Every time I say, “I would never,” I ought to just end the sentence right there. It is always and without fail a predecessor to me doing exactly the thing I hope to never ever do.
There has been only one exception: The Ironman. My hope is I can delay such insanity until I am verifiably insane (half those athletes are, they are just too busy doing brick workouts to get tested) and not allowed to participate.
I had recently capitulated to winter sports altogether, particularly those involved in surrendering one’s control to a pair of flat, waxed snow-torpedos. It was not for lack of trying, or a matter of pride. There is no pride in the confusion of my ski form, which can be compared to any number of neurological disorders.
Once, I compared it to having a seizure, and a thoughtful reader wrote with concern about the many seizing folks out there who would find no humor in my commentary. The thing is, I have seizures, which I thought gave me at least the privilege of laughing about it, even if I don’t have the privilege of bodily control. In the shame of my blasé and insensitive wit, I suddenly wondered if I was actually having seizures all the way down the mountain and if that had been my problem all along.
In the future, so as not to offend anyone but the vegans, all my analogies will be food related.
Eventually, I decided the problem was four edges, so I reduced mine by two, and strapped myself to a snowboard. It was right after I said, “I would never,” but I probably had just seen the Banff Film Festival and drank a Red Bull. It’s a combination that should be illegal in any state offering recreation but not universal health care.
At our local hospital, there is a whiteboard categorizing the recent injuries that have walked, shuffled, rolled, screamed, and bled their way into the sterile halls of the ER. There’s always at least two people who have chopped wood in Chacos, a rope swing collision and 27 ski crashes.
What they need is a general category for optimistic, aging athletes. If snowboarding hasn’t landed me in there yet, it’s only a matter of time. But first, they’ll have to find me.
The primary challenge I have on this new weapon-of-dignity-destruction, is that I cannot steer it. When a friend suggested I try a run that contains me with its “gentle half-pipe slopes,” I shot down that thing like I was aiming for Olympic gold on a luge run. Neither pizza nor pie worked, and no one told me what food slows down a snowboard. Am I supposed to use an éclair? A breadstick?
As it was, I had to do something far less delicious, and more akin to a runaway cabbage tumbling down a mountain of salt, leaves waving about in a final Hail Mary before the whole thing piled up like limp sauerkraut at the bottom of the hill.
There are few activities more hilarious than watching a snowboarder inchworm their way back inbounds. I tried flopping around on my back for a while, like a Yeti doing drunk breakdance moves. Then I did the only thing more humiliating: flipping over and squirming face-first up the slope in what can only be described as a misplaced amorous embrace of unrequited affection. I’ve made-out with some bad choices in my day – running grooms perhaps – but never a groomed run.
Since I’m in my forties, all I thought to myself was, “Wow, I still have some impressive hip mobility.” Even if it took several Advil to re-establish the following day.
Someday, I’m going to need to face my snow sport limitations, but it’s not today. I haven’t tried polar bear riding or iceberg jumping yet.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com