As I trudged through the Telluride hotel lobby with layers
of long johns, Under Armor, two turtlenecks, a wool sweater, ski pants and
jacket, feeling like a sweaty Abominable Snowman with cement blocks for boots,
I briefly questioned why I go through all this effort just to ski down a
snow-capped mountain thirteen thousand feet above sea level. For those of you who don’t appreciate winter
sports, it might seem as though the hours of preparation for snow skiing simply
aren’t worth the payoff. The sub-freezing temperatures alone are enough to
scare any cowboy. Having been born and raised in Michigan, however,
ice-skating, snowmobiling and skiing are in my blood. Growing up, my brother
and I and all the neighborhood kids made igloos, snowmen and had serious
snowball fights for hours in single digit temperatures. During the long, cold,
depressing winter months in the Winter Water Wonderland, the big thrill was to
climb up the side of a nearby bridge and ski down the side of the overpass
which lasted a total of fifteen seconds, if you were slow. That’s how I learned to ski.
Your first time on skiis (or a snowboard) probably feels a
lot like getting on a bucking bronco.
Beyond the physical challenge, it’s just plain scary. Someone can tell you all day long to lean
forward down the hill and not to sit back in your boots, but when you’re
standing on two slippery boards headed for the bottom, your body will think
that’s an insane suggestion. Even if
you’ve skied for decades, as I have, and you’re feeling pretty confident about
your ability, you can get distracted for a second, cross your ski tips and bam!
You’re suddenly tumbling down the hill somehow still attached to your skiis and
poles, flying down the slope like a drunk Tazamaian Devil. Now, I’m not intimidated by advanced runs (a
black diamond) that are so steep you cannot see them until you look over the
edge, but there I was on a groomed Intermediate run (a blue square) taking a
nasty spill that would have been hilarious on You Tube. As I laid there with
snow down my pants, up my sleeves and all over my face, I actually
laughed. A young snowboarder came by and
asked if I was okay. I did a quick physical
scan: arms and legs worked. I could tell
because I felt the pain. “Yes,” I told
him. “I’m okay, thanks.” He handed me my goggles that had flown off in
the fall. I got up, brushed myself off, grabbed my ego that had suddenly been
misplaced and headed down the mountain for more physical and mental
anguish. Like any good adrenaline junky,
I cannot get enough!
We ski for that one moment when everything comes together
and turns the extraordinary effort into complete bliss. The sunshine warms your
back as you dance down the slopes, knees close, hips making figure-eights,
breathing the cleanest air imaginable.
You glide effortlessly on top of the snow, feeling exhilarated, and that is the magic moment when you
realize all the trouble is worthwhile.
There is an unexplainable chemistry amidst the mountain air, like a
first kiss with someone special. A
physiological reaction hijacks your heart and soul. You cannot imagine doing anything else or
being anywhere else. That’s what happens
in one good run.
