Skiing: Me vs. Gravity

This year, I have decided to join Roland in a new winter hobby. I am learning to ski. While I spent last winter back in Chicago, Roland spent his free time learning to snowboard in the mountains of Italy. He absolutely loves it, and his excitement was infectious. We visited the sports supply shops, stocked up on the necessary apparel, packed up the car, and headed down to Roccaraso, a ski town about 2 1/2 hours south of Rome.

For most of my life, skiing was something I just never gave much thought to. As a Midwestern girl growing up in the Chicago area, skiing simply wasn't on my radar. With the closest mountains several hours North, few of my peers grew up learning the sport. I always thought it looked cool, but was something that other people did. "Maybe someday..." was the usual sentiment. 

Well, someday has arrived. It has arrived fiercely, joining forces with gravity and fear in an effort to pick me up and slam me down, repeatedly, on the side of a cold, hard mountain. But I am getting ahead of myself. 

When I arrived at the ski resort in Roccaraso for my first ski experience, I really wasn't nervous. More excited, and curious. I met with Guido, my ski instructor, for a two hour introductory lesson. Thankfully, Guido spoke some English, so our lesson started off just fine. I learned how to put on my skis, maneuver around, walk slowly up a hill on a parallel edge (insert beginning of full-on sweat here) and practice the ever important Snowplow technique. The Snowplow, for those of you not acquainted with skiing, involves, bending your knees and making a triangle shape with your skis. This pushes the front of your skis together, and widens them in the back, effectively allowing you to control your speed and "plow" yourself to a stop. This, Guido informed me gravely, was the most important skill I would need to learn as a beginning skier. 

At this point, I graduated to the baby hill to practice my snowplow on an actual incline (albeit a tiny, barely recognizable incline). I did OK, moving along, frozen in my snowplow position, never picking up even a hint of what one might classify as "speed." I learned how to turn gently, and slide to a gradual stop (Snowplow! Snowplow!). I tipped over a few times, but Guido was always right there to yank me back upright. As our two hours drew to a close, I felt a little bit of blossoming confidence. I could easily handle the baby hill, control myself enough to follow my instructor in his gentle turns, and the skis no longer felt quite so foreign on my feet. Guido shook my hand and wished me well, waving over his shoulder at the massive looming mountain lurking behind him as he informed me I was free to give it a go. 

This, my friends, is the point where my first ski experience began to go terribly wrong. First of all, in Italy, green ski runs - which are the gentle, beginner runs - rarely exist. At Roccaraso, the easiest run available is a blue run. However, amid some hesitation, I decided that if Guido had given me the green light to hit the mountain, I might as well give it a go. Roland and I took the ski lift up...up...and up some more. At the top of the mountain, I felt my resolve begin to waver a little bit. We were so...high. And the run was so...steep. But there was only one way down. As small, toddler-sized children launched themselves down the first incline without hesitation, I gathered what was left of my confidence and tipped myself down the slope.

!!!&%#$@!***!!%#%@*@*!%@%#*#*....CRASH!!!!!

At the bottom of the first short incline of the slope, I landed in a sweaty, adrenaline spiked heap of twisted skis and limbs, and a dreaded realization spread through me. My precious snowplow didn't work. It. Didn't. Work. With any sort of speed, there was no coasting to a gentle stop or carefully carving gentle turns. And what was more, I had no idea how to stand up. I began to curse Guido for misleading me and sending me down this forsaken mountain unprepared. I couldn't stand up...and I didn't know how to stop. Yet I still had 90 percent of the ski run to finish. Roland appeared and coaxed me back onto my feet, speaking gently to me as one might to a frightened animal. I knew I had to continue down the mountain, so the next hour passed like this:

Start down mountain, squeezing snowplow position with legs like life depends on it.
Oh God, too fast! Throw self down onto mountain to save self from certain death.
Lie panting and sweating for 5 minutes in snow.
Burst into tears.
Curse Guido.
Attempt to stand, fall in twisted heap.
Remove skis. I quit. Skiing career over.
Another gentle, speaking to a scared animal speech of encouragement from Roland.
Put skis back on. I am not a quitter!
Down slope again. Speed! Too fast! Certain death!
Crash. Feel large bruise blossoming on hip. Also quite sure knee should not twist in that direction
Finally discover the secret of standing up with skis on. Not easy, but I can do it!
Down slope again. Attempt to turn.
Crash! Why does gravity hate me?
Spend 10 minutes lying in snow, trying to catch breath. Watch technique of tiny children as they fly by effortlessly.
Stand up, wonder which cursed person ever created such a barbaric sport. Shake packed snow out from under back of coat.
Stay upright on skis for 15 seconds!
Realize that everything about my current turning technique is opposite of what I learned. Correct errors.
Yay! I can turn!
SPEEEEEED! Certain death! Crash!
Lie in snow, close my eyes and daydream about waking up somewhere on flat ground. All has been a bad dream.
Nope, still on horrible, horrible, mountain. Decline help of itty-bitty child offering me a hand. Stand up.
Ski.
Crash!
Stand.
Tears.
Profanity.
Stand.
Ski.
Crash...

And so it went, until I reached the bottom. (Insert two consecutive shots of Sambuca here.) Roland was an amazing cheerleader, and without him I would, doubtless, have ended up removing my skis and walking down the hill. Somehow, after my traumatic first run, he convinced me to attempt the run again not once, but twice. I fell a little less each time, but I still can't stop at with any acquired speed and my poor thighs were absolutely screaming from trying to implement the snowplow all the way down the mountain. My body had never worked so hard, or been so sore and bruised. It was exhausting and demoralizing, but as we drove away from the mountain at the end of the day, I felt a tiny bit of pride. I had overcome a major amount of fear. I hadn't overcome it gracefully by any means (tears, tantrums, profanity) but I made it down the mountain three times. Guido and I will meet again, and when we do, he's got some explaining (and teaching) to do. I don't plan to give up yet, so more to come as I carry on with my death-defying new hobby.

Before my third trip down the mountain.