Fear of Not Flying

I almost gave up skiing last week. It was the first day I'd skied in a year, and runs I'd raced down the year before I fought all the way down the hill. Had to stop halfway down to catch my breath and wait for the world to stop spinning. I thought it was over. It had snowed the night before and there was a layer a few inches deep of wet snow over ice. Skiing felt like my first attempts at driving a clutch.

The next day, freaked out, I stood at the top of the steepest section, took a deep shivering breath and pushed off. And I flew. I danced. I hula danced. I flipped up the sides of the runs and carved across the ice.  No stops, no resting, just flying and whooping and laughing and tears from the cold freezing to my face.

I listened to others slide across the ice, their skis sounding like cheese graters on cement. I listened to my skis chatter together as I carved around a corner. By the time we left, I was looking for steeper stuff. Skiing well is a whole let easier than skiing poorly.

Awesome. Can't wait to ski again.