Ski Day

Everyone knows that sisters argue about wearing each other's clothes, but I hadn't realized I would have similar arguments with my preteen son.

We were trying to get out the door to go skiing today, but first we had to make sure we had ski gear that fit. Last year, I had cobbled together an assortment of boots, skis, and poles from DI for cheap, but this year, since he had supposedly outgrown them, I had shelled out the big bucks at the local ski swap to acquire used boots, skis, and poles of similar quality to the DI ones (the boots had duct tape on them).

Since we didn't have any gear that fit me, I asked my sister if I could borrow hers for the day. She gladly obliged, and I drove the 5 minutes to her house to get them. Unfortunately, the boots seemed a little small for me. She reassured me that she could get them on, and as I warbled "Sing, Sweet Nightingale," she tried with all her might to squeeze my foot in.  Unfortunately, I was the ugly stepsister who needed different boots.

So I asked my son if maybe I could use his new boots and he could use hers or his old ones. He couldn't get her boots on either. He grudgingly agreed to use his old boots, and so, with all of our gear gathered up, we drove up to Cherry Peak.

On the way there, neither of us had anything to say. So, I turned on NPR and learned about dog walking as a profession. It sounded like a good way to stay in shape, even if climate change had made it less fun. Then, we learned about Ripley's Believe it Or Not. As we drove up the last road to the ski resort, the signal became fuzzy, and we could finally see snow on the ground.

After paying for our tickets, I was happy that we didn't have to wait in line to rent ski gear, and we headed outside to put our skis on. I got one boot in just fine, but I struggled to get the other one to lock into the ski. My son stood there in embarrassed silence as the minutes ticked by (much longer than it would have taken to rent new skis). "This worked in the parking lot," I said to anyone who might be walking by. Finally, I had my son examine it. "We need to scoot the heel part back," he said.

I was worried at first that we would need a screwdriver to do it, but between the two of us we were able to adjust the heel just enough to get my boot in. Time to go!

We headed to the magic carpet first. This is the conveyor belt that takes skiers to the top of the bunny slope. Although I was confident in my ability to ski on the easy slopes, it had been 2 years since I had last gone (I was pregnant last year), and I was grateful for the refresher.

At first, I felt confident as I coasted down the bunny slope. I knew how to put my skis and knees closer together whenever I wanted to slow down. But then, as it got slightly steeper, my trick for slowing down stopped working. I felt like I was careening down with no way to control myself, especially with the goggles limiting my range of vision. Eventually, I was able to slow down and reach the bottom safely.

We both tried the bunny slope again, after which my son said that he was going to the ski lift. "Wait for me," I called out as I stumbled along behind him. I was too slow to catch the same chair as him, and too nervous to get on the next three chairs after him. But when the fourth chair came, I was ready, and it scooped me up while I held on for dear life.

The air smelled of exhaust, and down below I could see a machine blowing out powder. I thought briefly about ski lifts that had stopped working recently, and I decided that if the whole thing fell apart and I fell to my death, I would be sure to think happy thoughts on the way down.

But the cables held, so I just had to get off now. Armed with my bunny slope skill, I glided off the chair and then fell on my way down the slope.

"Do you need help?" a snowboarder asked. I did. I tried to rotate my body and put my poles in the snow in a way that he could actually help me up. My son had waited for me to get off the lift, but now he was all too happy to get some distance between us.

And thus began the second-most harrowing trip down the easy slope I have taken. The first was of course 2 years ago, when I didn't even bother with poles because you're not supposed to use poles until you won't use them as a crutch. This time, I had the poles, but they did nothing to slow me down on the icy trail. So whenever I felt like I was going too fast, I used what I did have -- my own weight. Down I would go, sometimes skiing in a squatting position because I had more control that way. (Also, I couldn't get up.) Whenever I stood up, I felt like I was instantly going too fast, so I would ski into the nearest snowbank. A minute later, I would be back up, doomed to repeat the cycle.

One time, I told myself to have more confidence in my abilities. I had done this course before without falling down, and I could do it again. I let myself glide on the icy but groomed trail, trying to quell the panic in myself of going faster and faster. "Make the skis into a pizza!" I told myself, but my speed stayed the same. It reminded me of the time I had gone on an e-bike ride to a crash landing site in Logan Canyon 18 months ago and finally gotten up the courage to go a decent speed. Then I hit a rocky point, and that folding e-bike got rattled so much that when I tried to press the brakes, the handlebars folded forward. The only thing to do was fall off. In the words of Uncle Rico, I broke my coccyx. (At least, I think I did. It stopped hurting after 2 months.)

I didn't want to break my coccyx or any other bones, so once again I downfelled into the nearest snowbank. Once again, I had to figure out how to stand up. This time, I just took a ski off altogether and hobbled over to where I could put it on. I saw someone else coming behind me. It was my son.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"This is my second time," he explained. I had been so slow that he had taken the ski lift again and made it almost all the way down in the time it took me to stumble down once. Together, we made it down the bunny slope without incident. Maybe I went into a snowbank one more time.

Well, this was a disaster. I hadn't expected to try intermediate slopes this time, but I had expected muscle memory to get me through the easy and bunny slopes. "You go do what you want," I told him. "I think I'm done for the day," I said as I took my skis off and went to sit on a bench to lick my wounds. (Metaphorical wounds, thankfully.) While there, I replied to texts about playdates, since the life of a stay-at-home secretary is never done so long as there is cell service. I called my sister (not the one who lent me the skis, a different one) to complain that my sister's skis were too slippery, but she was about to take a nap and couldn't talk long.

Then, I decided I may as well try the bunny slope again a few times. But there was a problem -- I couldn't get my ski boots into the skis anymore. Luckily, my son showed up again and helped me out.

I can't tell him this, but he's already smarter than me. I am teaching him geometry right now, and sometimes when we go through a theorem, I ask him things like, "How do you know that interior alternate angles of parallel lines are congruent?" I try to make it sound like I'm testing him, but really it's because I don't remember what we talked about two months ago. The only geometry he will use in life is trigonometry and whatever they ask on the ACT, so I try not to stress myself out too much.

He's also very mechanically minded, so when I couldn't get the ski and boot to cooperate, I waited until he showed up to fix them. I figured he wouldn't accidentally break my sister's ski like I was afraid I might do.

With my skis back in place, and now that I was finally off the icy part by the deck and back onto the main snow (which was a much bigger ordeal than it should have been), I decided to try the bunny slope again. And again. And again. On my way up the conveyor belt, I heard a mother call to her daughter, "Remember pizza to stop. Pizza! Stop! Pizza Stop!" which I've heard has pretty good food. And then, after the third time, I realized it was actually pretty boring now. Meanwhile, my son had tried multiple courses. "The intermediate course had too much powder," he said. "It was actually harder than the icier track."

Now was my chance to learn his secrets. "So what did you do when you were going too fast and couldn't stop?"

"I make the skis into an 85 degree angle," he said. Apparently geometry is good for something besides the ACT. "You have to dig the skis into the snow a little bit to really stop it." Aha. I had forgotten about digging the skis in.

"But what do you do when that doesn't work?"

"I fall down," he said.

"And then how do you stand up again?" I asked.

"Like this," he said, straightening his legs and standing up as if he were on solid ground instead of on icy snow. I watched in amazement. I had never been able to stand up like that. Since that was impossible for me, I resolved to not fall down ever again.

Then, I checked my phone and saw I had missed a call from my sister. "Short nap?" I asked. "Yes," she said. She then gave me some more tips about thinking of skis as extensions of my feet and using my quads to zigzag better. Armed with her advice and more skill from the bunny slope, I headed back to the ski lift.

Despite my best efforts, I fell again on my way off the ski lift, but I was able to pick myself up more quickly this time. "Want to go slow with me?" I asked my son. "Sure," he said. And together, with 85 degree pizza slices and angled ankles, we gracefully scooted down the trail. He fell down twice, and I felt a surge of satisfaction that it was him and not me. Each of the steep parts and sharp turns that had left me terrified before now seemed manageable and enjoyable.

"Here comes the steep part," he said. I glided down with ease, even sloping around the corner without stumbling. "I haven't fallen yet!" I announced to him and the man who was skiing by right then.

Then we were back to the bunny slope. By then, I was feeling confident that if I had any Hungarian ancestry I could probably sneak onto the Hungarian Olympic team with my passable skiing skills.

I would have liked to go on that course again, but it was 4:00, so the afternoon passes were no longer valid. Besides, I had a baby to feed and 4 other kids to help take care of, so we tromped back to the car in our ski boots and drove home.

"That stuff about dog-walking was pretty boring," I said.

"Yep," he said.

We didn't turn the radio back on.