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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
(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).<\/p>\n
Needless to say, everyone was pretty shaken up by the time we reached our cabin. I don’t think anyone got much sleep.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
(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).<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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).<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Unfortunately the humiliation didn’t stop there.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-76","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fitness-musings"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/76","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=76"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/76\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=76"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=76"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eatdrinkrunwoman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=76"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}