This past weekend I had the pleasure of swapping out the saddle for a nice, antiquated pair of my father’s skis. There is nothing like tagging out the red dirt of the Earth to the legal coke of the sky. If you haven’t saved enough coin to rent a room next to the Jenner’s hideout in Breckenridge, CO, no sweat! They probably would have hit you with a hockey stop so beautiful, Frosty the Snowman would have needed a waistband tuck. However, I implore you to just get out there on any bunny hill you can find and ski away.
As seen in the photo above, you simply can’t win them all. I’d love to blame the fact I used the same skis as Paul Revere might have, as well as not having skied in a year. But that would be an unfair runaround. Truth be told, it’s not easy skiing with double vision. Life comes at you real fast that way. You had better be prepared to pummel a few children if you’re going to find out what the bottom of your flask looks like. This is how my saddle to ski swap went.
Humble Beginnings
Harper Collins wouldn’t have skipped the exposition and jump to the denouement, so neither will I. As a young boy, I was plagued by the overshadowing accomplishments my father so willingly brought upon my ears. I scored a goal? He scored 5 ‘back in the day’. At 12 I won the pinewood derby? At 12 he built his own car, and then won. At 10 I snuck a cigarette in the garage? At 10 he snuck a pack of them up to his room to reenact a post coital James Dean ad.
All of that being in jest of course, he did make sure my brothers and I were well aware of all the outside activities the world had to offer. While his two years of teaching us skiing proved futile, we did eventually learn in 30 minutes from the 16 -year-old baked ski instructor that began drooling every time he uttered, “Remember: pizza, not french fry.” I am forever indebted to that derelict for his sacrifice. It was like riding a handlebar-less bike from then on.
The Big Day
Up in the beautifully isolated woods of northern Pennsylvania lie a ski mountain ill-prepared for a gaggle of excited 24-27yr olds. To paraphrase the great Julius Caesar – we came, we saw, we drank, I fell. There were no bulls, bull riders, chutes, or any announcers out in these forlorn conditions. Just great friends, great runs, and good ‘pow’. To see Cangro snowboard down for the first time was the equivalent to watching your dog use its pee pad for the first time.
This sport doesn’t come without its pitfalls though. You’re suspended 40+ feet in the air with a down bar as reliable as a lawyer with trisomy 21. It leaves your bones and muscles sad, confused, and hurting. The lodge food is more expensive than a Catholic school education. And above all, it’s cold. The redeeming quality of it, though? Successfully getting off the ski lift without any cuts, scrapes, spills, or maiming. That and slipping your feet out of boots created to try and fuse your tibia and fibula together.
Next Stop?
Jackson Hole? Vail? The Swiss Alps? A stint at the X Games? Most likely not. They say you gotta learn to crawl before you walk. Well in the skiing world, I just learned how to spit up on myself and wait for someone to clean up my mess. Crawling is a far-out accomplishment. That isn’t to say I will stop going. No no no no. Regardless of the amount of hiked prices, cold weather, and overall inconvenient preparation, I will always be willing to swap the saddle for the skis. It may lead to an ignominious defeat, but even Armstrong got back on the bike. I’ll see you on the mountain soon, Kris Jenner.