All Downhill From Here, Part 1

Last weekend (because my blog updates are so very prompt), I decided to challenge my longstanding losing streak against gravity and outdoor sports by going skiing at Seven Springs. When the girl I went with suggested the idea, you only need to read as far as the word "girl" to understand why I agreed to go. But alternatively, skiing did seem like a lot of fun, and looked challenging but not impossible to do. Additionally, I've never done ANYTHING even remotely cool with my life, so I thought this would be an easy way to get the adrenaline pumping by some other means besides watching my career opportunities careen wildly off the precipice of failure.

I have two goals as we're riding up to the ski resort:
1. Do not embarrass yourself in a spectacular fashion.
2. Don't become overwhelmed with paralyzing fear on the ski lift.

I failed on both counts.

But let's return to the beginning, shall we? My lady friend works for a very, shall we say, well-to-do engineering company, and they buy discounted stuff from Seven Springs all the time. Through Machiavellian strategies I have no way of comprehending, I was able to get a free skiing lesson and a discounted evening pass for the ski lift and equipment. So at this stage of the game, I'm really excited to get my ski on. I figure it will kind of like staying on a balance board - just stay standing and let gravity do the rest. Of course, I was being willfully ignorant of my past experiences with balance boards, and I underestimated the more complicated maneuvers required of the downhill skier.

My first clue should have been the skiing boots, which are designed to snap into the skis and provide some traction should your skis pop off as you tumble down the mountain (SPOILER ALERT: I become intimately familiar with this feature later in the story). Unfortunately, these boots weren't made for walkin' on a normal surface, so I start traipsing around the lodge looking like I'm wearing those old Moon Shoes. I can't even walk up the stairs without looking like a gag reel from the first Home Alone movie. Nevertheless, I assume that I simply need to get out on the powder and then all will be well.

Then I get out on on the powder... all is not well.

On the way up to the resort, I joked with my lady friend that the skiing lesson would probably consist of me and a bunch of five-year-olds. We laughed, but I didn't think it would actually be true. To be fair, it was me, some old dude, and about a dozen 12-year olds, and I don't impress even when I take my first steps out onto the snow. Now, I have size 15 feet, so I'm used to walking while taking such length into account; however, 6-foot skis are a lot more challenging to maneuver than I would have thought. I can barely move forward to take my place next to the impatient 7th graders. Lady friend chuckles at my misfortune and heads off to her own advanced snowboarding lesson (also free). I send her a withering glare as she's walking away, but she fortunately doesn't see it. Meanwhile, my ski instructor, a woman in her mid-sixties, prepares us for our lesson.

Parallel skis make you go forward. Making the letter "A" with your skis (i.e. pointing the tips together) makes you stop. This sounds straightfoward enough, but on my first try, I careen out of control and nosedive into the snow. Laughter abounds from all the 7th graders who got it with no problem. Memories of middle school gym class flash before my eyes. The lesson continues in this manner, but the ski instructor does a great job with me. She gives me the personal attention I need... much like the slow kid in a public school class. By the end of the lesson, I've actually improved considerably. I still can't maneuver worth a damn, but I can get down the hill without flying out of control or crashing into bystanders.

My big problem, however, is that I can't get the hang of turning on skis. I learn from the ski instructor that is the most pivotal (pun intended) skill of skiing. Turning controls your speed and prevents you from careening off the mountaintop in an alarming fashion. As I have no desire to pull a Sonny Bono, I stay on the bunny hill until I can figure out how to turn adequately. Never mind the fact that I'm totally humiliated by this point. It doesn't help that I'm dressed in the most ludicrous manner possible, with my old winter coat (which is now two sizes too big for me), a pair of my brother's windbreaker pants over sweatpants (both of which are two sizes too big for me), and a big fluffy hat. For all intents and purposes, I'm so poofy that I look exactly like I did when I weighed over 300 pounds. This does not bring back good memories, and I don't look very suave on the slopes.

Regardless of my fashion faux pas, I spend the next two hours on the bunny slope. For the life of me, I can't figure out the turning thing. Six-year-olds are whizzing by me, and I'm feeling like such a chump. To make matters even worse, three frat boys from the ski lodge (which overlooks the bunny slope) appear from the sauna balcony and proceed to heckle me: "Hey! Look at the big guy on the bunny slope! Hey big guy!! You can really move! Wooo!!!" I look up at them. This doesn't help. "Hey! He's looking up here!! Why don't you man up and go on the mountain! Booo!!! BOOOOOO!!!!" My face... it burns like a thousand exploding suns, but I can't do it yet. Much as I despise their heckling and demeaning comments, I can't adequately turn my ass to go where I want to go. I begin to lose all hope.

But then suddenly.... everything clicks. It's like a lightbulb just flicked on in my brain. "Ohhh! The weight needs to shift onto the foot in the direction you turn, but you also need to lean weight onto the opposite ski but in a very particular way." It was tricky, but once I got the feel for it, I was zipping around the bunny slope in no time.

With my new-found confidence tucked under my hat, I headed for the ski lift to meet up with my lady friend, who had long since gone up the mountain at my request (both because I wanted her to enjoy herself and because I didn't want her to see me humiliate myself in front of the entire resort). I'm convinced that even if I don't look pretty coming down the mountain, I've got the requisite basics to at least make it down the easiest long hill.

Oh, hubris, thy name is JP.

CONTINUED IN PART 2.

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"It feels like I'm wearing nothing at all... nothing at all... nothing at all!"