Back in the saddle again

Conventional wisdom says that if you fall off a horse, get right back on.  Quickly, before the fear sets in, before you have time to think.  Great advice, but when I got knocked out on the ski slopes a few weeks ago there was no question of getting back on my skis.  The paramedics took them away from me, and the doctor (and Wally) threatened dire consequences if I didn't rest.  A lot.  So I rested, and I stewed.  

I thought about not skiing until next year, but I didn't want to go through the whole summer wondering if I'd lost my nerve, wondering if I'd be too scared to ski.  So last week we went skiing.  

At first I was like a little old lady crossing a slippery street on a windy day.  Cautious doesn't begin to cover it.  But I'd rented some hot new skis, and if I wasn't paying attention and driving, I was flat on my rear.  So I skied.  And skied.  And skied.  And I came home with a shiny new pair of skis: 

Volkl RTM in case you care.  Rated best by everyone this year, including me. 

Happy to have the trauma over, happy to have the mystery solved (as in will I ski again, not as in who did the hit and run) and happy to have had some time in the beautiful mountains.

And Wally is happy too. 

So nice to ski together. Fast. Here's to many more years.  

A loss of faith

It's not how I wanted to start - or end - my ski week. And I'm trying to get past the anger.

Who leaves the person they've just smashed into from behind and knocked out unconscious and convulsing on the ski slope? But it happened, and it happened to me.  I woke up twenty feet to the left (not downhill) from where I'd been stopped, strapped to a board, my helmet skis and gloves off. I'm not sure who was more surprised, the ski patrol that I was awake or me that I'd been passed out for fifteen minutes.

All will be well. Crashing headaches but no permanent physical damage. But my faith in the human race has been bent beyond repair.

Oh, and I need a new helmet; mine is caved in. If you ski with a helmet, good for you. If you don't, get one. It could save your life. It just saved mine.

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.