Goals

I've just had a conversation with a man named Steve. Steve has just arrived in Charlottetown by bike, 9 weeks into his Vancouver - St. John's ride. I think if one were so inclined, one could find a blog of mine detailing a very similar ride I went on a few years ago.

In talking to Steve, I was unexpectedly reminded of a lesser discussed component of that bike ride of mine. I've told a lot of stories about the great things that happened to me while traveling: the beautiful days, the wonderful people, the nationalism I felt. I've seldom talked about just how much I struggled to actually complete that trip. On at least 6 occasions, I might have been heard screaming to no-one at the top of my lungs. On as many occasions, I could have been seen sobbing at the side of the road, completely overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. If the solitude-induced emotional roller coaster ride wasn't debilitating enough, by the end of the trip, I was in so much physical pain that I could not tolerate riding my bike for a month afterward. Thinking back, not for for one day beyond Banff was I in any way eager to get out of my sleeping bag and ride. I'm pretty sure I considered quitting multiple times every single day.

But upon arriving at Cape Spear, suddenly all of that was replaced in my mind. What took over was the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. Hell yeah! I biked across Canada! I don't think I ever forgot about the details, I just chose to ignore them. Questions like, "What was biking across Canada like?" would provoke vague answers like, "amazing" or "incredible" or "life-changing." But what was it actually like? Well... it was hell. It was largely the most unpleasant thing I've ever done. It was so damned physically and emotionally challenging that I had to cry to somebody on the phone most every night.

Since then, crossing Canada has been a critical personal benchmark for me (what could I possibly be incapable of?) I don't think that's unreasonable. The problem is that I think about how I biked across Canada [period], not how I suffered persistently and willfully for weeks to attain some ridiculous goal. I'm not too sure what the conclusion of this is. Perhaps I should adjust my goal-setting practices. I guess I'm just not that into suffering anymore.

Jazz

Presently, the Atlantic Canada Jazz Festival is underway. I'm amazed at the quality of local music and the responsiveness of the audiences. I'm weaseling my way into as many shows as possible as a festival volunteer photographer.

More critically now: I recently spent 7 months working aboard a cruise ship as a trombone player. Thinking back, my rationale for taking the job was that having devoted four years of my college-aged life to studying music, I might as well be a professional musician for a while. This conflicted with my better judgment at the time.

I found life on the ship pretty depressing. I assumed and have preached that my depression was linked to ship-life: confinement, monotony, bad food, etc. After leaving the ship and arriving in Halifax, life was great! Great job, great friends, great environment. And then one day, at my request, a friend visiting from Toronto brought to me my trombone.

I started practicing, met some other musicians, felt some excitement about jazz. I went to a jam session. I just played one song. And I hated it passionately. I hated being on stage, I hated the atmosphere, I hated what I played and I hated how I played it. I even hated hearing three people say, "Man, you were awesome." I wanted to tell them they were full of shit, but all that came out was, "thanks." I went home with a cloud over my head, a cloud whose shadow has not been cast over me since my last few weeks on the ship.

Could it be? I've always had a self-confidence issue with my trombone playing, but to think playing trombone could cause me to become depressed. Perhaps I should wait for a spike in the price of brass and have the old 3B melted down for some cash.