It’s been quite a winter for this fledging second-year cross-country skiing student: I laughed, I screamed, I froze, I sweated, and I ate countless makeshift sandwiches in so many warming huts. But did I learn anything? Since my weekends will be occupied by various southbound excursions well into April, last Saturday was this season’s final exam.
Our journey to Windblown XC in southern NH was timed precisely for a 2pm arrival to take advantage of reduced admission and reduced crowds (by then, most of the morning skiers are ready for a nap or a beer). It was warm and sunless, and the snow was soggy but not melting. We glided to Barrett Mountain (“mountain” is a relative term – it’s more a big hill), which features a wide, steep, alpine-style slope that intersects with several zig-zagging traditional trails. My exam: To make it down Barrett without falling. Failure would result in self-loathing and, in all probability, a broken leg.
We huffed and puffed through unforgiving slush to the summit – 20 minutes of killer cardio. The view at the top of Barrett is just impressive enough to dawdle over while gathering up nerve, but soon it was time to face the colossal downhill. “Schuss!” Mr. Pinault sang, his 33 years of skiing experience allowing him to gracefully weave and dance down the slope.
I stared down the slope. Strangely, I didn’t dread it. I didn’t think “I am going to crash spectacularly.” I didn’t consider removing my skis so I could walk. Instead, I… “Weeeeeee!”
My full-throttle snowplow shaking against the velocity of my descent, I flew. And I remained upright. And judging by the stunned faces of the ascending skiers who yielded to my uncontrollable blaze, I was amazing.
Until next year, my twiggy little skis…
Checking to See If I'm Alive
