Monday, February 20, 2006
A President's day story
President’s Day Weekend 1991
I’m working my first job after graduating from the concrete jungle they call SUNY Albany, and living in my first closet, I mean apartment, in NYC.
Risa and I decide that we want to go skiing for the weekend, I borrow my parent’s car, and we head to Vermont Friday after work.
Of course, it decides to start snowing almost as soon as we reach the other side of the bridge, so the drive is slow, dark and scary. Risa offers to drive, but I know better. This is my parents’ car, if anything happens to it I will never live it down, so, I respectfully decline.
We arrive in Killington way past check-in time, but are lucky enough to still have our room waiting for us. We collapse in our beds and sleep immediately overtakes us.
After breakfast the next morning we head over to the mountain. We’ve both decided that signing up for lessons would be a good idea because we are definitely not the strongest skiers in existence.
All goes well in ski school. Neither of us die, or embarrass ourselves, and after the morning class is over, the instructors point us in the direction of the beginner mountain and… the rope tow.
“No way! I am not towing myself up the mountain on that thing. I’m gonna look like an asshole!”
We make our way over to the lift.
“It doesn’t look that high. I bet we can ski down from there.”
We jump on. I hold on for dear life and look over the side as we begin our ascent.
“This might be a bit higher than I thought.”
We’re getting to the top of the mountain now. The lift slows in preparation for our dismount.
Ski’s down? Ski’s up? What am I doing?! How do I get off of this thing?!? Aggggghhhhhh!!
Okay, there’s the first fall. Glad I got it out of the way.
I push myself up to my knees, get myself standing again, turn and look down the mountain.
“Risa? Umm, I’m not sure I can do this. This looks really steep.”
“Stay in your snowplow, you’ll make it. Just go slow.”
Yeah, famous last words.
We start our decent. A slight scream escapes my lips every few seconds as I try and stay in control.
Risa, who is more of a natural at this than I, starts to ski out in front of me.
“Ris, I can’t keep up. I’ll meet you down at the bottom.”
Now I’m alone. What asshole told me this was fun? Oh yeah, that would be mom.
I start to pick up speed and I can feel my body tense with nervousness. East coast skiing is all about groomed snow, and I’m finding it more and more difficult to get my skis to dig in. I’m losing control.
Then, when I’m at my pinnacle of speed, I hit a mogul. I shoot straight up into the air and come down… on my head. Oof. I just lay there. I’m so done. I wonder how many people saw me.
“Are you okay?”
I hear the voice from somewhere above me. It goes on to say:
“See, this is a really good lesson. When you see someone take a bad fall, you stop and make sure they are okay.”
I pick my head up out of the snow and look up. A young female ski instructor and 10 six year olds surround me. I’ve become their lesson for the day.
She sends one of them back up the mountain for my ski, which has detached from my boot during my trajectory. She helps me stand up and reattach my ski. All the while, I’m trying to talk her out of it.
“That’s okay, I’m going to walk down. It’s probably safer for everyone.”
She won’t hear of it, and, look, even better, they’re going to help me.
So instead of being able to sink back into obscurity after making a complete fool of myself, the six year olds are going to escort me down the mountain to make sure I don’t take anyone out on my way.
Thanks!
Is it any wonder it took me ten years to go skiing again?
Happy President’s Day!
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