Girls On The Slopes.
Published: BC Women Newsmagazine January 2000
I’ve often thought that if an alien space ship were to hover over one of our local ski slopes in the winter, the creatures inside would have a rather strange view of our planet. People decked in gear reminiscent of the lunar landing, riding chairlifts up the mountain, sliding down the slope at break neck speeds only to start the process over again. I wonder what those creatures would think; it seems a rather odd thing to do, and yet…. I will admit to a certain amount of smugness as I ride the chair, squinting through fogged goggles at the miniature people schooping the slopes. My legs dangle, weighted by colorful boards. I’m on top of the world.
Although I am in my mid-forties, skiing is a relatively new sport to me – something I was goaded into trying about five years ago. It’s been a bit of an adventure getting to a point where I can actually keep up with my family, but well worth the effort. Let me take you back to the beginning.
For years the routine in our household began at 5AM, dropping one child or another at ice arenas for various skate related activities. Life in the suburban fast lane, dreary eyed parents tying skate laces while trying to slurp stale coffee out of a styrofoam cup. It was grand for a while, sitting on cold bleacher seats, watching little Olympic hopefuls scrape wobbly figure eights in the ice. Weekends filled with amateur hockey. Our neighbors took bets on whether the car actually got turned off in the driveway between trips to the rink. The van racked up the miles and began to waft the aroma of stale hockey gear and damp figure skates. The road so frequently travelled became one I could do in my sleep, and often did, with or without children. One day I woke up parked outside the arena door, no child in the passenger seat, no skates in the car, I was supposed to be at the bank. It was time for a change.
We are fortunate to live in British Columbia, a virtual menu of activities awaits the sporting enthusiast. Outdoor recreation is big business on the coast. Our criteria; a family activity, one which would accommodate a variety of abilities. Skiing courted us with promises of fun fill days full of fresh air and beautiful surroundings. There was only one drawback – I have always had questionable athletic ability. I duck when someone tosses me a ball, close my eyes whenever speed is a factor and have been deathly afraid of anything that included sliding.
Learning to ski presented some challenges. My husband, an avid skier, has always maintained that there is never a bad ski day, just poor attitudes and inappropriate dress. One has to remember that they are going out to play on a mountain – warmth is paramount. I recall being exhausted before I hit the slope on our first day out – garbed in the latest polyester underwear, Arctic fleece, nylon shell, mitts and toque, I felt like the Pillsbury Dough Boy as I ginger stepped into the bindings of my skis.
It should be noted that there are a few areas of togetherness that married couples should never venture; teaching your wife to ski is one of them. We soon decided that an investment in a ski instructor would be ultimately less expensive than a divorce.
After our initial introduction, my coach queried me on my previous athletic achievements – participation has never been my strong suit, although I shine as a spectator. He noted my pre-beginner status and set an appropriate course of action.
I spent my first lesson tromping around on level ground, growing accustomed to the new length of my feet, sliding periodically and falling regularly. I was bagged by noon and spent the rest of the day sipping coffee and wondering just what the hell I had gotten myself into.
For the next few days I waddled toward the rope tow and exhausted myself with repeated runs down the bottom two thirds of the bunny slope.
Finally, on the seventh day, I ventured to the top of the rope. Considering my previous experience with altitude had been limited to the top of the escalator at our local mall, it is safe to say that the summit of the bunny slope had the appearance of the peak of Everest to me. I was terrified. I was also skiing.
Having improved to the ranks of the average beginner, my snow plow slowly evolved into a crude stem Christie. A ride on the chair lift loomed as heavy as any of the clouds of doubt had in the past. It was time to bite the bullet.
From the beginning of time there have been those bold few who will venture into uncharted waters, daring all odds they strike forth with fierce determination to achieve that which is deemed impossible. It was during my first ride on the chair that I joined their ranks. The actual events of the flight remain a blur from lift-off to landing, suffice to say I lived through it. Subsequent launches would proceed uneventfully, the landings, however, became a constant battle with gravity. Laying in a heap at the bottom of the ramp, I became adept at taking a quick inventory of body parts and gathering my wits before proceeding down the mountain.
I conquered the green runs one by one that first season. The following year I pushed down the blues. I’m far from Olympic standards as I work on perfecting my technique and mush toward black diamonds, but my sense of accomplishment is overwhelming. I have conquered fear in a way that I never dreamed possible, at an age when I thought many doors would close. Mid-life is the perfect time to take on a challenge – as the kids learn to venture out on their own I am taking their lead.
As for aliens wondering what the heck the humans are doing down there in the snow — we’re having a ball!