I am a dork, Christmas Eve edition
As if I hadn't already established that I am, indeed, a dork, today provided further evidence. We decided it would be nice to do something fun for Christmas Eve (which is supposedly bigger than Christmas Day here), and what could be more fun than breaking in our newly rented skis? So we got up early and drove an hour-and-a-half to the town of Engelberg to ski in the Alps at a place called Titlis (teeheeheehee).
I should have known there might be trouble because Engelberg was the site of my biggest wipeout ever...not on the slopes, but in the parking lot. A few years ago while living in DC I had a meeting in Basel and afterward took the train to Engelberg for my first Swiss ski experience. I had finished a day of skiing and was walking to catch the bus when my ski boot caught a patch of ice--up I went and down I came. I was sure I broke my elbow, but fortunately it was just badly bruised--I had a lump on my elbow for at least 6 months afterward. The point is, Engelberg hasn't been kind to me.
The other point is, I'm a klutz. Not only do I slip and fall in parking lots, but in the past two days around the house I've shut a cupboard door on my finger, closed the refrigerator on my foot--don't ask--and kicked the corner of a futon frame that was lying in wait beneath the comforter. The bottom line is, on a good day I can barely walk and chew gum at the same time.
So anyway, back to today--we took the gondola up the mountain and started to ski down and I was just...off. Something just didn't feel right...actually, nothing felt right. By the time we both stopped midway down our first run, Gretchen was thrilled to hear me say (and I quote) "I can't see, my boots don't fit, I'm out of control, and I have no confidence." (Specifically, we weren't in the sun so my sunglasses flattened everything and made it impossible to distinguish ice from powder and moguls from level slopes; my boots were somehow tight enough that my toes were numb, yet loose enough that my foot was sliding around so much that the skis wouldn't respond; my out-of-shape legs were like rubber after 2 minutes so I wasn't able to carve turns well; and most importantly, when you combine the previous three factors, my confidence was shot--and I'm convinced confidence matters even more than skill when it comes to skiing.)
Still, I was a trooper and carried on. As we were getting toward the bottom of the hill, I was all alone on a fairly level stretch when all of a sudden my left ski decided the snowbank looked like lots of fun and the next thing I knew I was on my butt in that same snowbank--most people couldn't fall like that if they tried. Fortunately Gretchen missed that one, although she figured it out when I didn't catch up with her for a while. I had pretty well decided that it wasn't worth skiing with the boots of death when we decided to head over to get some lunch, which entailed going down one last slope to another lift. It was steep but flat and uncrowded--usually my favorite conditions--when this time my right ski decided the snowbank was much more interesting, and since I had a good head of steam, I went ass-over-teakettle into the side of the hill, shedding both skis, both poles, and my hat (it merited at least a 9.8, maybe even higher if the Russian judge hadn't given me a 9.5). Best of all, Gretchen saw the whole thing.
I usually don't fall until my first afternoon when I start to get tired--falling twice before lunch simply confirmed that it was not my day. So I decided that my destiny was to stay inside, drink coffee, and be supportive of Gretchen while she practiced her form--needless to say, I did a much better job of that than I did skiing. Now I know I need to do several things before the ski season really gets going. First, exchange my boots. I don't know if I have wierd feet or what, but for some reason I've never found a pair of ski boots that didn't instantly cut off all circulation to my toes. I swear, there's a part of me that would rather wear a burlap jockstrap than put on a pair of ski boots. OK, so that's a bit of an exaggeration--but not much. Second, get my lazy butt in shape. Despite not really making it through an hour of skiing, I feel like I fought a heavyweight title fight. Even my arms are sore (from pushing off with my poles on flat stretches). There's a part of me that still thinks I'm 16 years old--when I could take a couple months off and still run a 6-minute mile without breaking a sweat--instead of pushing 40 and getting winded from walking up (or even down) a flight of stairs. The bottom line is that it's going to be a long ski season, especially if I can't make it through the morning.
Having said all that--and that was a lot!--it was still a really good day. There are certainly worse ways to spend Christmas Eve than sitting in a warm mountain lodge, drinking coffee and gazing out at the Alps while waiting for your lovely wife to come skiing down. And perhaps best of all, despite my mishaps on the slopes, I didn't wipe out in the parking lot this time, which is a step forward. Anyway, here is our day in a nutshell:
I should have known there might be trouble because Engelberg was the site of my biggest wipeout ever...not on the slopes, but in the parking lot. A few years ago while living in DC I had a meeting in Basel and afterward took the train to Engelberg for my first Swiss ski experience. I had finished a day of skiing and was walking to catch the bus when my ski boot caught a patch of ice--up I went and down I came. I was sure I broke my elbow, but fortunately it was just badly bruised--I had a lump on my elbow for at least 6 months afterward. The point is, Engelberg hasn't been kind to me.
The other point is, I'm a klutz. Not only do I slip and fall in parking lots, but in the past two days around the house I've shut a cupboard door on my finger, closed the refrigerator on my foot--don't ask--and kicked the corner of a futon frame that was lying in wait beneath the comforter. The bottom line is, on a good day I can barely walk and chew gum at the same time.
So anyway, back to today--we took the gondola up the mountain and started to ski down and I was just...off. Something just didn't feel right...actually, nothing felt right. By the time we both stopped midway down our first run, Gretchen was thrilled to hear me say (and I quote) "I can't see, my boots don't fit, I'm out of control, and I have no confidence." (Specifically, we weren't in the sun so my sunglasses flattened everything and made it impossible to distinguish ice from powder and moguls from level slopes; my boots were somehow tight enough that my toes were numb, yet loose enough that my foot was sliding around so much that the skis wouldn't respond; my out-of-shape legs were like rubber after 2 minutes so I wasn't able to carve turns well; and most importantly, when you combine the previous three factors, my confidence was shot--and I'm convinced confidence matters even more than skill when it comes to skiing.)
Still, I was a trooper and carried on. As we were getting toward the bottom of the hill, I was all alone on a fairly level stretch when all of a sudden my left ski decided the snowbank looked like lots of fun and the next thing I knew I was on my butt in that same snowbank--most people couldn't fall like that if they tried. Fortunately Gretchen missed that one, although she figured it out when I didn't catch up with her for a while. I had pretty well decided that it wasn't worth skiing with the boots of death when we decided to head over to get some lunch, which entailed going down one last slope to another lift. It was steep but flat and uncrowded--usually my favorite conditions--when this time my right ski decided the snowbank was much more interesting, and since I had a good head of steam, I went ass-over-teakettle into the side of the hill, shedding both skis, both poles, and my hat (it merited at least a 9.8, maybe even higher if the Russian judge hadn't given me a 9.5). Best of all, Gretchen saw the whole thing.
I usually don't fall until my first afternoon when I start to get tired--falling twice before lunch simply confirmed that it was not my day. So I decided that my destiny was to stay inside, drink coffee, and be supportive of Gretchen while she practiced her form--needless to say, I did a much better job of that than I did skiing. Now I know I need to do several things before the ski season really gets going. First, exchange my boots. I don't know if I have wierd feet or what, but for some reason I've never found a pair of ski boots that didn't instantly cut off all circulation to my toes. I swear, there's a part of me that would rather wear a burlap jockstrap than put on a pair of ski boots. OK, so that's a bit of an exaggeration--but not much. Second, get my lazy butt in shape. Despite not really making it through an hour of skiing, I feel like I fought a heavyweight title fight. Even my arms are sore (from pushing off with my poles on flat stretches). There's a part of me that still thinks I'm 16 years old--when I could take a couple months off and still run a 6-minute mile without breaking a sweat--instead of pushing 40 and getting winded from walking up (or even down) a flight of stairs. The bottom line is that it's going to be a long ski season, especially if I can't make it through the morning.
Having said all that--and that was a lot!--it was still a really good day. There are certainly worse ways to spend Christmas Eve than sitting in a warm mountain lodge, drinking coffee and gazing out at the Alps while waiting for your lovely wife to come skiing down. And perhaps best of all, despite my mishaps on the slopes, I didn't wipe out in the parking lot this time, which is a step forward. Anyway, here is our day in a nutshell:
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