Stowe, Vt. – The first ski weekend of my career began like this:
“OK, what size skis do you need?” said the rental guy at Mt. Mansfield, the base lodge here.
“Here’s the deal, fella,” I said. “I skied once in my life and that was 14 years ago.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t even be here.”
“Thanks, guy.”
What a way to boost my confidence. It’s 9 o’clock in what potentially could have been the last Saturday morning of my life and this guy is giving me lip. So much for recording customer service conversations for quality control.
The rental guy explains that I should be over at Spruce Peak, aka the kiddie pool. That’s fine with me. The goal for this weekend is to ski and not die, despite Carpet King Wild Bill’s credo of “Ski hard or go home.”
As Lawyer friend Steve, Insurance friend Mike and Wild Bill get ready to tear up the diamond slopes at Mt. Mansfield, Boris the Mad Russian and myself get on the transport to Spruce Peak. This feels like riding the short bus to school.
After a five-minute bus ride, I walk the snow plank toward Inspiration Hill, the shortest, smallest, non-steepest trail offered. I’ve skied once in my life – when I was 16 – and never could figure out how to make that oh-so-important second turn.
The Mad Russian convinces me to get on the lift and take a run before my lesson starts. Right now, that “Yo, we should go skiing one weekend” email ranks No. 4 on my Things I Wish I Never Said list.
With death pending, I get on the lift. On the ride up the mountain, The Mad Russian allegedly talked to me. All I recall was my first-person inner voice alternating between “Wedge! Wedge!” and “You really are an idiot!”
We make it off the lift in smooth fashion, bang a right turn and go straight downhill. Somehow, I turned left, then right, then left, then right, then left. Move over, Alberto Tomba, I’m the next great Italian skier! Tomba La Monica! Join bode.com? Ha! Join La Monica.com!
Then came the crash. Right at the bottom of the hill. Perhaps this pre-lesson run wasn’t such a good idea. Oh great, there’s the Stowe photographer to capture the moment. Where was he when I was tearing up the mountain instead of ligaments? What a jerk!
I was furious. I made another run. No crash. Where you at now, photographer dude?!?
This second run confirms why they call it Inspiration Hill. I suddenly feel that I’ll make it through this weekend in one piece and be able to tell the story afterward. This is truly inspiring.
After a 90-minute lesson which culminated with me in a full tuck down the bottom half of the hill, I decided to graduate to Easy Street Hill.
At this point, my peoples joined me at Spruce to have some fun at my expense.
Easy Street Hill, my patoot! They should call it Boulevard of Broken Ribs.
On the first run, I did well. Went back and forth. Found myself in some kind of mini-halfpipe thing and navigated it. Then I found the spot where the hill gets steep. I crashed. Lawyer friend Steve deemed it necessary to ski in my direction and spray me as I lay on the cold mountain.
On the second run, I did well. Went back and forth. Then I found the spot where the hill gets steep. I crashed. Lawyer friend Steve deemed it necessary to ski in my direction and spray me as I lay on the cold mountain.
On the third run, I did well. Went back and forth. Then I found the spot where the hill gets steep. I crashed. Lawyer friend Steve deemed it necessary to ski in my direction and spray me as I lay on the cold mountain.
I went 0-for-3 and fell at the same spot every time. It was time to curse. The skis. The mountain. Lawyer friend Steve.
Hobbling toward flat ground, skis in hand, snow in face, a dozen or so little kids came zipping by at Olympic speed and skill level. I flipped them the bird. I’m not proud of that, but hey, they deserved it. These little kids, no taller than my leg, ripping up the mountain as I’m ripping up rib cages, knee ligaments and vertebrae deserves a little dose of reality for them.
So much for my downhill dreams. Tomba, I think you’re safe. For now.