SKI TRIALS (not a typo)

SKI TRIALS

 (not a typo!), a (sort of) successful attempt at athleticism.
Being that I'm deathly afraid of breaking my legs I decided it would probably be to my benefit NOT to learn to downhill ski. This fear I'm sure stems from an incident during my high school years. At the time it was (and still is) fashionable for those who could afford it (I couldn't, my family was poor) to take ski trips, join a ski club, and openly share your disdain for those who were unable or unacceptable - I was both. That being said, since I wasn't really interested in downhill skiing I didn't really care. The incident only cemented my attitude. The very first day of the very first snooty people ski trip one of the least snooty people shot down the slopes and broke her leg. Badly. She had a cast that went clear to her butt and walked on crutches for half the school year.  It isn't clear exactly how this happened. I would guess a fall. If it had been a tree contact there would have been much more damage than a broken leg. Anyway, I was certain that downhill skiing was best left to others. 

One of my many brothers, my own sibling, is such an accomplished skier that while skiing he can take videos, chat via cell phone, dodge everything in his path and be part of a night ski patrol! I felt inferior. Oh well. He also played football... I do not do that either. I love him dearly but I just have no competitivity (that should be a word if it's not) in my body.

So. I live in North Dakota, there are no hills unless you travel for endless hours to the west border of the state and I don't think people ski there. But I needed to express my physical self, my stamina, my strength, somehow. I did not do organized sports, although when I was young I could run faster, jump higher, and skate longer than anyone in the neighborhood. But I was young then. What's more I was now a single mom with two children and that was about all I could handle with a full time job and whatever else decided to impede on my life. (Not that my children were an impediment. I love them with all my heart. It was just the job thing.) I thought about it a lot. People were beginning to get a bit too insistant about everyone having to exercise in some form or other. I pondered the question. I can not jog and have no desire to do so. I only know enough about tennis to identify the ball and the racket. There is no safe place to ride my bike out there - it's all highway before you get to any sort of pleasant-without-fear space to ride and then it's gravel. Summertime was spent working hard on the land but winter time was a conundrum. The answer? Cross Country skiing!!! Of course! What have we more of than Country to Cross here in this flat flat flat land?

Problem: no skiis. Big Problem there. At this time I was living in a lovely rural setting with my two children and loving it. We had continued the family tradition of being poor so buying new skis or even old skis was totally off the dream chart for me. But, thrift store to the rescue! I found a pair of skis! At least that's what they were meant to be when they were made about a thousand years before. They weighed a ton, were about 12 feet long, and had cruel shoe holders that clinched one's foot in a grip that would impress a grizzly. They were wide enough to double as a river raft in summer. It probably required an entire tree to build them! The ski poles were magnificent in their heft and height.  I was overjoyed! I had no idea what was in store for me but I was joyful at the prospect. Little did I know that I knew so little...

Next was practice. The skis actually came with shoes and they fit me which was like a gift from the ski fairy. So I knew this was meant to be. As mentioned before I was a physically strong person. Much of what a rural living being must do requires a lot of strength. (I may get into that later...there could be a roof episode here...later) What I wasn't was being aqcuainted with the reality of the situation.

My first outing was of course in winter. The children were visiting with their other parent and I was free. So, having a wonderful friend living not far away with family of her own I decided to do a nice thing. I'm not sure if the Big Stuffed Teddy Bear belonged to one of her children and was left behind after a visit or that I was just going to give them one. No matter. I strapped the stuffed effigy onto my back and set out. I would go as the crow flies. Across two sections of plowed field which held a lovely little creek within it's confines and which was cleverly disguised as not being there...this was to be a learning experience beyond my idea of skiing pleasure. Do you realize how long a section is? And how much longer when traversed diagonally? In huge wooden skis that are meant to be worn by woolly mammoths? With a stupid stuffed teddy bear on your back? You don't want to know... Half way across I could hardly breathe and, being the dead of winter, the bit of air that was allotted anyone with the stupid idea of exerting oneself was minimal at best. I had exhausted most of my stored energy before I had even accomplished the length of 'My Road' (see another post for clarity on my road designation). Not only that but I had no idea how to cross country ski. I walked in my skis, I did not glide...

This was not a 'big snow' winter - yet. The snow cover was an evil disguise meant to fool me into thinking that my expedition would be slight, fast, and successful...not so...at all. I thought I would die before I even made it through the first field. And then it was a question of whether dying in the field or trying to forge  my way through to the end was even a question. I would die. Plowed fields are not meant to be crossed in anything but a substantial tractor with giant tires and a lot of horse power. I had no tires. Nodda...just a stupid stuffed bear on  my back. Good lord, what was I thinking? I scanned the distance in front of me...and then behind...I was doomed.

By the time I reached my destination my whole body hated me. Do you know that even in winter with snow cover those huge ruts made by a plow are still there and they're frozen solid. And that little creek? Yeah, that had tall grassy traps all around it disguised as snow drifts so that my skis could get all tangled up way up at the tips so that by the time the rest of me got to where the tips became entangled I was so trapped it took every ounce of strength and curse words to get out. The skis were ancient and they had no shoe release button. I might as well have been a rabbit in a rabbit trap just waiting for someone to end my misery.

My friend, who lived in the country all her life surrounded by farmland (my country abode was surrounded by trees which are fairly obvious no matter what the season), looked at me in curious but magnanimous amazement that I would even consider the expedition in the first place. I was literally in shreds, my winter gear, my body, my ego. She helped me out of my ski gear, unloaded the stupid teddy bear, and gave me a large tumbler of water and a kind but pointed bit of advice. 'Don't ever do this again!'

I didn't.

Next up happened several years later when my children opted to win a Christmas gift game that consisted of not one but two pair of skiis! It was one of those games where you can steal someone's gift. So they brought me two pair of skiis that were thankfully built at least in the previous 20 years. They were lighter, prettier, had shoes that fit both myself (first pair) and my husband. And they were very very long. And skinny. The poles that accompanied them were about seven feet long. No matter. I was game.

Time to get in shape! I began to traverse some local simple flat groomed trails trying to build stamina and strength. We decided to join a friend whose property is bordered by a lovely little river just begging for some happy skiers. Of course this river, like most,  is trimmed in tall grasses and brush, all of which are matted down in the snow pretending to be small undulating mounds of light enjoyment - kind of like a kiddie ride at the fair - not too dangerous but given to slight tummy tickles. It is also a rather steeply sloped river bank so a bit of maneuvering would be required. No problem - or so I thought.

However, (another however) the maneuvering takes a new turn as the lengthy tips of the skiis become seriously embedded in the twisted, matted, horrid, hidden, evil grasses - grasses that silently laugh uproariously as I struggle. It was like one of those horror movies where tree roots come alive and wrap themselves around their victim and pull them down into the earth! Doom. My tips are soon at a right angle to the river, I am not even down to the river yet! ...and I am included in the right angle. It is not an upright right angle. It is like a cartoon. My self is parallel to the earth. Skiis are vertical. I struggle. Uselessly. Endlessly. Engrossed not only in the fear of leg breakage but at the same time dreading the ascent when and if it comes. First the descent.

Luckily these skis were fitted with a release button for the shoes. If one can find the release button under the snow entangled in the weeds with the pointy end of the ski pole which has the typical circular thingy on the end which also becomes lost in the weed mass. How can anything as serene as a gentle gliding bond with nature become a fight for survival? It can. Eventually I found a position close to the most difficult yoga move possible. It involved a sort of butt planting sideways, head down the river bank upside down, hands entwined in the straps on the poles which are stuck, arms stretched wildly in opposite directions. In this unlikely position I forced nature to give me a break by ripping the pole of one hand out of the weeds, thus wrenching an arm out of its socket,  and, still entwined in the wrist strap, bend myself further into mindless fury in order to find and hit the release button so that at least one leg could be freed. God I was exhausted.

Of course no one came to my rescue. They had already made it to the riverbed and had ventured on without me. There was a bend in the river so they could not see me or hear my moans, I was too stubborn/angry to scream for help.

Of course the trial ended in due time and I vowed to only ski where there were no surprises possible - like maybe the middle of the street.

Not so. Now, as my Dear One realized my dilemma in having second hand skiis, he was determined not to let my enthusiasm for exercise wane. We purchased spanking new skiis, short skiis, made just for me with easy release, shorter poles. I could not believe my good fortune! Once again I felt the joy of prospective jaunts into the winter wonderland of ski trails - now I could venture further and acquire phyical expertise at the sport. How I could continue to fool myself I do not know.

About this time my friend and neighbor, Penny Lane (a name I had imposed on her as I had forgotten her real name), found that she had a skiing partner in me. She of course was far more physically fit, fearless, strong, and soon became engrossed in teaching me just how magnificent a glide in the woods could make one feel. 

Also about this time I realized that groomed trails are not like the middle of the street. Grooming is not flattening. The trails twist and turn and OMG! there are hills. High hills. For me anyway. Not like downhill hills. Those skiiers are insane. These hills were steep (for me) and always presented a flat glide of approximately 15 feet before shooting upward. The shooting upward could only be successfully accomplished if the past shot downward had attained a high rate of speed. I'm sorry but I have a fear of downward speed. Going down a ditch frightens the bejesus out of me. And then if one did not gain the necessary rate of speed, that 'one' (me)  would have to hobble up the hill like a duck in oversized clown shoes hoping at every small gain (an inch or so at a time) that one would not either split in half or again, break a leg.

In time, and with a persistant Penny, I was able to gain some understanding of the proper position one's butt need be in while shooting down the steep slope all the while maintaining my line in  the ruts of the 'groomed' trails so as not to careen into the trees or off into the river. (There is always a river into which one can careen and it is usually open water. Freezing open water.) Fear. I embraced my fears. I am deathly afraid of careening into any winter waters no matter how shallow. I actually became quite good at the posturing (physical not hoity toity - there is no time for hoity toity under these circumstances. It is all very straightforward - get it right or die.) We became ski partners as often as we could manage. 

One of our favorite haunts took us on varied trails depending on how long one desired to brave the cold. Beautiful trails. I loved it. I loved it so much that I became one of those buffs. A ski buff. I loved my little short skis and the poles that were just right for me. I was like a little bundle of happiness. Of course I had my spills - some, most, not all that pleasant and I'm certain rather cringing for onlookers to observe. I once, after a brilliantly successful descent of an extremely high hill was so overjoyed at the bottom and so proud of myself that after having come to a complete stop and about to exclaim (hoity toitily) about my expertise, fell flat on my face. FROM A STOCK STILL STANDING POSITON!!! There would not be any hoity toitying granted me. Nodda.

This happened all too frequently. Stock still zip zap and on my face or the back of my head! I'm sure I experienced a concussion more than once. 

Which brings me to the end of this story even though it was not the end of my skiing joyfilled trails. This time Penny and I decided to go the distance. We took the longest trail with the most upward and downward activity. I was successful the whole way! By the time we neared the ski lodge we were both extremely worn down. We had one last hill to negotiate and then the going would be smooth and simple straight to the lodge for hot chocolate and a pee. This particular trail wound its way past a private property, the only one for miles and the only one on the ski grounds. And as is typical the private property was home to a dog. A big yellow lab dog. A dog who did not live on the end of a leash or tether but who had a big yellow lab dog house at the top of the hill where it could watch all the goings on on the ski trail. It was a nice dog. I was soon to find out.

As I approached the last descent I decided to speed it up for one last exhilarating show of physical ability. And I made it! Right to the bottom where I promptly fell backward flat on the icy  trail. One leg under me, one leg sideways, ski pole and arm twisted under the leg underneath me, other arm flailing, head reeling, double vision. Penny continued on before me. Suddenly there came something to my rescue. The something was the big yellow lab dog. It was overjoyed! A happy, jumpy, slathering dog who either thought I needed rescueing or a round of applause.

He bounded around me, poking his nose in my ear, my face, my armpit (the one that was free with the flailing arm attached). You can imagine my consternation! And then, the worst that can happen, I started to laugh. Just a giggle at first - but one that escalated into full blown hysteria. There was a picture of myself in my brain. It was ridiulous. And the big yellow lab dog just wouldn't give up. Now it was play time! It was overjoyed! It was going to see me through no matter what. OMG! I laughed till I couldn't move any part of me. I thought how unjust it was that I could accomplish that long, winding, up and down trail with such aplomb and with no disaster only to die laughing at the end of it with a wet dog nose in my ear. I laughed so hard I hurt.

Finally Penny Lane took a look around and witnessed my dilemma and at some point the dog desisted (I think she shooed it away - she was good with dogs) and I was able to extricate my leg, remove my skis and barely in control, stand up. The fall included a huge bashing to the back of my head so I can't remember if I put the skis back on to forge the rest of the way to the lodge or not. I think Penny made me do it. I remember that I didn't want to. And once we got there I realized that my cell phone and water bottle were no longer on my person. Penny wanted us to go back and look for them and was appalled that I didn't care if I found them or not. Penny hated to waste anything. So we did go back and search but found nothing.

I'm certain that the big yellow lab dog has a huge stash of cell phones and water bottles in his house at the top of the hill.

I still love to ski but am sadly out of shape. A couple snowless winters will do that but at some point I will prevail to try the trails and trials once again!