. It’s even slower because I was barely moving when I crashed.
First the front tire goes over the lip of the hole. At this point I am thinking OH SHIT… this is not going to have a good outcome. This is going to hurt. I think about whether it would be better to ditch the bike and fall on my own. A glance at the jagged rocks all around, I decide the bike should be sacrificed to the rocks and that I’ll use the bike to break my fall. So I hang on to the handlebars and ride it straight down into the hole.
The front wheel finds the bottom of the hole, but I keep going, over the handlebars, flung at the opposite side of the hole. My hands and arms can’t get up soon enough to brace for impact. I see the ground approaching, realize my face is going to make impact. I see the front edge of my helmet hit first, followed by my nose, mouth, chin and chest.
The first thing I discover is that I’m not able to breathe. I try taking breaths, but they are tiny. I notice I’m making a grunting sound as I try to breathe. After about ten tries, my breathing resumes. I was almost already standing when I made impact. I find my footing and stand up the rest of the way. I make a quick check of my condition. Nothing seems broken, just scrapes. My nose hurts, my teeth hurt, I brush the dirt from my lips. I turn around and look at the bike at my feet, half-buried in the fireweed.
There is no easy way out of the hole, so I stay put and try to relax and rest a little. I gaze at the other side of the hole, near the lip, to see how exactly I got into this mess. No clues. I’m angry at the idiot who put the trail right next to the hole. Probably some mountain biker with a small dick who wanted the trail to be more thrilling and dangerous. I’m angry at myself for riding when I didn’t feel up to it.
I start to think about ways to get myself and my bike out of the hole. I realize the bike will have to go first. I discover it is still in one piece, so I push it up the side of the hole and out over the top. Then I take a slightly different route where I can grab a hold of a tree. Once out of the hole, I think about getting out to the nearest road, which fortunately is only about a 100 yards away. It turns out the front wheel is bent and locks against the brake. I undo the quick release on the brake and the wheel spins freely. I think about the hill I have to ride down to get home and decide I can do it with the one remaining brake.
It’s a slow ride home in the gathering darkness. Once home, the only thing I can think about is taking a shower and going to bed.
It’s the next morning, and I’m stiff and sore, but think it could have been a lot worse. Some areas of my face are swollen, especially the inside of my nose. My sternum is pretty sore and realize that it took the brunt of the fall. I decide to continue with my plans to attend NedFest, a two-day music festival here in town. I was okay.
The third morning after the crash, I wake-up and as I get out of bed, something in my sternum goes pop and there are some crunching sounds and it feels like my chest is splitting open. Lots of pain and I slowly faint.
As I slowly return to consciousness, I wonder how I could have felt reasonably well for two days, and now I feel like I’ve been in another crash. Over the next two hours I weigh a myriad of options, which includes going to the ER, calling a neighbor, or doing nothing. I don’t have insurance, so I think of the less expensive alternatives. Once some ibuprofen goes into effect, I try sitting in the car to see if I am able to drive. It’s not too painful as long as I don’t have to turn around and look behind me. I think I can make a 35 minute drive to Boulder.
I call my doctor’s office and tell them what happened. They find an opening in the schedule for an hour later, and then have me talk to a nurse to make sure I’m okay to drive. I get down there, they run tests and send me off to the hospital for x-rays. Nothing serious is wrong. They assume it’s just a sprain in my cartilage that joins my ribs with my sternum and perhaps a mild concussion.
So here I am, unable to make sudden movements, or burp, or take a deep breath, with a bad headache. And I wonder how long this pain will last. And I wonder if I should give up mountain biking. The latter seems more difficult than the pain.
