Number 17: Go Skiing

I’ve been seriously slacking on my 30 before 30 list. Which is why I’m so happy to have crossed one of the big ones off this weekend. I almost made it 30 years on this crazy planet without strapping on skis and hurtling myself down a mountain. Almost. But I finally bit the bullet and tried it out this weekend.

Anyone who has ever seen me trip over my own shadow is probably nodding their heads in agreement as I tell you that I was a little apprehensive about skiing for the first time. My ability to hurt myself in different and interesting ways is matched only by my ability to act like nothing’s happened. To call me accident prone would be an insult to accidents. I probably would have been better off trying out skiing when I had a lower center of gravity and a smaller grasp of my own mortality. I do, however, have a lot more padding these days. So we’ll call it a wash.

We decided that the best way for me to learn how to ski would not be for Kristian to teach me. Relationships have failed under less pressure. I love Kristian and he did manage to teach me how to drive a stick shift. But if I was going to fall off a mountain and break my femur, I wanted it to be on someone else’s watch. Which is why I purchased a learn to ski package that included a lesson. We drove up to Wachusett together, he helped me strap on my rented gear, he attempted to teach me a few basic concepts and then I shooed him off in the general direction of the chair lifts.

I have to tell you, my biggest fear was that I was going to be the oldest person by about 15 years in the “first time skier” group. I pictured myself falling over repeatedly as a bunch of 13-year-olds did acrobatics around me. There would be taunting involved. I would take my skis off in disgust and shame, drag myself into the lodge in the manner of an unhappy Charlie Brown and I would then be informed that they were out of hot cocoa.

(Sometimes it’s not so great to have such a colorful imagination).

I guess I shouldn’t have been so worried.

The previous sentence can be applied to many, many facets of my life.

Our instructor, Dave, had us form a line and then we took turns gliding down a slope so gentle that most of us had to push with our poles to get any sort of speed. We did this for about 45 minutes, adding in snowplowing and turns. Then another instructor came along, announced to Dave that he was there to rescue him, and then gathered up all of the members of our group who still hadn’t figured out how to glide without falling over dramatically.

I’m pleased to report that, while this was pretty much my biggest fear, I was not in the “falling over dramatically group”.

I’m not entirely sure what happened to the dramatic faller overs, because the other instructor herded them off around a corner and then we never saw them again. It did feel a bit like they didn’t pass the test, so they brought them out back and shot them. Which I’m pretty sure is not the case. I think the only time that they can impose martial law on the ski slopes is when the slopes are overrun by dinosaurs. Or Communists. Or Nazis.

(There’s a potential Eddie Izzard bit in there somewhere about hot cocoa or death).

After pushing ourselves down the practice “hill” a few times, our instructor told us that we were ready to ski down an actual hill. And maybe someday go up on a chair lift. He gave us good directions about which hills we were the least likely to break our necks on and then told us to get as much practice in as we could while all the little kids were still eating lunch. Because, come one o’clock, they were going to be scurrying all over the bunny slopes with their low centers of gravity and their lack of fear.

Kristian came to collect me and I forced him to ski down the slightly taller practice hill with me a couple of times. And then he got bored and told me I was ready for an actual mountain. Which, shockingly enough, I was. We stuck to the two green circle trails, but I managed to ski them both adequately. I don’t want to sound conceited or anything, but I’m awesome at learning how to ski (if I was conceited, I would have said super awesome). I think it’s all the practice that I’ve had at falling. And maybe because the motions are somewhat similar to playing hockey.

(Although the ski patrol does get super pissy if you go around cross-checking people).

I only wiped out four times all day. Twice while skiing down hill, once while getting off the chair lift. And once while standing around, doing nothing. Because that’s just how I roll.

The biggest surprise of the day (besides my ability to not fall over dramatically) was how good my knee felt afterwards. It got pretty sore when I had all of the gear on, but once we were in the car heading home I realized that I felt kindof funny. It took me some time to figure out that the funny sensation was the feeling of not-pain. I’m a big fan of not-pain, but I haven’t felt it since last Summer.

I think I could get used to this.

Skiing is supposed to be terrible for your knees, but it apparently works wonders for mine. There are many theories as to why this is. These theories range from it working different muscles, to the effects of spending a day out in the cold to the possibility that I jostled my problem knee-cap back into place. I’m going to go with: I’m a contrarian. And I’m weird. If I’d gone to physical therapy instead, I’d probably be on crutches right now.

Whatever it was, I’m not complaining.

We had a great time and I’m looking forward to going again. Hopefully, soon!