Last weekend I went skiing for the first time this season. It was February. That is the latest first day on the slopes for me in the last ten years or more. I normally start thinking about skiing sometime in the fall and can’t wait for the snow to start falling. This year was different. I wasn’t excited. There was no sense of urgency. In fact, for my birthday last month, my buddy Jeff and I spent the weekend in the mountains with the plan of skiing. We never did.
I met Jeff 15 years ago and skiing was one of the passions we connected on almost immediately. He is a fluid, graceful, confident skier who grew up racing as a young boy. I had only been skiing for a few years when we met. He was always patient, willing to stay with me on the green runs while at the same time encouraging me to try the easier blue runs. He would watch me snowplow down the mountain with my skis in a giant pizza shape and encourage me to bring my skis together, point my chest down the mountain, and lean forward. “You are fighting it,” he would tell me. “Just relax, and lean into it a bit. A little speed will make it easier.” That is easier said than done. Trying to convince your frightened brain that it should relax and lean into it is counterintuitive; at times physically impossible.
For the last 15 years, we were on the slopes together every chance we got and my skiing has improved significantly. I will never ski with his confidence or grace but I am a reasonably confident skier. So when Jeff and I woke up in Silverthorne, 30 minutes from several great ski resorts and opted for breakfast and a Bloody Mary at the Arapahoe Cafe in Dillon instead of skiing we both knew that something was up.
On a typical ski day, all I can think about as I get ready is standing at the top of the mountain, with amazing views of the snow cover Rocky Mountains set on the beautiful blue background of the Colorado sky. I think about the sound of my skis on the snow. I think about pushing myself to go harder and faster. I love the feel of my legs working hard to hang on to an edge in a turn, ignoring how ugly my skiing really is, all the while envisioning myself skiing like Bode Miller.
Last weekend I could easily have opted for the Arapahoe Cafe again. In fact, I am pretty sure I suggested as much. All I could think about was the hassle of getting there. Traffic. Parking. Fighting to put on my boots and then clopping along awkwardly with my skis over my shoulder on icy sidewalks, certain that any minute I would slip and fall. Then waiting in line with countless others for a chairlift to the top. The Bloody Mary seemed so much more sensible.
Marilyn encouraged me. “Let’s just give it a try. We don’t have to stay all day,” So perhaps a bit begrudgingly, I put on my skis for the first time in almost a year. And for the first time, I was afraid.
I wasn’t afraid of being injured. No, I was afraid that I couldn’t ski. Not because of my physical conditioning or my abilities as a skier. Those are both fine. I was afraid that I might learn, that as my field of vision has continued to narrow over the years, this might be the season when I finally knew it was time to hang up my skis for good.
My visual acuity is actually as good or better than many people but that doesn’t tell the real story. My problem isn’t one of focus. When I look at an eye chart in the doctor’s office I can see the characters I am looking at with reasonable clarity; the characters I am looking directly at. Surrounding characters are less clear and if you move too far from the center they are completely gone.
Macular degeneration is a slow, progressive disease. It happens so gradually you are hardly aware of the changes. My vision is no different today then it was yesterday. And it was no different yesterday then it was the month before. Yet, it is unquestionably different today then it was last year. I find myself frustrated because I can’t find a utensil I am looking for in the kitchen drawer. It’s not that I can’t see it. It’s that Marilyn moved it. At least that is what I tell myself. It’s unfair to her, I know, but I used to be able to find things more easily.
Two weeks ago I sold my motorcycle. The last one I will ever own. A decision that I had been putting off for some time. I hadn't ridden the bike in probably a year but I couldn’t bring myself to let it go. I had it listed for sale but I wasn’t very aggressive. I didn’t ride it, but I didn’t want to sell it. On a motorcycle, things happen a lot faster than a car. There is so much more to watch for and you can frequently be nearly invisible to other cars and trucks on the road. I knew it was time to stop riding and I didn’t want to wait until the day that I found out the hard way. So I sold it.
As I put on my skis for the first time in the season, that thought was on my mind. Is this the year I sell my skis too?
As we approached the top of the mountain on the chairlift that morning I suddenly realized that the lift was about to abruptly dump me off with two skis strapped to my feet, something that I have down countless times. But for just a moment I thought “what if I fall just getting off the lift?” I didn’t notice the beautiful mountains around me. Images of Bode Miller were replaced with the Three Stooges or the Keystone Cops on skis.
We started out slow, on the green slopes, with all the beginners. I felt so awkward as I started down that first run. If Marilyn had asked me if I wanted to quit and get that Bloody Mary I would have jumped at the thought. As I approach each little dip on that first run I forced myself to lean down the mountain, to trust my muscle memory. To let my legs and my body worry about skiing and focus my mind and more importantly my eyes on the terrain and the other skiers around me. I carefully manage my speed for the first few runs, pushing myself a little hard each time, making sure that I wasn’t skiing faster than my eyes could capture all the information I needed to be safe. I did what my buddy Jeff encouraged me to do. I relaxed, leaned into it, and skied.
By the end of the day, I was comfortably skiing at 35 mph, well below my best speeds in excess of 50 mph, but I was skiing. That’s when I began to notice for the first time that day just how beautiful the Rocky Mountains can be.
No this isn’t the year. That day is coming but not this year.
When the day finally comes and it is time to hang up my skis for good, I hope I can do the same thing. Relax and just lean into it. I know that will make it easier.
