It’s still pitch black as my son and I jump into the car and
head out. Not many things would
get me moving this early on a wintery Saturday morning, but skiing most
definitely will.
I am really excited about our plans, but a little nervous as
well. It’s not that it’s my first time, it’s actually because I’m worried I’ve
forgotten how to do it. My memory
is hazy, but I think the last time I put on a pair of skis was 15 years ago.
Back then I was fearless and skied with reckless abandon; I
didn’t wear a helmet and my skis tended to point straight down most of the
time. My friends and I would head for
the trees and find the biggest jumps from which to launch our selves.
Now however, I will be happy to get down the bunny hill
without plowing into a tree or running over a small child. I envision the little ones eyes growing
wide as she senses a large shadow rapidly approaching from behind, her fate sealed
by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
We arrive, purchase our lift tickets and get rentals. My son has decided to snowboard. It’s something I considered briefly,
but instead, I wisely decided to stick with what I know. One knee surgery and multiple torn
ankle ligaments are enough incentive for me to stay with skis. The downside to skiing though is the
boots. Harder than granite and
just as thick, they feel like I have jammed my feet into cement blocks. It’s uncomfortable but a
means-to-an-end. Luckily, I am not
the only one walking around looking like a Transformer covered in Gore-Tek and
polyester.
We get our gear on and slide over to the safest place on the
mountain, the bunny hill. I
take a moment to look around. There is something energizing about being in the
mountains. Perhaps a combination of fresh air and anticipation, but I’m
enjoying it. We make our way to
the chairlift and prepare for our turn. This is all about timing and multi-tasking as I recall. We scooch up to the red line and I switch poles to one
hand. Then, I glance down and
check that my skis are not crossed.
After that, I need to turn, look back, and sit. This all has to happen with in about ten
seconds so the pressure is on. A
momentary panic attack surges through me as I look at the seat sweeping
menacingly fast towards us. I
crouch and manage to teeter backwards and land ungracefully on the seat.
At the top, I prepare for my first trip down the mountain. I take my first few tentative strides
and it all comes back to me in seconds.
It’s like getting back on a bike after a long hiatus. I sail confidently
down the slope without serious injury to others or myself.
With some regret, I wonder how I could have neglected this
wonderful wintertime activity for so many years. Everything I enjoyed about it back then hasn’t changed. But lamenting past decisions isn’t what
I want to spend my time doing today. Looking at my son, I am happy I finally made
the decision to do this. His
excitement and enthusiasm make the day worthwhile.
Soon, we take on the bigger runs and our confidence is
boosted as we pick up speed and navigate the steeper slopes.
We go at it all day, only stopping briefly to get something
to eat. Finally, we squeeze in one
last run before the mountain shuts down.
Exhausted but satisfied, I pull off the ski boots and sigh
as I wiggle my toes and feeling comes back into my feet. I look up and meet my
son’s eyes. I can tell by the
funny, lopsided grin that he is hooked.
And I realize my first time back on the slopes wouldn’t have been as
much fun without him.
On the trip home, he is already talking about the next time
we go out. I smile with the hope
that someday, he will get the opportunity to share this with his kids. It’s an awesome feeling.
