Season

From Wikipedia: "A hairpin turn (also hairpin bend, hairpin corner, etc.), named for its resemblance to a hairpin/bobby pin, is a bend in a road with a very acute inner angle, making it necessary for an oncoming vehicle to turn almost 180º to continue on the road. Hairpin turns are often built when a route climbs up or down a steep slope, so that it can travel mostly across the slope with only moderate steepness, and are often arrayed in a zigzag pattern."

Hairpin turns are not limited to bends in asphalt roads and mountain trails. Life often contains such turns, and they are almost always on the other side of a blind spot in the road. I recently encountered a set, one that I am still negotiating. As I find my elevation in life rapidly changing, I am in the midst of a series of brutal turns.

These are not the first hairpin turns that I have had to deal with. There are other sets of turns that have affected my life greatly. There have been adjustments in navigation and course corrections, but none compare to these unforeseen hairpin turns.

I was a dorky, uncoordinated kid, but once I learned to water ski, I became an athlete. I competed in water ski jumping for distance at the regional amateur level, as well as skiing for the nationally ranked Florida State University Water Ski Team. A jump crash in practice in 1980 put me in the hospital for 2 weeks. I didn't realize the significance of this until many years later.

In 1984, I was livin' large, snortin' and smokin' and sellin' long cocaine. In 1985, I found myself 3000 miles from home, alone, broke, and living in my van.

The athlete in me resurfaced as I became interested in hiking, backpacking, and rock climbing. I learned to snow ski and soon found myself skiing down double black diamonds at Kirkwood. In the summer, I would go on long mountain bike rides to the top of and all over Mt. Tamalpais, or Mt. Tam as it is known locally. Over the years, jump crashes, snow ski crashes (including one infamous yard sale at Alpine Meadows), bike crashes, and a car wreck (that was not my fault) all slowed me down. As I found my interest in music returning, I made a quick decision to purchase a set of drums. Playing drums was a fantastic, athletic, and aerobic endeavor. Six months after I started playing, I found myself filling in for another drummer in the Squire James Band at a packed Cafe Amsterdam in Fairfax. On a mid-week night in chilly January, people were dancing from song one to the final encore! Exhiliarating! To see all those dancers shaking their hips to my grooves!

I sold the mountain bike not too long ago. I keep my cross-bike (it's a cross between a mountain bike and a road bike) in the hopes that someday I may be able to ride again, although I know I'll not be riding to the top of Tam anymore. The skis are going next, and I pray to the goddess that I may continue to play drums. We have a session scheduled next month. This will be my percussion litmus test. Will I be able to play well enough? long enough? Will I be wasted for weeks following the jam? Will I be trading in the full kick set for congas? Will I be able to play at all?

As I find my elevation in life rapidly changing, I am in the midst of a series of brutal turns.