So far, my downhill skiing career consists of a measly eight days on the slopes. I’m not in denial; I know my awkward technique reeks of ROOKIE. At first, I was a bit embarrassed by my lack of coordination, but I quickly realized that being a beginner isn’t just about looking like a clumsy clod on skis; it’s actually a great conversation piece.
It seems that most skiers and snowboarders enjoy taking a trip down memory lane, reflecting on the days when they too were green and klutzy. They recall with a chuckle their first time getting on and off the chair lift. They complain about the prehistoric skis and bindings and boots they used in the past, telling me, “You’re lucky... back when I was learning, you determined the length of your skis by standing with your arm held straight up above your head and measuring yourself from the floor all the way up to your wrist.” I look down at my kiddie skis and imagine they were 7 feet long - I’d be stuck in a constant, contorted tangle of gangly legs and poles and skis (even more than I am now).
After listening to so many fledging ski sagas, I’ve discovered a common theme among many veterans of the sport (especially guys who took up the pastime later in life). Some might call it a right of passage, others attempted murder - either way, many a skier has gotten his start after being abandoned by his “buddies” on a windy ridge over 8,000 feet above sea level next to a snow-blasted black diamond sign. I’ve heard that same story over and over again. Actually, come to think of it, that was my experience too.
The first time I ever headed to a ski area was with a carload of teenage boys (my first BIG mistake) on Christmas Eve 1999. If I drove my friend’s son and all of his fellow shredders to Showdown, they’d give me free snowboarding lessons, they said. “It’s so totally easy,” they reassured me. “On a snowboard you won’t get your legs all tangled up with skis and poles - it’s just you and a board and a mountain.”
“Just me and a board and a mountain” should have been my second clue. They weren’t lying either. Within minutes after parking and unloading the car, I was nervously perched on a chairlift next to a kid who was twisted around in his seat and screaming through a mouthful of Skittles at his cronies behind us. “Check out that yard sale!” he yelled and laughed, pointing down at some unfortunate fellow who had just wiped out, leaving a trail of skis, poles, gloves, car keys in his powdery wake.
Once at the top of the lift, a nice young man helped me strap on my board and then grabbed my hand, pulling me up on my feet. That was the last I ever saw of him or any of the others until I ran into them inside the lodge at lunchtime. The look of surprise when they found me sitting at a table nursing a cup of joe was telling.
“How was your run?” they asked me. Giant grins took up half of their pimple-strewn, windburned faces.
“Awesome,” I said, refusing to give them the satisfaction of my horror stories.
Actually, while attempting to work my way to the bottom of the mountain, I discovered that I had pretty good balance on a snowboard but lacked any technique - in other words, my butt was my brake. The next day, Christmas day, my tailend was literally black and blue. I laid on my stomach on the living room floor to open presents. I was sore for a week, but I’d never let those pubescent, snot-nosed shredders know it.
“Right on,” they said, throwing their soggy hats and gloves on the table and plopping down into chairs all around me. “You rock,” one of them said, punching me on the shoulder.
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