Eat Drink Run Woman

Considering I’ve always lived in northern climes (17 years in New England, 4 years in Alaska, 23 years in the Pacific Northwest), you would think I’d be an avid skier. WRONG! In fact, it took me 28 years before I even dared strap on a pair of skis.

My first attempt was an utter disaster. A group of us headed over to White Pass, which is in central Washington. We got a late start, so by the time we were winding along Highway 12 to our cabin, it was well after midnight. I fell asleep in the back seat, but was jolted awake by the gasps from the front — our friends traveling in the car ahead ran into a herd of elk running across the road. They had hit one and went flying off the road, landing top down in a ditch alongside the road. Fortunately no one in the car was hurt, but the sheriff had to come out to shoot an elk with a broken leg.

(I’m EXTREMELY fortunate for making the right decision. I originally was going to ride in that car, but when I found out there were no seat belts in the back seat, I wisely chose the second car. Seeing how the roof had totally caved in over the back seat, I can only imagine what would have happened to me).

Needless to say, everyone was pretty shaken up by the time we reached our cabin. I don’t think anyone got much sleep.

The driver of that car wasn’t much in the mood for skiing, so he offered to give me some “lessons.” I rode the chair up the bunny hill in my rented equipment, praying that I wouldn’t make too much of a fool of myself. Ah, the best laid plans! Of course I biffed immediately upon exiting the chair; the rest of the trip down the mountain was not much better. Although my “teacher” was quite patient, I just couldn’t get the hang of things. It must have taken me at least two hours to go down that hill.

The next year I was determined to take some “real” lessons. I was working for a public relations company at the time, and one of our clients was Crystal Mountain. I received free lessons in return for writing and pitching an article to a local newspaper. After several weeks of lessons I was confident enough to go down the blue runs.

The following year a few friends and I made a couple of excursions to Whistler, BC, which is about five hours north of Seattle. The runs there are fabulous; they even have a green run starting at the very top of the mountain. I still kept to the blue and green runs, but my confidence was starting to grow. Then disaster struck. I was making my way down a blue run at the end of the day when I hit a bump wrong. I immediately fell but heard a snap. I tried to get up, to no avail. My friends stopped and tried to help me up, but the pain was too intense. They hailed the ski patrol and I was soon barreling head-down off the mountain on a ski patrol toboggan. The verdict? A broken ankle.

(And yes, I realize breaking one’s ankle while skiing is rare. Busted knees? Sure. Broken legs? Happens all the time. But an ANKLE? I guess I didn’t buckle my boots tight enough).

Fortunately I was only in a cast for six weeks, but by then ski season was over. The next year I started dating my darling, an avid skier. We went up a couple of times, and while I’m sure I bored him by staying on the blue runs, I felt I could at least hold my own. The following season — 1998 — was by far my best. A group from work went on a trip to Alpental, which is just an hour out of Seattle. It’s a rather challenging course — I don’t think there are any green runs — but I made the best of it. In fact, toward the end of the evening I found a hill that I had all to myself. I kept going up and down, perfecting my form each time.

Somehow nine years passed and my skis gathered dust in our basement. (For a while, EVERY piece of fitness equipment gathered dust, until I decided it was time to get back in shape). A group of friends always spends Thanksgiving weekend at Whistler, so last year we decided to join them. However, since I was running the Seattle half marathon the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I opted to hang out in the condo, heading out only for a massage.

This year I decided it was finally time to once again strap on my skis. While my darling skied both Thursday and Friday, I felt it would be better to take baby steps and keep it to one day. Besides, I wanted to hang out in the condo to prepare our Thanksgiving feast (however, I did make it out for the Whistler Turkey Trot; more on that in a separate post).

Fortunately there’s a gondola to take you to the top; I wasn’t looking forward to negotiating a chair lift after such a long absence. My darling had gotten an early start but was waiting for me at the lodge. I kept telling myself I was going to do great — it would be just like riding a bicycle — but deep down I was scared sh!tless. You see, now that I have a job where having working body parts is crucial (and there’s no such thing as sick pay), I try to avoid situations where said body parts are placed in jeopardy.

Although we’d be taking a green run all the way down, there were portions that felt too steep to my liking (including the initial drop from the lodge). All the skills and confidence I developed in 1998 left me, replaced by a growing terror. Our two friends wisely decided to leave my darling and me alone; I wouldn’t have done well with a bunch of advice being thrown at me. While I did okay on the really flat areas, once there was just a hint of a decline I became paralyzed. I was much better turning to the left, but for some reason I couldn’t replicate the maneuver on the right. My frustration grew and the tears started to flow.

My ever-patient darling tried as best he could to boost my confidence, but to no avail. I knew if I were to allow myself to go faster it would be easier, but with skiers and snowboarders zipping by me right and left, I just couldn’t do it. I got halfway down the run and gave up. The skis came off and we hiked down to the chair to take us back up to the lodge.

Unfortunately the humiliation didn’t stop there.

As we were making our way up the chair lift I kept giving myself a pep talk that I’d be able to dismount with grace. Again, the best laid plans! I don’t know how it happened — I guess I hesitated just a second too long — but next thing I know the chair lift is turning to head back down the mountain and I’m still sitting there. They had to stop the lift and take off my skis so that I could jump down. I swear it was the most mortifying experience.

I made my way to the lodge, fighting off another bout of tears. We found a couple of seats at the bar, and although I soon spied our friends outside on the deck, I wasn’t in the mood for socializing. I just wanted to drown my sorrows in a beer.

I’m happy to say after a nice long, hot shower at the condo (and a couple more beers), I was finally able to laugh it off. But I doubt I’ll be getting up on skis again any time soon!