On Skiing (A Nevillian Adventure)

Funny how sometimes you love to do things you can't do. Take skiing, for instance: prior to this weekend, I had only hit the slopes twice in my life: once on a snowboard and once, two winters ago, on skis.

And so, this past Sunday marked my second skiing adventure. I was, as predicted, dreadfully comical. I fell (twice) while waiting in line for the ski lift. I hit my head and elbow on said ski lift. I fell countless times going down the slopes before I remembered the most valuable lesson taught to me two years ago: how to get up quickly and easily after falling.

Until that wonderful piece of information recurred to me, I was a floundering mess... relying on MCR to help me up, and nearly knocking him over every time he tried. During these moments, I realized that skiing is nothing like riding a bike: once you learn to do it, you better keep at it... or you'll most assuredly forget.

But it wasn't all bad. Due in large part to a natural fondness for snow, I didn't mind falling much. And the more I skied, the less I fell... this was unlike my first skiing experience in Michigan: on that first ski trip, I fell a lot... and I fell hard. The source of these falls wasn't clumsiness, so much as my inability to control my speed. I was zipping past experienced skiers as I made my way down the slope, and so adopted "falling" as my own "braking system." I crashed countless times at terrible speeds; all without broken bones, but NOT without covering my thighs in black, blue and green patches.

I loved it, despite the bruising. By the day's end, I was still known as "Pizza Girl" for my unfortunate ski form... but I was fast. And I took on all the slopes that Michigan resort had to offer — including the most difficult.

Two years have passed since then, however, and as time moved along, I worried my "ability" — earned over the course of a nine-hour day — was dissipating exponentially with every fleeting winter afternoon.

I was right.

Because I forgot my contacts yesterday, I was perpetually worried that a nasty spill might deprive me of my much-needed spectacles. So I knew I needed to learn how to slow down without needing to crash. And though I started to get the hang of "going slow" I have to admit it's nowhere near as fun as going "dangerously fast". But I was at least proud of myself for developing a better understanding of mechanics. After a few runs down the easiest non-bunny slope, in fact, I was better able to control my direction and speed. But, much to my chagrin, I could never quite break out of the Pizza Girl form until my very last run down the slope: I didn't fall. I didn't tilt my ski blades in to form the outline of a pizza slice. I simply... went down the slope. Neither too fast nor too slow. And precisely in the direction I intended.

This was my last run because MCR and I had already determined to leave the Wisconsin resort well before the 4:30 checkout time. We wanted to beat the equipment return rush and, because sore feet had pre-empted his early retirement, I promised my next solo run down would be my last. I was half sorry to have to quit after just getting the hang of it... but nevertheless thrilled to end on a high note.