Skiing Wisconsin And Looking Like An Idiot Doing It
So there I was in Wausau, Wisconsin, on Granite Peak, a stellar little 700 foot mountain with 72 runs. I’d learned last year, more or less, to ski on a…ok, let’s call it a challenging trip to New Mexico’s infamous slopes. And though I hadn’t strapped on skis since then, I figured if I could survive the bunny hills of Taos, which at the time looked like what I imagined Black Diamonds might resemble everywhere else, then I could handle Granite Peak.
And you know, in a credit to my New Mexico instructors’ mad skillz, I took to the greens of Granite Peak more or less fearlessly. I ran just about all of ‘em in the day and a half I skied in Wisconsin, multiple times. Oh, now that’s not to say I didn’t eat snow. I did. Epically. I once fell so hard and fast I not only left my ski poles and both skis about 15 feet up the slope from me, but every single binding on my boots snapped open. I was dusted with so much powder I looked like a donut. It was awesome.
But what wasn’t so awesome was watching the videos taken of me skiing. ‘Cause, like, I thought I was rocking the runs. I thought I was flying fast, in perfect form. I thought I was looking good. And then I watched the videos. Even if you take away the fact that I was so out of control I almost smacked in to Kaki, the extremely patient PR peep who was shooting the video AND then nearly ran off the course AND then practically fell off my skis while at a dead stop, I still look…like an idiot. I mean, if Ricky had ever taken Lucy to ski, she wouldn’t have looked like me. She would have looked much, much more graceful.
Of course that doesn’t mean I’m quitting. Because thanks to Granite Peak, I got the bug. I had a BLAST on those slopes. And I don’t care how long it takes, I’m gonna get better and work my way up to Blues and then to Blacks. And one day, I’ll even look good doing it. Once I figure out how to stop screaming on the way down.
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