ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-01-18)
Watching the Olympics inspired us to go skiing last weekend, so we headed up to the Catskills for a weekend of outdoor sport. In my head, I'm flying down the slope, my hair flowing in the breeze, the sound of cowbells urging me faster and faster. How did all those cows make it this far up the mountain?
Reality sets in quickly. It seems as though a drummer like myself should be more coordinated, but out on the hill with ski poles instead of drumsticks it's like the wild west. I'm striving to improve my form, which at the moment is amoeba-like. I try to keep my skis together, but when I do that my right ski tries to wander over where the left ski is supposed to be, and now I've got two skis over there. I try to bend my knees, which doesn't help me remain upright, but when I fall it takes less time to get to the ground. I try to remember what my friend Lisa told me: ski on the balls of your feet. Or was it the other way around?
If I was on a snowboard at least both of my legs would have to go in the same direction, but which one? A snowboard can go in either direction, and I'm a person who clearly needs MORE direction. If at any time my skis are going the wrong way, I know about it almost immediately, sooner if someone points it out. The snowboarder just turns his head around and acts like he or she is open to a last minute change of plans. What if the snowboard turns back up the hill? Further, there are no ski poles with a snowboard. I'm not really sure what the ski poles are supposed to be used for, and I always make that clear to those around me. "Human shish kebab" is an option to keep open, but they mostly come in handy for retrieving things that have slid away from me when I fall, like my gloves, my knee or my self-respect.
I like to hit one black diamond slope just to say I did it. I usually regret it immediately. At worst it ends in disaster, and at best it's time-consuming. The run itself is over quickly, but at the top there is quite a bit of idle procrastination. I look down the run to see how bad it looks, I check the wind conditions, make an assessment of the type of snow. If you live in the Northeast, the snow quality is always "loose granular," not unlike my thinking. Translation: a sheet of ice with some crushed ice on top, better for a margarita than for skiing. I check again to see if the mountain has gotten any smaller. I do some weeping and take some time to get my affairs in order. By the way it's not like I have so many affairs that they have a chance to get out of order.
My plan is always the same: I start on the right side of the slope since I can only stop turning to my left, and even that is hit or miss. If I hit something, I stop, and if I miss it, I don't. I go as far as I can to the other side while at the same time trying to slide diagonally downward. When I can't go any farther it's time to turn and do the same thing in the other direction, and for a split-second of panic during the turn I'm facing straight down in the direction of the local hospital. At the bottom I look back up and congratulate myself for making it easier for the expert skiers by removing most of the snow with my technique.
This time I didn't realize until way too late that this particular black diamond was a mogul hill, only for people who have insurance that carries a low deductible. I went over a large bump too fast and actually took air. I took so much air it took me a while to let it back out, which I did in the form of many colorful adjectives, describing various parts of the human body doing things that are impossible in normal conditions. I threw in some adverbs too so the adjectives wouldn't get lonesome. My wife says I swear too much, but I really don't, I swear.
Long story short I lived to tell the tale, and retreated to the ski lodge where it was safe. The hot chocolate wasn't so hot so I dropped a couple toe warmers in. Then I almost tripped and killed myself going down to the rest room.
Watching the Olympics inspired us to go skiing last weekend, so we headed up to the Catskills for a weekend of outdoor sport. In my head, I'm flying down the slope, my hair flowing in the breeze, the sound of cowbells urging me faster and faster. How did all those cows make it this far up the mountain?
Reality sets in quickly. It seems as though a drummer like myself should be more coordinated, but out on the hill with ski poles instead of drumsticks it's like the wild west. I'm striving to improve my form, which at the moment is amoeba-like. I try to keep my skis together, but when I do that my right ski tries to wander over where the left ski is supposed to be, and now I've got two skis over there. I try to bend my knees, which doesn't help me remain upright, but when I fall it takes less time to get to the ground. I try to remember what my friend Lisa told me: ski on the balls of your feet. Or was it the other way around?
If I was on a snowboard at least both of my legs would have to go in the same direction, but which one? A snowboard can go in either direction, and I'm a person who clearly needs MORE direction. If at any time my skis are going the wrong way, I know about it almost immediately, sooner if someone points it out. The snowboarder just turns his head around and acts like he or she is open to a last minute change of plans. What if the snowboard turns back up the hill? Further, there are no ski poles with a snowboard. I'm not really sure what the ski poles are supposed to be used for, and I always make that clear to those around me. "Human shish kebab" is an option to keep open, but they mostly come in handy for retrieving things that have slid away from me when I fall, like my gloves, my knee or my self-respect.
I like to hit one black diamond slope just to say I did it. I usually regret it immediately. At worst it ends in disaster, and at best it's time-consuming. The run itself is over quickly, but at the top there is quite a bit of idle procrastination. I look down the run to see how bad it looks, I check the wind conditions, make an assessment of the type of snow. If you live in the Northeast, the snow quality is always "loose granular," not unlike my thinking. Translation: a sheet of ice with some crushed ice on top, better for a margarita than for skiing. I check again to see if the mountain has gotten any smaller. I do some weeping and take some time to get my affairs in order. By the way it's not like I have so many affairs that they have a chance to get out of order.
My plan is always the same: I start on the right side of the slope since I can only stop turning to my left, and even that is hit or miss. If I hit something, I stop, and if I miss it, I don't. I go as far as I can to the other side while at the same time trying to slide diagonally downward. When I can't go any farther it's time to turn and do the same thing in the other direction, and for a split-second of panic during the turn I'm facing straight down in the direction of the local hospital. At the bottom I look back up and congratulate myself for making it easier for the expert skiers by removing most of the snow with my technique.
This time I didn't realize until way too late that this particular black diamond was a mogul hill, only for people who have insurance that carries a low deductible. I went over a large bump too fast and actually took air. I took so much air it took me a while to let it back out, which I did in the form of many colorful adjectives, describing various parts of the human body doing things that are impossible in normal conditions. I threw in some adverbs too so the adjectives wouldn't get lonesome. My wife says I swear too much, but I really don't, I swear.
Long story short I lived to tell the tale, and retreated to the ski lodge where it was safe. The hot chocolate wasn't so hot so I dropped a couple toe warmers in. Then I almost tripped and killed myself going down to the rest room.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment