When you think back through your life, there are some events that are easily recalled, like weddings and births. But there are also many small, unexpected moments that we remember. I vividly remember every car accident I’ve been in, as well as a time in Europe when I caught a large umbrella that was flying through the air about to strike some older folks having lunch. I was only 12 at the time, but I felt like Superman.

One of my “claims to fame” is that I was at The Big Game when Berkeley beat Stanford with a series of laterals and dodgeball moves, with Stanford Band members on the field as time ran out. On one of the most improbable plays in the history of the game, Stanford lost.

I don’t remember any other Big Game, even though I attended them all while I was at Stanford. Instead, I was a tiny, tiny part of something that is a common point of reference for millions of people. It comes up at parties and a few times a year I get to tell the story of what it was like to be in the stands and trying to absorb what happened on the field. When my son Colin was applying to Berkeley, we took a tour, and the guide (a student) ribbed me constantly about being a Stanford grad. When I told her that I had been at The Big Game, she said, “Bet you wish that had ended differently.” Nope, I told her, I wouldn't change a thing.

This story is about neither of those two extremes. This is about an event that was months in the planning, but still hit us with the surprise of an umbrella caught by the wind.

It was the 1975-76 school year and our high school band director, Lew Sbrana, decided that it would be amazing if we could audition and win the rights to play at a bicentennial celebration of the United States in Washington DC. In early 1975, he picked the pieces for the audition tape, and we worked daily on the pieces. When we were ready, we made a cassette tape right there in the band room at Healdsburg High and sent it off to Washington DC for consideration.

The festival judges liked the audition, and we were accepted. Little did we know how the path from acceptance to the stage in Washington DC would shape all our lives.

The festival was in June, but when Lew pondered the challenges of getting 40 students and chaperones to Washington DC for a week, he knew he had to come up with something big to raise the funds for flights, hotels, and everything else.

He claims that the idea of a marathon was serendipity. One night, while watching television he saw a news report about a high school band in the East Bay who had raised money for new uniforms by playing continuously for 48 hours. He contacted the band director who said that it was a “piece of cake.” That is all it took, and Lew was on board. The Band Boosters, led by Ben Benzmiller, were supportive, so the planning began.

There was a bit more to this than a regular fundraiser. The East Bay band who played for 48 hours straight had set the Guinness record for a continuously playing band, and Lew wanted to be in the record books. So, he decided that we were going to play for 50 hours, raise a bit of money, and get our place in the Guinness Book of World Records. Piece of cake.

As a high school Sophomore, there wasn't much thought about any of this. We worked on music, and we were involved in the date selection of the band marathon, but that was about the extent of it. Obviously, that wasn't the case for Lew or the parents of the band students. I can imagine that there were evening parent meetings and probably a core group of parents who organized all the aspects of the marathon.

To be eligible for the world record, we had to follow specific rules. Some of the parents interfaced with Guinness, got the forms and certifications that would be required and taught us the rules. They probably told us about the rules beforehand, but I only remember learning about them at the marathon. Each band member was allowed only a 5-minute break per hour, but the breaks had to be staggered so that the band played continuously. The band was allowed a certain amount of time between each song to switch music and rearrange instrumentation; this turned out to be critical. There were timekeepers who had to certify every action and forms that needed to be completed for each band member.

To prepare for the marathon, we pulled out every piece of music that the high school and the junior high owned. Each band member had three folders filled with music, most of which we would be sight reading. Then on a fateful Friday morning, we gathered around the school’s flagpole and played the National Anthem as school was starting. Then we filed into Frost Hall, took our seats, opened the first of our folders, and started playing. For those of you doing the math, this put our 50-hour goal at 10:00am on Sunday morning.

I haven't talked enough about Lew Sbrana, music, and my place in this normal, everyday high school band. Bear with me.

I started playing the trumpet in 5th grade when our elementary music teacher, George Izzett, came by our classroom, pointed at a few of us and said, "please come to me." We went into a room, and he handed each of us a trumpet and told us that we were going to learn to play. I don't remember being asked what instrument I wanted to play. Mr. Izzett just knew that we "looked" like trumpeters.

I went home that day with a school trumpet and told my parents that I was "in band and going to play the trumpet." For two years, we played at Healdsburg Elementary School, and we all got better. It always amazes me the improvement in bands through the early years. When a 5th grade band plays Hot Cross Buns, the tempo is slow, the tuning is poor, there are plenty of squeaks and you hear feet taping the floor on every beat. Two years later, these same players can play a version of I’ll be Home for Christmas that moves the audience. Fast forward another couple of years and there are some stellar musicians in high school bands. This progress is a testament to band teachers everywhere who have the patience to teach kids who aren’t yet passionate about music and consider practicing akin to household chores.

When it was time for me to move to the Junior High, I was solidly in the trumpet 1 seat, but what that meant in 7th grade, I'm not too sure. The most important thing was the Junior High meant daily band class, and a new band teacher: Mr. Lew Sbrana.

There are a lot of complaints from students about their band teachers. After all, they are always correcting you, harping on you to practice (really, who has time to practice?) and, to keep order in a chaotic situation, are always telling people to be quiet and listen. Trumpets are too loud, the drummer can’t keep the beat steady, and nobody is good at sight-reading. Band teachers must fix all of these things. Mr. Sbrana was no different and I'm sure that I had plenty of complaints about him. Kids don't think of their band teachers as passionate and driven by a love of music and learning. They don't understand the sacrifice and difficulties of teaching something they love to kids who don't-yet-love or appreciate the gift. Their lot is to teach a wonderful gift to people who won't appreciate it for decades.

Luckily, Mr. Sbrana was patient and encouraging as he nurtured kids from 7th grade all the way through high school. Mr. Sbrana and I got along. I always loved playing the trumpet but didn't practice enough. In my defense, I was also busy. I straddled three worlds throughout most of High School, but I didn’t feel like I belonged in any of them. I was the only band member who played sports all year long. Football in the fall kept me out of marching band and Basketball in the winter and spring track eliminated me from any pep band playing. I played with the concert band, but I always felt like an outsider.

The other world that I existed in was the academic one. I was a good student, but I didn’t have time for the Spanish or Science club. So, I was a trumpet playing, nerd football player. I identified mostly as an athlete, which was unfortunate. Over the years, I’ve found that my fellow band members would have made much better friends than the sports-minded people that I tried to hang out with.

On that Friday morning, I wasn’t an outsider. I wish I remember what song we played first, but I don’t. I do remember that when times were low, we played “Go Tell It On A Mountain” and easy song with a catchy tune. We played it a lot, and when the day started, it was easy. We moved from one song to another, took our staggered 5-minute breaks and occasionally played drums when our lips needed a little rest. A large bell had been setup with a sign showing the number of hours remaining. As the numbers ticked down, the bell sounded.

I don’t remember eating. I think that the parents prepared food for us, so there was always something around. All the while, they tracked our playing, our breaks, and the time between songs to keep us in the running for the World Record. Some parent had told us that we shouldn’t use our 5-minute breaks to sleep because that would make it hard to wake up. On Friday, we didn’t need much rest, we just played while all the other high school students marched from one class to another.

Friday evening turned into Friday night and in the wee hours of Saturday, there was a bit of a lull. Eyes drooped; people nudged one another. When the band needed a lift, Mr. Sbrana became a marching band major, and we headed out onto the high school field to march around and play. The night was cold and calm, and the walk did everybody good as we settled back into our chairs to continue playing.

I had saved up a couple of breaks and in the early morning about 5:00am, I took a shower in the boys’ locker room. That was a nice wake up which was followed by sunrise, breakfast and a second wind. As Saturday morning rose, we felt confident and sure of ourselves. We had just pulled an all-nighter, and it wasn’t difficult.

We got this. Piece of cake.

Saturday was a long day, but we plugged through song after song. The band had set up in the rear of Frost Hall in front of the stage and the parents tracking tables were set up along one side. I don’t remember when my parents were there and when they weren’t. I’m sure that they went home to sleep, but every waking moment, they were back in the gym. I know that someone else’s parent oversaw my break sheet. So, I had to check in with them when I started and ended each break.

Those of us who play instruments that require you to maintain your embouchure had to find ways to cope. Sometimes I would get so tired that air came out the sides of my mouth instead of through my mouthpiece. When this happened, I would put my trumpet down, and go play snare drums, or chimes for the next few pieces. I was bad at the snare drums, but I liked playing chimes and tried to play the music in front of me. Everybody developed coping mechanisms to keep engaged and allow for a little recovery from their primary instrument.

But, like I said, so far so good. Friday night wasn’t so hard, and Saturday was a breeze. Then things changed.

Sleep deprivation has been likened to being drunk. It’s worse. As Saturday turning into Sunday every band member hit the wall. I remember putting a piece of music on my stand and then nothing. Then, there was another piece on the stand. I know I had my horn to my lips, but I don’t remember playing anything. The notes on the page started to come to life as the hallucinations came. The high notes danced happily, and the low notes trudged along like Eeyore. I took 3-minute showers every hour. I switched instruments. I played standing up, sitting down. But I just wanted to sleep.

One flute player couldn’t remember her home address or phone number. She went home. We all should have. But we didn’t. Lew remembers Rosalyn Pine putting down her clarinet to play bass drum and then seeing her draped over the drum fast asleep. As he looked at Chris Foppiano barely able to play her flute, his only thought was “I’m killing these kids”.

I’ve thought a lot over the years about the effects of this marathon on the band members, but I seldom wondered about Mr. Sbrana. We were all resilient teenagers, and we were struggling. I marvel how Mr. Sbrana soldiered on.

About 2:00am Mr. Sbrana decided it was time to become a marching band again. On our feet and staggering out the doors, we started playing as we marched to the center of the baseball diamond. When we finished the song, Mr. Sbrana gathered us close. We were alone. The parent monitors were inside, the field was dark, and it was just one adult and the band.

Mr. Sbrana said that this was harder than anything he had imagined. He said that he knew it was his mistake and that if we wanted to stop, he would take us back inside and say that he, himself, couldn’t continue and send us all home. No shame, he said. What we had done was amazing, but he completely understood if we voted to stop.

We didn’t.

I don’t have a clue what everybody else felt, but I felt like there was no way I was going to give up after all the suffering we had endured. In my memory, it was unanimous, and we marched back inside, playing.

I wish I could say that after this soul-searching talk on the baseball diamond that we got our second wind, but we didn’t. The rest of the night was even harder. There were more showers, more hallucinations and, for me, blackout periods.

But, as the sun rose, a small-town miracle lifted our spirits and pushed us to the finish line.

Shortly after 7:00am, the gym started to fill. We aren’t talking about a few people, we are talking dozens, then hundreds, then Frost Hall was full. Word of what we were doing had spread through town and people showed up to cheer us on. Churches cancelled services, instead telling people to head over to the high school to see a show of human spirit.

There was a 5-gallon water jug for donations at the front of the band. People gave what they could. Some asked to conduct the band for a song. One was a dentist who used a foot long toothbrush as his baton. Capitan Ed Story of the Salvation Army conducted while dressed as Santa Claus. PE teacher Daryl Barbieri came in dressed in a ballerina’s tutu to conduct. There were many others that I don’t remember. They cheered, they encouraged us, and they grew and grew in number and enthusiasm. The final song was Go Tell it on a Mountain with Jim Browne the choir director conducting. Mr. Sbrana (who is a wonderful trumpet player), stood next to me and we played to the 50th hour together.

Who knows that the gym looked like (or smelled like!) after being occupied for 50 hours by forty odd teenagers trying for a world record. We didn’t care or even think about it. Everybody headed home: happy and proud of our accomplishment. We were world record holders! At that point, believe it or not, sleep did not come easy. I remember still being awake into the early evening and then collapsing. Nobody expected or wanted us at school on Monday.

Even Lew got the day off. He was specifically told by Bill Caldwell, the Principal, to not come in and to take the time to recover. However, early Monday morning Lew’s phone rang, and it was Jim Brady from KSRO. The radio station had heard about the marathon and wanted a first-hand account. As Lew stood talking to reporter, he was absentmindedly staring out his kitchen window and, to his surprise, he saw trombone player, Fred Scherrer, trombone in hand, walking by on his way to school. When Lew arrived at his classroom on Tuesday morning, he found that Fred and some other band members had spent the day in the band room on hands and knees collating all the music and returning the arrangements back to their folders.

Years later, when I was on the school board, during one of the many discussions about academic achievement and goals somebody said, “It is more important to succeed at something meaningful and hard, then succeed at something meaningless.” The point was that goals should be a stretch. They should be something you have to work at, concentrate on and even sacrifice for. That makes the achievement meaningful.

Our successful 50-hour band marathon Guinness World Record was meaningful and hard.

There are times when I wonder if the effect this experience had on me, and my life was unique. After all, we were just kids, without the perspective of adult experiences. In 2010 I was at a Toyota dealer in Santa Rosa and ran into a former band member in the waiting area. She was a few years ahead of me in high school and played the clarinet and I didn’t really know her. But she looked familiar and after a few minutes we realized that we were in the same band, and both had gone through the marathon together. At that point she turned serious, looked down and said softly, “That was hard. It affected me for a long time.” “Me too,” I said as we both drifted off into our own thoughts.

So, many of us were transformed by this experience.

When I told this story to my eldest son Kyle, he decided to do some research of his own and contacted Guinness World Records to see if there was a record of our achievement. They said that they did have a “Band Marathon” category at that time and that the last record holder was Du Val Senior High School in Latham, Maryland who played for 100 hours and 2 minutes from May 13-17, 1977. Because the rules allowed for 5-minute breaks to be accumulated, and they had a large band, they could rotate musicians in and out, so that sleep breaks could happen. At that point, Guinness discontinued the category, and, over the years, the documentation of prior records was lost.

This story wouldn’t be complete without talking about our trip to Washington DC. The marathon’s primary goal was to raise money, and, in that, it was a huge success. We raised $20,000 which was enough to fly the entire band round-trip to Washington DC, pay for our lodging and a few excursion trips while we were there. We were headed to the nation’s capital, all expenses paid. The saga of the Healdsburg High School band in DC needs its own story. For now, I’ll just say that we played the best that we had ever played - during the rehearsal the morning of our performance. It was stellar and awesome.

Our performance in front of the judges wasn’t what we had hoped. We didn’t get rhythms right; the trumpets were too loud, and the drummers couldn’t keep a steady beat. But I’ll never forget that when we finished muddling through the last song, Mr. Sbrana took a second and looked up and smiled at all of us. He thanked us and said that he was proud of us.

I have had only had two music teachers in my life. Mr. Izzett, who decided that I looked like a trumpet player, and Mr. Sbrana, who shepherded me through junior high and high school. Not every high school musician continues playing after band classes end. But I bet that a lot do. I’m 62 years old this year and, no matter what my day is like, when I leave rehearsal, the day is better. I don’t think it is possible to count the number of people who owe their love of playing an instrument to Lew Sbrana. On behalf of his many students, I would like to say thank you for the gift of music in my life.

I’m sure it was always a piece of cake.