Flying downhill at forty miles an hour, two small boards strapped to your feet, a blanket of white reaching up to grab you and missing. Small flakes of nature's frozen tears slap your face, her towering green fingers swoosh past in a blur. All too soon, however, the ground beneath you flattens out, you whiz back into civilization, and you are forced to bring your talent to a halt, showering those next to you with a rooster-tail of white. Reality sets in and you remember that you were not flying, you were skiing, stuck to the ground as usual instead of defying gravity.
I love skiing. I only took it up a few years ago, but excelled at it very quickly. Within two years of beginning, I was already challenging myself on black diamond runs, the expert level of ski runs. I was very comfortable with my ability to control myself, though at times I didn't care about control, only speed. As soon as I knew my danger of messing up and falling was shrinking, I started turning less and less, putting my skis together more and more, and going faster and faster. Faster and faster and faster, then BLAM!
Something went wrong. Perhaps I caught too much air and landed wrong, or made the transfer from ice to powder incorrectly, or ran over a rock, but whatever it is, it went wrong, and I went down. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, it won't be too bad, just a little plop down on my rear. Worse is when I somehow get turned around and slide down the hill a ways on my belly. And the worst of all is a snowball ending in a yard sale. (Jargon Warning! A snowball is when the skier, or boarder, but usually skiers, tumbles head over heels down the hill uncontrollably, reminiscent of a snowball bouncing down the hill. A yard sale only happens to skiers, and that is when they have lost much of their equipment, and it is spread across the hill for all to see, skis, gloves, poles, etc.) After a particularly awful yard sale, if no one is around, I have to pick myself up and hike up the hill to retrieve my items. Depending on how many skis I have left determines the ease with which this task can be done. With no skis, it is particularly easy, simply being able to walk up the hill, grab my items and then put them back on. With only one ski, it gets more difficult, because I have to walk up the hill sideways to prevent my lone ski from running away downhill. Though with my ski-less foot, it is easier to prevent that. If I have both skis, and I only lost my poles or gloves, it can be far more challenging, as I have to carefully shuffle uphill sideways lifting up one heavy ski at a time. This process is called side-stepping, and is energy-taxing and time-consuming.
Once I have all my items, and have accepted the fact that that tumble will hurt like heck tomorrow, I can continue on, soaring above the snow, careless of it's protests. I am free, alone in my own little world, deaf to all due to the wind whistling through my ears. I am a skier.
I love skiing. I only took it up a few years ago, but excelled at it very quickly. Within two years of beginning, I was already challenging myself on black diamond runs, the expert level of ski runs. I was very comfortable with my ability to control myself, though at times I didn't care about control, only speed. As soon as I knew my danger of messing up and falling was shrinking, I started turning less and less, putting my skis together more and more, and going faster and faster. Faster and faster and faster, then BLAM!
Something went wrong. Perhaps I caught too much air and landed wrong, or made the transfer from ice to powder incorrectly, or ran over a rock, but whatever it is, it went wrong, and I went down. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, it won't be too bad, just a little plop down on my rear. Worse is when I somehow get turned around and slide down the hill a ways on my belly. And the worst of all is a snowball ending in a yard sale. (Jargon Warning! A snowball is when the skier, or boarder, but usually skiers, tumbles head over heels down the hill uncontrollably, reminiscent of a snowball bouncing down the hill. A yard sale only happens to skiers, and that is when they have lost much of their equipment, and it is spread across the hill for all to see, skis, gloves, poles, etc.) After a particularly awful yard sale, if no one is around, I have to pick myself up and hike up the hill to retrieve my items. Depending on how many skis I have left determines the ease with which this task can be done. With no skis, it is particularly easy, simply being able to walk up the hill, grab my items and then put them back on. With only one ski, it gets more difficult, because I have to walk up the hill sideways to prevent my lone ski from running away downhill. Though with my ski-less foot, it is easier to prevent that. If I have both skis, and I only lost my poles or gloves, it can be far more challenging, as I have to carefully shuffle uphill sideways lifting up one heavy ski at a time. This process is called side-stepping, and is energy-taxing and time-consuming.
Once I have all my items, and have accepted the fact that that tumble will hurt like heck tomorrow, I can continue on, soaring above the snow, careless of it's protests. I am free, alone in my own little world, deaf to all due to the wind whistling through my ears. I am a skier.
Just don't fall ;)
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