French fry, pizza pie. French fry, pizza pie. I said to myself, willing the legs to do what they had once felt meant to—ski.
French fry, pizza pie. French fry, pizza pie. The refrain of every ski instructor ever to slap on those monster boots and coax the pride and fears out of newborn snow skiers. Cold, damp nights where the droplets of the lake carried themselves proudly down the interstate to northeastern Ohio’s Brandywine Ski Resort, though it could hardly be called such.
Still, the “resort” housed some old crusty men wearing their bib overalls (one strap off the shoulder) telling stories of near-avalanche conditions on some mount they skied out West (which carried its own stamped passport), and pimply seventh and eighth graders like me, wearing jeans and learning how to ski. Late nights, after the laughter and legs gave out, those kids boarded a bus for the hour ride home. Along the floor, dented oranges ker-plopped out of brown bag lunches that were supposed to be dinner. Who wanted oranges, when you had snow to eat on your way down the hill or into it—for a veritable planting of the face where mouth was situated properly to chew on the cud of snow leftover from someone else’s run?
But now? Was it the news report about the Sundance Film Festival, reminding me of a Utah ski vacation that prompted this desire to hit the slopes again? Was it the thawing of a calendar precariously teetering on the edge of hope and despair that opened up my courage? Or was it the urge inside of me to push boundaries that hadn’t been tested in a while?
Likely, all three.
There I stood, wobbly as a newborn fawn, skis strapped on at base of the little gem of a southeastern Indiana resort, Perfect North, taking in whole breaths. Wearing old everything: a hot pink thermal undershirt, ski mittens singed on the plastic cuff from proximity to a long ago apres-ski fire, a pink fleece neck gaiter stitched together long before Lycra, ski pants that tugged around my waist through the grace of elastic.
It was hardly West, other than west of Cincinnati. It was hardly snow; other than the fact I could still shush on it. It was still cold, and white. And whatever midwestern brush rose from the ground to be so brash as to call itself a tree still swayed in the southwestern winds blowing at seven miles per hour, a rather balmy blow from the day before.
Trekking across the terrain to the orange ski lift, I pranced like a racehorse through the RFID turnstile, then waited behind padded gates, so I could look like Mikaela Shiffrin bursting out of the chute. My skis rolled and thunked onto a conveyor belt designed to transport me somewhere I wasn’t sure my body was prepared to go.
Over four years ago, I was hit by a car while in a crossing walk. I was left with a fractured kneecap and torn ACL, both on my left leg. The doc informed me unless I planned to play professional football, a repair of the ACL didn’t seem necessary. Given my discipline to strengthen lost muscle, I agreed. I ordered the suggested brace, should I ever need it for strenuous activities and buried it alongside the hospital wristband and nightmares from that morning.
On occasion, when crossing a street, a dizziness overcomes me. I spin around, look over my shoulder, sometimes stop mid-street to ensure I crossed during the proper signal. I don’t know this part of me, this other person, until it happens. Quickly, that person seeps away, blends into the fumes of the street.
Long after my junior high days, I skied New York, Pennsylvania, Michigan, and West Virginia. On campus at The University of Akron, I saw a sign for Ski Club sign-ups. “Hear about our next ski trip West.”
They had me at West. I had been rejected by several Colorado colleges (I applied to them without my parents’ knowledge). Here was my chance. The results of the meeting would prove conclusive. They included a new set of skis, a future roommate, a future boyfriend, a future distaste for Hairy Buffalo cocktails, and a future long-standing love of skiing out West: Crested Butte, Winter Park, Veil, Summit County, Big Sky, Deer Valley, Park City, and Mt. Bachelor in Oregon.
The terrain of each of those slopes ran like the veins and bones along the backs of one’s hands. One could steer themselves in any direction on any black, blue, or easy trail. Until one day, life confounds you. And it takes all your will to find your way again.
I didn’t tell my husband of my plans to ski again. No words could talk me out it, and any “be careful” would be met with an eye roll. I had once “been careful”—and dreams were dashed then.
An early attendee to the turnstiles, I relished in the opening of the white slopes ahead of me, conveniently called Far Side, as in the comics. Comical indeed if I didn’t persevere. The trail bowled at times, sunk beneath the fake snow. I only hoped I wouldn’t be out there bowling down other skiers. I leaned my body downhill, shoulders squared with the parking lot, rotating the ski poles to start my turns. The only sticking point was pressing into the uphill edge of my downhill ski, when it was the left side, to grip and turn. I blamed the brace, and not my cowardice.
My fuchsia parka (complimented by a tweenager in the bathroom) shone bright against the lint gray skies. The mind does not always remember, but the body still wants. If it weren’t for the color of my jacket, I could disappear altogether in the magical mist of blown snow and obscurity.
Occasionally, my skis dug themselves into the smush of homemade snow. With the sheer force of my Pilates training and cycling work, I dug them out. Each run I made note: Was I was shifting too much weight on my left leg, the one that lagged? Tips up, butt back, whenever I rammed into corners of drifts lopped off by snow groomers.
Three hours. I promised myself three hours. The time to quit is the last ski run you make before you say, “one more time.”
Three hours of liberation from 3,000-pound metal rockets. Three hours of freedom from whatever catastrophe awaited in my writing. Three hours of obligatory non-texting, non-emailing, non-talking, non-walking. Only watching.
Committed to the stop time, my heart thumped loud enough for two: the person I once was, and the person I am. Swallowing the cold and images of Colorado still in my mind, I skated away, tossed my skis in the corral and procured my old, very pedestrian snow boots.
I hovered over the lumbering body that walked itself to my car. The spirit returned to the slopes.
I’ll be back soon with more writing news. For now, if you or someone you know are a caregiver, consider joining us soon.
NEW and On-going Caregiver Writing Experience
Pauletta Hansel and I are pleased to announce two of our FREE Caring for the Caregiver writing experiences will be IN PERSON. We know this is important to many of our participants, so we are happy to offer this in partnership with Giving Voice Foundation and Jewish Family Services.
Our first date is Feb. 9th, 10-noon in partnership with Jewish Family Services Adult Day program, and August 9th, 10-noon. Watch this space, or visit givingvoicefdn.org soon to register.
Our FREE, VIRTUAL writing experiences for caregivers will continue through Much More than a Meal and Giving Voice. Tentative dates of May 7 and November 14, 10-noon. Forthcoming details will also found at givingvoicefdn.org soon.
Hooray for trying! I was in my mid-40's the first time I barreled down a ski slope in Killington VT. During a 5-day stay with my UA students, I made it all the way to the black. Nothing like it. I hope you'll do it again soon!
Did you do this RECENTLY??? Just wondering