The Mogul Monster

In kindergarten, my brother tried to teach me to ride a bike without training wheels. Bill sat me on my sister’s bicycle and ran behind with his hand on the seat. Back and forth, from our driveway to the neighbor’s, I pedaled slowly, and pleaded with Bill not to let go. He tried, but I panicked, scared of that bruised knee or scraped elbow. The next day, my friend Lucy let me ride her bike with training wheels. After riding for hours, I returned home, marched over to the glittery-orange bike, climbed on, and rode to the end of the block without training wheels.

On Friday, I wanted a similar “no training wheels” challenge. My friends Jesse and Jayme were along – both experienced skiers. They believed I could try moguls, so I agreed. On the way up the hill, I scoped out the moguls to our left.

“Are you sure I can do this?” I asked my friends.
“Yeah, just go slow.”
I breathed in and breathed out. When we approached the run, I said, “Go ahead of me. I want to watch you.” They started slowly, bouncing here and there, shouting pointers at me up hill. Then they stopped and looked at me expectantly.

I was terrified. We were the only ones there. The slope seemed to disappear after just a few feet. These bumps rose out of the snow like the white-caps of an ocean storm. There was no escape. My heart raced as I imagined the disaster of gaining air with every bump, my body direction-less, landing somewhere in the trees. I could not go back up the hill. I couldn’t ski to the side of the bumps because trees framed the trail on both sides. I HAD to get through it and I couldn’t even cry.

Sometimes confidence helps us conquer the impossible, but it doesn’t make us superstars. I knew I wasn’t ready for the moguls, but it was too late. Skidding everywhere and barely missing trees, I had lost control. I couldn’t even make turns that were easy on other runs. I had lost the natural instinct to move. It was like riding without training wheels, not ready to be let go. Mid-way down the run, I landed on my stomach. I sighed, picked up my skis, and walked down the rest of the hill.

I felt foolish for being confident enough to try something that was beyond my skill level.
I felt stupid for doing something so poorly in a sport where things came naturally.
I felt unwelcome in a place where I just learned to fit in.
I had avoided disaster, but the thought of what could have happened scared me.

When I got home that night, I sat on my bed, rubbing my leg in disappointment. At least I hadn’t bruised. It certainly wasn’t as bad as the week before when I scraped the entire side of my body on the ice. The biggest shock my body had was the way it shook in fear. It was scary, I fell, and it hurt.

But I didn’t have any major injuries. I didn’t have to be rescued. I did get up and walk away. And then I remembered bike-riding at Lucy’s. Maybe the disaster that seemed to ruin my skiing progress was just what I needed. Maybe I needed training wheels. Maybe I needed to move backwards, just a little, to know that I could let go.

Love at First Turn

Somewhere between the poker and Jäger-Bombs, I agreed to try skiing.

It started when I accepted an invitation from JZ (Eyton’s friend from Chicago) last winter. Agreeing to try a high-risk sport with a (near) stranger was part of a new attitude I was exploring: say yes to everything. This attitude survived any pessimism long enough to find equipment and clothing, but as JZ and I followed the sun into the west on that chilly, March afternoon, it was hard to maintain the carefree, naïve perspective. What if I fell? What if I plowed into other skiers? What if I went down the wrong run? What if I couldn’t control myself? I watched the coarse, dry fields along the interstate and wondered if I could do it.

I had only gone skiing once, in high school, when I didn’t know how to stop and didn’t know how to turn. I was so out-of-control that I never count it as the first time. Speeding straight down the hill, past jaw-dropping onlookers, thinking only about the bottom, is not skiing. This time, when I got to the top of the chair lift, I was determined to do it better.

At the top of the hill, JZ showed me how to snow-plow (pointing the ski tips together forming a backwards ‘V’), and I followed him for a moment. Soon, though, I needed to do more. So I turned my skis parallel, picked up speed, and didn’t look behind me. It was a magical moment of unexpected confidence and courage. All self-doubt disappeared and I didn’t just know I was going to be okay, I knew I was onto something.

The rest of the night, JZ and I explored mostly green circles, and a few blue squares. JZ, it turned out, was the best person to take me skiing. He was relaxed and patient, fun and encouraging. He’s a fantastic skier and made me feel safe. A couple times, he had to walk UP the hill, on his skis, to pick me up after a spill (thanks to the racing skis that didn’t pop off when I fell). And there were other times when he let me pass him up, if for no other reason than to boost my confidence.

The first night was a little rocky – the turns weren’t beautiful and five-year-olds looked better than me – but there was something about skiing that made me feel like that was how I was always supposed to move. That motion, that natural shift in the body, is what I imagine falling in love will be like – feeling, for the first time, something that was part of me all along.



A Brief History

The First:

Time on skis (www.skibrule.com) – February 18, 2001
Real time on skis (www.cascademountain.com) – March 1, 2005
Opening day (Cascade) – November 19, 2005
Ownership of skis and boots (K2 and Tecnica) – December 3, 2005
Ski trip alone (www.tyrolbasin.com) – December 21, 2005
Birthday spent skiing (www.aftonalps.com) – December 30, 2005
Injury (terrain park) – January 13, 2006