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.