Saturday, April 14, 2007

And Then I Nearly Killed a Woman

Those who know me well will attest that I am not the adventurous type. My idea of a daring outing is shopping at Ikea on a Saturday. So when I announced that I was finally going to cross off "try skiing" on my life list of things to do, it raised a few eyebrows from those in my inner circle. In fact, a former college roommate was basically distraught that she wasn't going to witness what would ensue the first time I set foot on a pair of skis.

In early March I took my first ski vacation. First time to Colorado, first time in the Rockies, first time ever strapping skis to my feet. We had four days at four mountains planned: Keystone, Breckenridge, Vail and Beaver Creek. Looking back, I now have a deeper admiration for skiers, a love for the mountains and a laugh at what I thought skiing was going to be like. Let me explain.

Day One of skiing began at Keystone. The weather was a cool, crisp, fourteen degrees with negative thirty degree wind chill and as an added bonus: a huge snowstorm. Not exactly the ideal conditions I had pictured for my first day of learning.

I had envisioned skiing many times before I actually made it out there. In my head, there were sunny days, light snow, fun winter gear and warm lodges. I never once pondered the sheer logistics of skiing, never a clue of all that must go on before you actually make it to the top of a mountain. I don't know what I expected, perhaps to miraculously have the equipment morph on, appear on top of the hill and then glide on down in my socks. I'm sure most people are familiar with the items required, or at least use their common sense to deduce, but for the sake of this entry I'll break it down the steps taken before actually skiing down a mountain:

Clothing. List of clothing items I wore this first day: Heavy duty socks, thermal long underwear, waterproof ski pants, a long sleeved T-shirt, a fleece turtleneck, a running zip up, a waterproof heavy duty jacket, scarf, stocking cap. [Note: In inclement weather, all that didn't cut it. Items purchased at lunchtime were a ninja-like face mask and multiple hand/foot warmers.]

Equipment. Ski boots are ridiculous. I thought they were similar to rollerblades, only they turned out to be twelve times more uncomfortable. Then, of course, there are the actual skis and poles. The three put together are a ton of fun to carry from the parking lot to the base of the mountain.

This is the kind of shit I didn't think of before I actually tried to ski.

So we get to Keystone and put our boots on and we mosey with all our equipment from the parking lot to ski area where everyone puts their skis on and glides cross country to the lift. But not me. I was taking my first ski lesson, so my pals dropped me off there, like a kid on the first day of school. By now it was 10 am, the snow was coming down like crazy, and I could barely see out of my goggles. I joined 14 others in the First Time Skiers Class. It was a mixture of people, including one woman from Arkansas who was literally toothless, a twenty something male from Texas who, when asked if he was breathing okay in the altitude, responded with, "Yeah, I work out."

The lesson went overall very well and I fared well on the skis. It consisted mainly of learning how to put on the skis, skate, use the poles, pie stop, turn, and how not to be scared of the chair lift. After an hour it was evident that a select few of us newbie's had grasped our lessons thus far. And by select few I mean me, Mr. Workout, a couple from Tinley Park, IL, and a mom with a southern accent. But this is not saying much, as any person would look like Picabo Street next to Toothless Teresa and her cronies, who literally could not stand up.

After lunch, the five of us "gifted students" were taken to the top of the bunny hill on a lift. I spent the afternoon literally going up and straight down the hill without any sort of instructor watching. By three it was so ridiculously cold, I figured I hadn't killed myself yet and thus the day was a success, and had to quit and retire to the lodge. I was feeling good about my new skills and ready for the next day.

[Cut to my favorite part of skiing: a nice beer afterwards.]

The next day was Breckenridge. Also negative 30 degree weather, but we were troopers. We had all six of us with a great plan of all skiing together, never mind that this was my first time venturing past the bunny hill, and that most of these people grew up skiing black diamonds. But, hey, we were at least going to start out together. I was petrified. The lifts are fine, it's being on the very top of the mountain that gets me, even though I see green runs marking my way down on the maps, it's hard for me to imagine at that altitude we can get some sort of easy path.

But my friends do guide me partially down an easy green, and although I am scared to death, I'm confident in my newly learned skiing technique and my friends are saying I'm doing well. So we head up another lift to which my friends say, "Just go down this blue, it's totally easy and you're fine, and it turns right into a green." Okay. I just ignored the fact that the wind and snow at the top of the mountain has created zero visibility. But I'm a beginner ski class graduate and, damn it, I'm going to ski my ass down this blue and find my true ski calling in life.

Well, things don't always go as planned. I'm heading down this mountain, and I'm gathering more and more speed and just barreling down it at approximately 90 miles per hour. I can't see anything and I'm freaking out because I am sure this speed is unnatural. I have no idea where my friends are. I can't see anything through my goggles except snow. And I'm going headfirst straight down.

When out of nowhere appears a woman.

I hit her.

Ski directly, face first, into her. Run her right over, with my skis. Aka, a huge snowy collision. Literally a large puff of snow. I make impact and immediately go soaring into the air, land farther down the hill on my side with my skis and poles everywhere. But I'm fine, only my left side doesn't feel so hot; at least I can move all my body parts. But of course I'm immediately freaking out because I JUST MURDERED AN INNOCENT SKIER. I sit up and a few yards up the mountain is the woman I hit, wailing, and crumpled up into some sort of broken rag doll form. Great. I'm bawling.

At this moment, one of my friends skis up to me. Apparently they had all been in back of me, trying to catch up with me, but I was going so fast that no one could catch up. Christ. So he comes over to me and I'm obviously hysterical, and he notices the woman I've hit and he thinks she is a kid. Which is understandable, because while this lady was 32 years old (so I would later learn), she was about 5 feet tall and a size zero. Sweet, so I basically killed a kid. Right now, I'm obviously visibly distressed.

The Breckenridge ski patrol makes his way over to us and instructs Rag Doll to not move her position since she says her back and shoulder hurt. I have to fill out accident paperwork, while frozen, kneeling on the ground, crying and rubbing snot on my ski gloves. Rag Doll, sensing my hysteria, tells me (muffled, as her face is lying in the mountain snow) that "it's okay, calm down," but of course at this point I'm imagining this woman can never walk again or reproduce because of my klutziness and lack of sporting skills.

The Breckenridge medics come over with a papoose-like stretcher and shimmy Rag Doll on it to take her to the medical center. I turn around and, in that moment, realize I am now officially:
a) stuck on the top of a huge ass mountain with no way of getting down
b) currently petrified of skiing and have 2 more ski days a head of me
c) going to have to live the rest of my life knowing I've put someone in a wheel chair
Currently I am most concerned about problem A. "There's no way in hell I am skiing down this blue," I tell my friends. Thankfully Medic overhears and straps me on the back of his snowmobile and we drag Rag Doll behind us in her snow stretcher. Down at the medical center I learn that, thankfully, Rag Doll has only suffered minor shoulder injuries, but nevertheless I was a bit shaken up.

The rest of the afternoon required a lot of hot chocolate, much coaxing and personal instructions from my veteran ski friend/guardian angel who so carefully taught me what my lesson did not: How to use the edges of your skis to slow yourself down while making large S-shaped turns. WHY THE F WAS THIS NOT COVERED IN MY CLASS?! Damn you, Toothless Teresa. I blame this on you!

But you all would be proud of me. I got back in that saddle, er, skis. I, very slowly, and very much alone, skied the greens at Vail and Beaver Creek the next day. It was 40 degrees, sunny, peaceful and you bet I skied so cautiously there was many a snowboarder cursing me out. But I got through it, and I even ended up enjoying myself in the end. However, I never fully got over being just a little bit scared about how part of you, in skiing, just has to entrust yourself to the mountain at times and have confidence that you are going to make it down in one piece.

Ski experts: Will my overwhelming fear of speeding down a mountain on a huge incline lessen with each time I try it, or am I destined to a life of sheer terror and the green run called the "Cinch"?