Sublime is one of those overused literary words that writers should avoid unless they are talking about fine art, orgasms, or wine, but: Saturday was a simply sublime day for XC skiing. Sure, the snow got a bit mushy from the 35-degree air paired with hundreds of skinny skies propelled by (mostly) skinny skiers, creating warm friction on the groomed surfaces of Windblown XC, but any day that one can escape to glide through the woods of New Hampshire while contemplating fine art, orgasms, and wine is a day that can reaffirm one’s faith in humanity.
A number of high school XC teams were practicing at Windblown for most of the day. We encountered a small group of girls with their coach as we all labored up the Zig Zag trail, a steep, winding trail that weaves across the Alpine-style Open Slope. It’s an arduous journey if you’re on skating skies, even for the young, and we jockeyed position with them in between fits of rest. “This is why America can never be competitive in XC skiing,” I murmured to Mr. P after we skated past the girls, gulping breath and annoyedly wiping away sweat. “In Russia, the coach would be screaming them all the way up the hill.”
Uphill Battle
After reaching the top of the Open Slope, which affords a fine view of Mount Monadnock, we prepared to descend the Open Slope. I remember when I began XC skiing, how I dreaded going downhill and much preferred the exhausting yet risk-free uphill push. Now I see the downhills as an exhilarating reward for all my efforts. As we frolicked down the Open Slope, we encountered a team of teenage boys, skiing classic-style uphill. I ached just looking at them. Maybe there’s hope for the USA yet!
I ate a hot dog for lunch, and regretted it afterward as it wreaked havoc on my digestion. Since we killed ourselves on the hills in the morning, we stuck to flatter terrain so I could work on my skating technique. I don’t glide as far as I should, because I don’t lift my back foot into the air as long as I should, because my sense of balance is still a work in progress. So I really tried to extend each glide by bending my knees, flattening my front ski against the snow, and picking up my back ski high into the air. It was then that the tip of my front ski fell into a hole left by the tracks of a snowshoe (really, what is up with these snowshoers walking on groomed trails?) and my tenuous balance gave out, hurtling me face first into the snow with my legs splayed comically out behind me. Mr. P was too far in front of me to see, but there were 8 or so high schoolers 50 feet behind me to bear witness to my humiliation. I fought to regain uprightedness– no small task when your skies are on either side of you — before they would be forced to stop when they reached my prone, aging body. Evoking some dormant reflex, I hopped to my feet and skated away as if my life depended on it. I flew along the trail, stealing glances in the woods with its thick blanket of snow, a sight I have always found comforting, like watching a cat sleep. My heart was beating at a rapid tempo, my lungs were singing with breath: Alive! Alive! Alive!
