Back to the Future

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.