As I hark my mind back along my illustrious snowboarding career, one forgotten trauma after another bobs to the surface, just as a sea wrecked vessel might disgorge a series of bedraggled sailors – one by one they lurch out of the surf and collapse, gasping for air and clinging to the gritty sand.
Savvy readers may question my presence on the slopes in the first place. Or to put it in the words of one of my Doubting Thomas friends: “Snowboarding? You? You?” My formative years had not erred on the Olympic-training side. I quit soccer once and for all, at five years old, on the very first day. I found out the hard way that you get your shins kicked over and over, and what a fool I would be to stick around for more of that. And that, as far as sporty endeavors were concerned, was that.
However, the vicissitudes of fate intervened like a face full of ice water. Some years ago, I found myself residing in Colorado (which is a story for another day). Winter came quickly upon Boulder, and fluffy little snowflakes began to waft over the town. Cheerful friends began to arrive, toting parkas and boot bags. I had never skied, but I approached the topic with confidence. In fact, I said to myself privately, it is an advantage that I have never done it before, because I have no bad habits to break and can begin with freshness and precision. Too bad for all these poor suckers who grew up skiing, no doubt with one ingrained flaw after another, now totally uncorrectable, I chuckled to myself.