Falling: Variations On A Theme

In my life, I like doing things I am good at and generally avoid things I am the opposite-of-good at. I also enjoy feeling like I am in control of the direction of and the speed in which my body is moving. Turns out this is hard to accomplish when one is hurling down the side of a mountain with sticks strapped to one's feet. But let's move backward for a minute.

When I was in elementary school, a big chunk of my extended family used to go cross-country skiing every MLK Jr. weekend. I loved getting together with all my cousins, driving to bend, making big dinners in the hotel kitchenette, watching Back to the Future marathons on TV and playing poker for matchsticks.

I hated skiing.

People (mostly Peter but let's just say people) have been trying to convince me that downhill skiing is different. I was told it was less work and that you have way more control because the bindings on the skiis are different. After eight years of convincing, Peter finally got me to hit the slopes of Mt. Baker last week right before the new year.

It was a humbling experience. Luckily for me, I checked my dignity along with my snow boots at the ski rental desk.

This is the only only picture I could snap before my camera died. Not as impressive as the actual slopes, but pretty. Can’t you just feel the optimism in the air?

My goal for the day= Not to hate every second of it.

There were a few indicators that downhill skiing may not have been a good fit for my safety-conscious-self.

First red flag, signing the liability release form. It went a little something like this.

Desk Man: I just need you to sign this before you can get started.

Me: Okay no problem.

[Reads most of release form stating that skiing is inherently dangerous and may result in injury or death and that skier is held personally responsible for any injury or death caused by running into a fellow skier]

Me: I am not sure reading this is a good idea.

Desk Man: No, no, you’re just reading it wrong. Basically it says skiing is tons of fun and that you will have loads of fun and leave remembering how fun it all was. Fun, fun, fun.

Me: Uh, okay.

The second red flag, the rental guy almost forgot to get me the helmet I rented (not included with the ski rental). Apparently not very many downhill-skier-type-people past elementary school wear helmets when careening down the sides of mountains. I told him my brain was my best feature and there was no way I was flying down the slopes with a naked cranium. I think that pegged me as the not-a-downhill-skier-type.

Onward to the skiing. After a brief tutorial by Peter, I took a 1.5 hour lesson, in which I learned a little and fell a lot. But the real falling came later, when I tried to show off my skills to Peter. Turns out I lost my bravery somewhere after lunch. At that point I learned that holding yourself perfectly still on a slope takes an excessive amount of muscular energy, and that I fall a lot when frustrated.

In the days leading up to the ski trip, friends told me repeatedly “if you get going too fast or in the wrong direction, just fall. Falling doesn’t hurt.” I guess those people don’t fall the same way as I do, because coming down hard on one hip with your legs tangled up, sliding across the snow and hitting yourself in the face with your ski pole definitely hurts.

Overall, my success was limited and fleeting, but existent. My biggest success was at the very bottom of the very last run, where I had 5 or 6 really great turns in a row (meaning, without crashing into snow banks in-between).

People keep asking me if I had fun. I decided that what I had resembled fun intermittently, especially the times when I felt I was truly deciding where my body went. Perhaps what I had was a close relative to fun? Maybe something that was also distantly related to panic/fear? However, I will say that the sun was shining, the mountains were beautiful, the snow looked incredible on the trees, riding the ski lift was really nice (until I was required to dismount) and I was with my favorite person in the whole world. Those parts were definitely fun.

That night when we got home Peter said "I figure if I can get you to go skiing once every eight years and we live to be 100, we can go together eight times! That is pretty good, right?"

Honestly, I think eight times might be optimistic, and I am by no means ready to try again tomorrow, but I didn't hate it.

P.S. Between the trying to stay motionless on hills, the falling and the schlumping around the lodge in ski boots my body was trashed. It was almost comical to try to walk the next day. Who am I kidding. It was hilarious.