Pizza Wedge / French Fries

Typically on a snowy winter day in the mountains, Steve and I like to strap ourselves onto one plank of pressed fiberglass and carve down the mountain dragging our knuckles idly as we go. To change things up I decided to try skiing (and Steve reluctantly agreed). Two things that I think are important here. 1. I have skied before. Once. In the 6th grade in Big Bear, California. 2. One day of skiing over 18 years ago doesn’t really count. I have to say it was a strange experience. Two long rods bound to my feet pulling me down the mountain. I kept having out of body experiences when I was going straight thinking I was about to catch an edge (reminiscent of newbie snowboarding). But generally there was much less bending over and shimming along than when I snowboard. The chairlift was a cinch for a beginner skier (compared to riding), and the boots weren’t nearly as uncomfortable as most whiney skiers had lead me to believe.

The first part of the day was spent utilizing all the strength of my inner thighs as I snowplowed down the mountain. Really, I resembled most 5 year olds that ski like bats out of hell; snowplowing straight down with their arms splayed and a look of both terror and determination on their faces. We were with a large group of skiers which included my Mother In-Law, all echoing different commands.

“Keep your poles by your side”
“No, use your poles to pivot”
“Forget about the poles!”
“Bend your knees”
“You should be standing straight”
“Lean forward”
“Don’t lean that far forward!”

Between laughing at myself and stifling the sobs and tears streaming down my face, all the little pointers ended up helping immensely. Especially when we hit the backside of Keystone and went down a sheer ice face for over 2 miles. As Oprah would say – that was my “Ah-ha” moment. Do or Die. I had to learn to actually turn and move like a skier, or, my legs would have spontaneously combusted and sent me head over ass all the way down the mountain leaving ski patrol with only a fine ashy shadow to follow and find my charred remains.

Overall, I’m proud of my accomplishments on Saturday. Steve of course remembered how to ski right away – leaving me to try and keep up. So, was it enough to convert this avid snowboarder into a skier? Steve is definitely a rider, who loves to play in the terrain park and fool around on the side of the slopes and in the trees. But as for me, well, any sport with this many food analogies does pique my interest. I’d love to be able to be a Hot Dog skier, now that I’ve got my French fries and Pizza Wedge down. But only time will really tell – or maybe the cost of a new pair of skis will help determine my future. Either way, it was an awesome day for our last ski trip this season.