When I was fifteen, I tried skiing. And it tried me. Whenever I wanted to go right, I'd end up going left, and when I aimed for left, I'd sail to the right. I was hopeless. I couldn’t even snowplow. The ski instructor - yes, I was taking a lesson - had to tow me down to the bottom.
My only success: I didn't have any trouble dismounting the chairlift. But that small triumph seemed as nothing compared to the rest. Six year olds zipped in front of me on the bunny slope, sending me tumbling.
I happily avoided the sport for a long time after that. However, a few years ago, after we moved to New England, my husband wanted to try skiing. So I set aside my adolescent misgivings. I pretended (to myself) that I'd never gone skiing before.
We took lessons - from a cheerful woman in her seventies - and this time I succeeded. I snowplowed. I turned right when I wanted to go right, and left when I wanted to go left. I fell a few times, but before long I was coasting down the bunny slope.
We go skiing every winter now. After three or four lessons, I'm still not the fastest skier, but I don't fall too much and I've long since changed from snowplowing on green slopes to parallel skiing on blues. Every time I head down a slope, I remember what it was like at fifteen, and I'm happy with my progress. Every run is a small success, and even when my shin aches from too-tight boots and my right knee starts to complain after a difficult run, I'm satisfied after a good day of skiing. I don't want to be like an Olympic skier. The joy comes from the whole experience: shifting, sliding journeys; balancing over a bump in the terrain; watching a three year old ski effortlessly after his parent; noticing how the frost hugs the tree branches; sipping hot tea after enduring chill fog and wind at the top of the mountain.
by Christy Devonport