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DISCOVER
Sunday, October 29, 2000
One man's introduction to skiing Sure, it was painful and embarrassing -- but it was worth it DARREN SAMUELSOHN I really wanted to understand the fascination with downhill skiing.
For years, I'd asked myself where was the fun in bolting at high speeds down steep slopes, risking death and reconstructive knee surgery, while spending hundreds of dollars on lift tickets and equipment.
Growing up in South Florida -- where mountains are considered big if they are uphill par fours -- I had no clue what skiing was about.
A year went by for me in Washington before the chance to ski occurred. I'd used some great excuses that first winter to delay the inevitable.
I don't have the right pants. My eyeglasses might freeze to my eyeballs. Floridians don't ski.
But when winter No. 2 rolled around, there was no use weaseling out. The one thing I was scared of happening happened: All my friends were going skiing.
The car rolled out of Olympia -- destination Crystal Mountain -- way too early in the morning. Nervous, I kept my emotions inside by sleeping. My ski mates ignored my pleas to turn the car around and talked up the wonders of powder, black diamonds and Aspen.
The only first-timer in our group, I did the smartest thing of the day when we first got to the resort. I signed up for a 2-hour lesson.
In the rental shop, it felt like the lobby of a roller skating rink. Wet socks. Wet carpet. Wet bodies.
The smell was sweet. A dozen rear ends projected into the air as one and all crammed their feet into overused and abused rental ski boots.
Decked in layer upon layer of polypropylene long underwear, with wool sweaters shaping my build to that of a WWF heavyweight, I clomped through snow and ice to the outdoor classroom where I'd learn to ski.
To my left, large layers of wool clothing that may or may not have been small children whisked around on skis and an electric people mover that teaches the motions of skiing.
Above and to my right, polypropylene disguised as skiers and snowboarders descended slopes with names I imagined to be "Ice Lighting" and "Die Here."
My instructor, meanwhile, was seasoned. She'd done this more than a million times. With the confidence of a third grade teacher moments before they introduce the multiplication tables for 0 and 1, our ski guru ran through the simple basics. We walked in our skis on a flat surface. We slid forward on one ski. We leaned on our heels and practiced stopping.
My confidence soared.
For the moment, I wouldn't have to use the proven method I'd been going over in my mind: throwing myself onto the snow.
With a little bit of encouragement, we progressed to the BunnySlope.
It was a madhouse. The chairlift had long lines full of beginners like me. We jumped to the front, a privilege of being in a lesson, and headed seemingly miles up the mountain.
As expected, disembarking from the lift proved to be most challenging.
For the sadist, this must be the greatest place on Earth to people watch.
Folks with little or no experience on skis dismounting a moving object onto a slippery slope with people who have equally poor skills right behind you: There's got to be a physics formula for it.
My legs froze the first time and I just sort of collapsed into a free fall. To make matters worse, I was laughing so hard that I didn't stand up and get out of the way. I didn't look to see, but I can only imagine that the people in the chair behind me were worried. They too didn't know what they were doing.
Seconds later, there was nothing they could do but try to dislodge their skis from my butt.
Skiing down the bunny slope, it turned out, was much easier than I'd thought. Without poles, we worked on balance and turns. For a few brief moments, I felt like an Olympian. Finished with the lesson, I hit the BunnySlope a half dozen more times with gusto.
After lunch, I attacked the BunnySlope as if it were a final exam with questions I'd memorized.
And feeling underchallenged, I made the bold move of going for something more difficult.
At the encouragement of friends who knew better, I jumped on a chair and ascended the mountain. It was a stupid thing to do and I knew it. My heart beat in fear and I had that horrid feeling that my name was going to be in the next day's newspaper in a form other than my byline.
The sign for a run named "Tinkerbell" calmed my nerves. I thought of Peter Pan, graceful flying and the simplicity of the ride at Disney World. A green mark was emblazoned on the ski run, a symbol I believed meant "Beginner."
Moments later, I realized that a green mark says something to the effect of "Not so fast, buster."
Everything I was taught in my lesson vanished from my mind. I was leaning forward. My knees were not bent. I cruised through turns with weight on the wrong foot.
My legs split wide and I tumbled. And tumbled. And tumbled. My limbs went in directions they don't usually go. Skiers narrowly avoided me. White-out conditions ensued and as I tried to restart my descent, I'd fall and lose my skis in the chaotic crash.
My goggles, which were guaranteed not to fog up, started to fog up. My eyeglasses froze to my eyeballs.
And I gave up.
Humbly and without a second thought, I pronounced my experience on Tinkerbell to be over.
I undid my skis and trudged gingerly down the side of the mountain. The snow was thigh deep. It took a half-hour or so.
In the ski lodge later that afternoon, my friends guzzled beers and I nursed my pride. Pain pulsed through my body. And I felt what it was like to be a skier. The Olympian Copyright 2000
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