Blue Skier

I live in one of the most renowned ski towns in the world.  In less than ten minutes, I can ski at three of the top resorts in the US.  Within 45 minutes, I can add another four to the list.  My husband grew up skiing and loves it.  My kids are on the alpine race team. 

I hate to ski.

By announcing this to the world (or at least my paltry number of blog followers) I risk endless ridicule from my friends, (what else is new), I may be kicked out of Park City, and most certainly the marketing job at the chamber of commerce that I have been coveting will be given to someone more ski friendly. 

However, I feel if I am able to present ski life from my point of view, perhaps people will understand, dare I say empathize with my situation.  As I review my skiing career, there seem to be several clues as to why this may not be my favorite sport.

Early Years

I did not grow up skiing, which I believe is the crux of the problem.  My parents skied early in their marriage, but did not have the urge to teach my brother or me.  After helping my own kids learn to ski and knowing first-hand the great amount of patience and burning quads (not to mention $$) this endeavor required, I can see why they put this activity on the back burner.  I would also point out the obvious fact that there are not a lot of mountains in Connecticut.  I did, however, love the snow.  My experiences with snow involved making snowmen, building snow forts, having snowball fights, the thrill of a snow day off from school, and attempting increasingly more dangerous bouts of sledding through thick forests of trees (one time even with a cast on my ankle), countless pairs of soaking wet wool mittens, and hot chocolate with marshmallows.  In Utah, the snow is fluffy and dry making it ideal for the powder skier, not so perfect for snowballs and snowmen – my areas of expertise.

Teenage Years

My long-term high school boyfriend was an avid skier; he even attended the Green Mountain School in VT to perfect his talents.  He introduced me to skiing at the mountain where his family owned a classic A-frame VT ski house, Mad River Glen.  For those of you not in the know, the tag line on the resort bumper sticker is “Mad River Glen Ski It If Your Can” - probably not the place of choice for the novice skier.  He bundled me up in his mother’s clothes and old ski gear and we set off for the mountain at 7:30 to ensure we were the first on the lift (and the last to leave at 4).  Back in the day, we packed our own backpack with lunch and goodies so not to waste precious time waiting in line and paying exorbitant fees for ski lodge food.   After a terrorizing tangle with the lift, I was set loose on my own on the mountain top with a few words about “plow” and “Stem Christie” – not the more easily interpreted pizza and French fry metaphors that my children are accustomed to.  There were no hot chocolate breaks, no other lessons, just me and the mountain challenging me to ski it if I could.  By midday, my boyfriend had grown tired of my complete lack of ability and decided to ski with his more competent friends.  One day, he lost me completely and I wound up on a black diamond run by myself.  With a combination of tears and snot streaming down my face, I awkwardly carried my skis while I attempted to descend the mountain – half on my butt, half sliding in his mom’s ski boots.  We finally found each other at the bottom hours later– he in his parent’s car coming to look for me.  I stomped right by him, face red from crying and the cold, covered in snow, fogged goggles askew, trying to balance my skis across my chest cupped in my arms.  That was the end of my high school ski experience.  Mark – don’t worry, I have forgiven you – no amount of patience could have made that day any better and you were wise to find a more outdoor friendly partner than me. 

College Years

My first college boyfriend ventured to alleviate my antagonism with the sport by skiing a friendlier mountain called Loon in NH.  Still in borrowed gear and clothing, this time I was equipped with something better – a flask full of peppermint schnapps.  While I was warmer and more tolerant, alcohol did not make me a better skier.

Post College

Alas, I met my next college boyfriend, who ended up becoming my betrothed.  He was smart and determined; he didn’t attempt his conversion until we were engaged and my exit strategy was compromised.  No more borrowed gear for me, he bought me the entire ensemble:  Spalding skis (yes, the tennis ball manufacturer), boots, and my OWN outfit.  We rented a ski shack with 8 friends at Killington and religiously drove the four-hour journey every other weekend for an entire season.  We usually slept 3-4 to a bed and if I showered, I did so bravely and nimbly so as not to touch any of the walls or the shower curtain that blew around spectacularly if someone opened the door.  It was at Killington that I did find something about skiing that I loved – APRES SKI.  I have fond memories of dancing on the table at the lodge to a live band and having way too much fun at the pickle barrel in town. 

Faulty anatomy

It is important to mention that, simply put, I am not built to ski or withstand cold temperatures for extended periods of time.  I have extremely short toes.  In all of my 45 years, I’ve never met anyone with toes as short as mine.  Thus when my spouse/ski coach tells me to push the tips of my skis which are at least two feet from my boots - using my toes which are less than an inch long, it just doesn’t jive from a physics perspective.   After numerous visits to the boot fitter, he informed me that there is something wrong with the balls of my feet which makes them go numb in my boots, regardless of cold.  My nose and chin are longer than most, making it difficult to achieve maximum blood flow; consequently they also lose feeling quickly.  My fingers turn blue and white in the cold.  My skin is old, so 8 hours after I remove my goggles, I still have their outline framing my face.  My quad muscles are nonexistent.  My nose runs and turns an unattractive hue of purple.  My POC helmet squishes my cheeks together and forms wrinkles down the side of my face.  If Borat were to see me on the mountain he would scream, “Ski bunny – NOT!”

Present Day

Jump ahead 15 years and two children.  I finally gave in to my husband’s nagging and moved to Park City to “try it out” (that was almost 9 years ago).  Despite having only half the ski gene pool he anticipated, he is determined that his kids will be skiers, and they are.  I, on the other hand, am still a work in progress.

Today, it is snowing, overcast, hovering around 28 degrees.  The kids are off in their respective ski programs.  I am so excited to hunker down by the tree, listen to carols, wrap presents and finish my xmas cards.  For me, the perfect day.  And then, my husband barges in on my blissful dream,

“Come on, let’s go skiing today, it will be fun.” 

This will be my first day out on the slopes this season.  I know that he will continue badgering me until I give in.  I decide to make a deal and counter,

“Ok, but only if I get to do whatever I want tomorrow.” 

Armed with the promise of my dream day awaiting me in 24 hours, I mentally prepare myself for the task at hand.  It is like childbirth; I remember vaguely how torturous it is, but I do it anyway.  I stopped after two kids but I keep skiing year after year because it seems oddly important to my family members.  Although I don’t know why; “skiing together” encompasses the rest of my family racing down the hill ahead of me, I chug down the hill to where they are stopped.  As soon as I arrive, they start out again and so the race continues.

“Maybe things won’t be that bad this year” the angel over my shoulder whispers in my ear.  I pull together the necessary equipment: helmet, goggles, mittens, neck gator, long johns, snow pants, jacket, skis poles, skis, ski pass, and boots.  I load them all into the car and depart for the mountain.  At 9:30 the lot is almost full and I search for a decent spot.  The first step is to put on my ski boots, which has to be done outside the vehicle because it requires all of my weight plus someone pushing on my shoulders to jam my unwilling, wide in-stepped, high-arched appendages into what feels like an endless tube of inflexible fiberglass.   I push and jiggle and grunt and finally they go in.  Tug, buckle and on to the next boot.  OMG, I remember why I hate this – the devil breaths over my other shoulder.  (I believe that you need to be seasoned from age 3 to endure this type of pain.  When you learn to live with discomfort at an early age, it becomes commonplace. Your parents have geared you up to think that skiing is the best thing on planet earth and the only way you can do it is to shove your little feet into those boots and get out on the slopes.)  With my helmet and goggles in place, I grab my skis and try to put them over my shoulder the proper way during my trek to the lodge.  I have been taught the “right” way to do this many times, but it still doesn’t feel "right" to me.  The bindings dig into my shoulder and the skis end up crisscrossed behind my head as I struggle to walk in my ski boots the rest of the way.  Because of my inadequate foot design, my feet fall asleep within 15 steps of walking in the boots.  I finally get to my destination and I try to put on my skis but my boots have too much snow on the bottom and they go into the bindings crooked and I try again.  Thank goodness my husband hasn’t witnessed the last 30 minutes of struggle just to get to the first lift.  I pretend like it was a piece of cake as sweat drips down my back.  We board the chair together and proceed with our day.

He provides helpful pointers during our time on the mountain such as:

Wiggle your toes. Bend your knees. Lean forward. Not that much. Lean back.

Hold your poles out in front of you. Put your shoulders down. Make sure your gloves are in your pole straps correctly. Relax! Maintain an athletic stance. Push with your toes. Keep your knees soft. Unbuckle your boots on the lift so your feet don’t fall asleep (too late - they were asleep hours ago).

My son offered advice one time while we were powder skiing together. “You are doing what we call shopping; you are looking to turn in a certain place, you just have to turn with your natural rhythm.”  I suppose this makes sense if you have a natural rhythm, but as we know, I have no natural anything when it comes to skiing and I rather like shopping – especially for the perfect place to turn that doesn’t have too much snow, or a patch of ice, or a tree in the vicinity.  I want just the right spot.  Of course, most of the time, my shopping is unsuccessful and I end up looking like a “newb” plucking my way down the hill or traversing for miles. 

Today my goal is to make it for two hours.  I can do this.  I look at the clock every time we get on the lift.  The minutes click by and soon I’m half done, but my puny quads are killing me.  My nose and chin are completely numb and I can’t talk which at least has the benefit of limiting my ability to complain.  I commend my husband for his tenacity; if sheer will could make me love skiing, I would be on the world cup.  He suggests we go to the lodge and warm up.  He buys me hot chocolate and rubs me feet until they come back to life.  Somewhat rejuvenated, I head out hoping to conquer another 4 runs.  Well, maybe 2.  Luckily, my daughter calls with a bad sore throat and needs a ride home.  I can’t get down the hill fast enough.

I want to like skiing.  It seems like it should be fun, swooshing through the fluffy powder with the greatest of ease like the Warren Miller athletes.  I do like to ski for an hour or so on a nice blue, groomed run, but that is about it and I don’t win many friends with this lack of ambition.  It is also not really worth the $54 I pay for a lift ticket (that is the heavily discounted local rate).  For $54, I could take two painting classes, get a pedicure, 4 manicures, half a facial or watch 6.5 movies at the theatre - all things that make me infinitely happier than putting two slick boards on my feet and plummeting down a mountain. 

  

Of the 6M or so people out there skiing each year (less than 2% of the population), I know that I am in the minority.  I have never had a YEEHA moment.  I’ve muttered a lot of obscenities, but never shrilled in sheer delight as I gracefully bounce through 2 feet of powder.   But if you were in my boots – where half your body is numb, you undertook the sport as a cynical adult, your only coaching has come from people you were romantically involved with, and you can imagine 100 other ways you would rather spend $54 and 3 hours of your time, would you continue your fight with the devil?   Or call it a day and make a snow angel in the back yard.