Several years ago, my father and I were talking about my daughter who was trying out surfing for the first time, and he made a thought provoking comment. He said “I’ve never done any sport or activity with something under my feet”
Sufing?- Nope
Ice Hockey? - Nah
Ice Skating? - No
Snow Boarding?- No
Roller Skating? Rollerblading? Water Skiing? Regular Skiing? - Nope, Nope, Nope and Nope
At this moment in his life, my dad was in his mid 70s, and he didn’t say it with any tinge of longing for his younger days. He said it more as an observation. My dad really had no interest, and growing up in working class North Jersey the opportunity for any of these sports did not exist for him. Don’t get me wrong, my dad loved watching his granddaughter cruise through the surf on that summer day, but for him, his younger athletic days were gloriously spent on basketball courts, in bowling alleys, and in backyards throwing a wicked knuckle-curve with a Wiffle ball. At that point in his life, my dad appeared content that certain sports were best left to someone else. He’d happily watch others have the fun.
I, however, am built a little different, and that is why, after a 30-plus year hiatus, I have decided to strap a pair of skis to my feet and head down the nearest steep hill. Yes, it's time to get back into skiing, age (and maybe common sense) be damned.
Mind you, this endeavor is being undertaken with a large level of trepidation. The last time I skied was during the mid-80s. You remember those days with the bright neon jackets and mullets flying out the back of a winter hat (we didn’t think to wear a helmet back then). Back in that day, I had a couple of friends who knew how to make it down the hill, the faster and more death-defying the better. I thought why not? I could do that. After all, I had seen Bill Johnson become the first American to win skiing’s World Cup and Olympic gold in 1984. “He’s off the course! He’s on the course.” That guy was a national hero. I could do it too. Let’s go!
Needless to say, I did my best Bill Johnson impression of skiing like a wild man. Only, I wasn’t met with Olympic gold or magazine covers. Instead I slid all over the hill on my butt, face and stomach and ended up in a clump of trees with my gear scattered around the snow. This ski thing was a disaster, and my skiing adventure appeared to be a one and done affair.
As the years went by, I fell in love with basketball which consumed my winter (and summer) months. Then there were moves to New Orleans, the eastern shore of Maryland, and coastal Alabama, places with next to zero snow, and the biggest hills doubled as highway overpasses. I don’t think I had a conversation with anyone about skiing for decades. Sure, I’d tune into the Olympics every 4 years, but otherwise, there was next to no interest in trying that crazy sport again.
Ah, then my kids came along, and a swing from what do I want to do to what do the kids want to do has swung dramatically in their favor. Guess, who now owns a pair of snow pants and has a garage full of rented ski gear for the season?
This time around when I headed to the mountaintop, the carefree daredevil of the 80s had transformed into a “Oh God, please don’t let me get hurt”, shaky-legged dad. Several broken bones and a few surgeries throughout the years has impacted my point of view just a bit. I’ve donned several stylish casts in my day. No need for another one. However, I still have that inner belief that if somebody else can do this, why can’t I?
This year, there have been a few days on the mountains of Vermont and Pennsylvania and one transforming morning with a long time ski instructor. Now, I finally feel I can say it. I’m a skier. I’m not a great skier. I’m not a fast skier. I’m not a conquerer of the black diamond trails skier (although I did make it down one recently without a crash which was super cool), but I am a skier.
I think I got it. I learned how to lean, how to turn, how to stop, and most importantly to stay in control and have fun. This sport is awesome.
To celebrate this new found joy, I snuck out of the house earlier this week and headed up to a nearby mountain all by myself. For those who regularly ski in Utah, Colorado or Vermont, referring to PA slopes as mountains might be a bit of a stretch, but they’re mountains to me, and I love them. It was a weekday, so not all the trails and not all of the ski lifts were open, but the crowd was light and the conditions near perfect.
I rode the first lift all by myself staring out at the Pocono Mountains. It was remarkably peaceful as the sun showed itself in a near spotless blue sky. Then, I reached the top, and headed down my first hill. For the first few turns, I heard that instructor’s voice in my head. “Lean forward and into the turns, push off one foot, then the other, look up and see where you’re going.” It sounds like common sense, but for a novice like me, it became almost like a mantra to be repeated again and again.
By about the third or fourth run, that voice was gone. I don’t know how, but the swoosh of the turns and leaning back and forth became nearly second nature. I felt at peace. Sporadically, I’d hear the sound of another skier closing in behind me. Someone likely more skilled and experienced, would zip on by. Meanwhile, I kept my steady pace, back and forth. Leaning forward just right. Left foot. Then the right.
I have no idea how many trips I made down the hill that day, but I hit nearly every green trail and blue trail I wanted. I even accidentally crossed over onto one of those scary black diamonds for a bit, and I survived that one too without a scratch.
With my four hour pass about to expire, I unclipped, slung my gear over my shoulder and headed back to the car with a smile on my face. This day was a success, and as I drove home I revisited that conversation I had with my dad all those years ago. Over the years, that man taught me a lot of things, and he was right a lot more often than not, but on this topic, Dad you were wrong. Trying skiing again has been great and I look forward to my next run down the hill.
