February 19, 2007

Falls=Numerous: Skiing

My feet were invisible, tingling stumps. All I saw were my new feet, about four feet in length and smooth as liquid steel. I didn't do my new feet justice. They were so professional-looking, and I put them to shame time and time again in snow drift after snow drift. I almost fell off the mountain twice.

I went skiing yesterday. I went down three times--the mountain, I mean, not the individual falls, which on the report (but I'll get to that later) I label "numerous".

I drove. Athena and Diana were my beloved companions in my car that smelled of gas. I am leaking gas from somewhere beneath my auto extrodinaire I've named Bertha.

It was a too-good conversation piece as we drove up to Seven Springs. Asphyxiation was setting in, and I think talking about tar bubbles or corn would have had the same effect: laughs.

After we parked Seton Hill style, which means making one's own spot, we were greated by a wonderful mix of mountain air and SUV exhaust.

When we finally got suited up after approximately two hours of waiting (and I'm not complaining, I'm really not), we hopped on the ski lift. I think this segment of the trip was the best. Except for when I had to get off, taking the skiing advice I got on the way up the chair lift.

I fell. Each time I got off the chair lift, I fell. I guess it was my thing. I knew how to take my skis off and put them back on flawlessly by the end of the night.

However, the first time, when the ski lift operator said for me to move out of the way in the most ambiguous language possible, I didn't know what to do or how to get up. Joy. So I took them off, carried my skis like a beautiful baby and almost cried when I stared into the mountain's face.

The first "run", as the pros call it, was a brush with death, and I'm not exaggerating.

We mistakenly took the Children's Stunt Path called Arctic Blast. I caught a glimpse of the sign and didn't see the word "stunt" in the title. Oh my holy ghost.

The little tunnel should have tipped me off. Tunnels shouldn't exist on bunny slopes. What cruel labeling. I thought Arctic Blast was just some happy title for the kiddies to get excited over, but it really was an arctic tundra of ice, stunts and would-be death. Now, looking back, I see that trail as it would be if children actually skied it. Only their legs would stick out of the snow, a line of them on the perimeter of the slope, kicking, kicking and then not moving at all.

But it did go down that path. I tried to steer clear of the tunnel, and then my skis crossed and stuck together. There I was, sprawled for the first time on my back, looking up at the big gray sky, so happy to be breathing. Sonny Bono kept racing through my mind.

With the help of my pals, I stood upright once more. Then I went off the edge of the world. Quite a stunt, eh? After crawling up an incline of about 45 degrees in skis, I wanted to slide down on my arse and just be done with it, but I didn't. With much cajoling from my friends, I got back up again. Again. Again.

I get more and more like Bridget every day.

On my third run, I hit a bunny slope curve too fast and went down. What a surprise. However, this time I turned my knee a la contortionist. Thankfully, I was almost down the hill. I don't care to share the last leg of my journey, except for one thought: "People actually have fun doing this?"

I've gone ice skating. I've fished in cold temperatures. I gone snow tubing. Even when I fall on ice or catch nothing or end up in a snow drift with my tube over my head, I still have a degree of fun in the process.

I enjoyed the time with my friends. Since they are in school and I'm writing, I don't get to see them very much. They supported me when I fell, and it wasn't figurative.

On that last run, however, they weren't there, but they found me. First-Aid followed. Thank you, Andy, wherever you are. The ice was lovely. As for the insurance form, yes, I am a beginner. Yes, I did learn to ski just today, and no, my falls were not one or two, but rather numerous-- frequent and body-shattering. No, I can't write that in? Okay.

I do not care to look at my legs today, and my arms hurt when I straighten them. I look like a battered wife, a mountain climber and a professional base jumper--not a skier. I think I'll stick to my 80-degree pool with water flowing over my skin, not into it at 30 mph.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at February 19, 2007 12:00 PM | TrackBack
Comments

Give it one more try!!!! We will show you how awesome skiing is!!!

Posted by: Amy at February 19, 2007 9:16 PM
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