q At some point I wore out on skiing every day. Don’t get
me wrong I still like to ski, but I don’t need it every day. From age 40 to 63
I skied every way imaginable. I skied fast and slow, on race courses and on bunny
slopes. I skied in huge mega ski areas like Vail, Snowmass and Breckenridge and
small hometown ski areas like Nashoba Valley. I skied from opening to closing
chair and I skied just one or two runs in a day. I skied when I had to drive
100 miles to ski and I skied when I could walk to and from a ski lift. I skied
when it was hot, warm, lukewarm, cool, cold, very cold, frigid cold, and arctic
super cold. I got frostbite on my nose and frostbite on my toes. I hit rocks
with my skis, hit a tree with my knee, and yes, once or twice even hit another
person. When skiing I once hurt a shoulder and I once hurt a knee and I once
hurt a thumb, but I never missed a ski day due to a ski injury. I skied when it
was calm, when it was windy, and when there were howling, screaming idiot
winds. I skied in brilliant sunshine, cloudy weather, drizzle, rain, pouring
rain, light snow, heavy snow, and snow that was pounding so hard I couldn’t see
in front of me. I skied green trails, blue trails, black trails, red trails,
yellow trails, double black trails, and any other color available. I skiied
trails that were labeled “Caution” and trails that were labeled “Cliffs” and
trails that were labeled “Closed” (oops). I skied groomed snow, I skied
knee-deep powder, I skied broken crud and breakable crust, I skied feathery
light snow and wind-buffed snow, I skied Sierra cement, I skied over rocks and
walked over rocks with my skis on. I skied snow that barely covered grass and
snow that covered tall trees, I skied hardpacked snow, spring corn snow, loose granular,
frozen granular, mashed potatoes, slick snow, ice, rock-hard blue ice and wind-scoured
sastrugi. I skied little moguls, big moguls, ice-covered moguls and
snow-covered moguls. I skied trees and I skied moguls in trees, I skied steeps
and I skied easy runs, I skied chutes and I skied couloirs and jumped (not very
high) off cornices. I skiied on perfectly groomed snow, turn after turn down
magnificent cruisers. I skiied in a foot of puffy, light untracked powder where
each turn sent snow streaming up my thighs. I skiied on soft, rhythmic bumps
and in cruddy, choppy snow; and in untracked snow through perfectly-spaced
trees with no other skiers to be seen. I skiied in wild, steep areas filled
with trees and rocks as well as steep bowls filled with nothing but snow. I skiied
beginner runs, making slow turns and feeling the changes in snow texture under
my feet. I skied way up high at 13,000 feet and pretty much down at sea level. I
skiied short-radius turns and long-radius turns, I did side slips and pivot
slips, I did edge sets and hockey stops, I did blocking pole plants and railroad tracks (oh, how I did railroad tracks), I did
crossover turns and crossunder turns, I did smear turns and carved turns, I
absorbed and extended, I turned using my feet, ankles, knees and femurs. I got
up ski hills using single chairs, double chairs, triple chairs, quad chairs,
six-pack chairs, a 2-person gondola, 4-person gondolas, 6-person gondolas, 8
person gondolas, even bigger gondolas, trams, t-bars, j-bars, rope tows, a
magic carpet, a boat-shaped lift, snowcats, and my own feet. I once was
evacuated from a chairlift. I took ski lessons at Loon and at Breckenridge and
at Keystone. I skied with big names like Steve Mahre and Billy Kidd and Pepi
Steigler and Pam Fletcher. I skied in big groups, and with a few friends, and
by myself. I skied with Sue and I skied with Ken. I skied with my children and
I skied with strangers. I skied with ski school experts and with novices. I
skied all the way from October to June. I skied in the east and I skied in the
west. I skied on long skis and short skis, stiff skis and floppy skis, skis
with a lot of sidecut and skis that were pretty straight. I skied using
rear-entry boots and front-entry boots. I skied with aluminum poles and
carbon-fiber poles. I skied wearing neon clothes, body-bag one-pieces, blue
jeans, trash bags, and high-tech ski clothes. I skied with no headgear, with a headband,
with a hat, and with a helmet. I skied in lunatic crazy crowds with hour-long
lift lines and in totally uncrowded conditions where you could ski the same
trail over and over and the only tracks were yours. I ate lunch and snacks in
hot, sweaty, overcrowded ski lodges, in fancy resort hotels, and outside at the
top of mountains. I had skis and poles stolen and ski socks and goggles stolen.
I skiied when I was full of energy and when I was dog-tired. I skied in
conditions that were so horrible you wanted to cry and in conditions that were
so achingly beautiful you wanted to cry. I skied and sometimes felt completely
incompetent and at other times felt like a pretty good skier. I skied more than
1,350 days, 20,500 runs, and 28 million vertical feet. I skied and skied and
skied for 12 years in New England and for 12 years in Colorado and at the end
of that I felt that I was pretty much done. Just done. I had done it all. Or if
I hadn’t done it all at least I had done enough, and that I no longer needed to ski every day.
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