Winter blunderland...

As I watch the Winter Olympics this year, I can't help but be reminded of my first snow-skiing experience. I took the horde to the Black Hills for a little mini-vacation so everyone could try this seemingly fascinating winter sport. After writing a check for rental equipment that was nearly as large as my mortgage, I settled in the lodge to relax and watch the kids, who had all chosen snow boards as their weapon of the day.
My much better-half had rightfully forced me to promise not to ski as I was fresh off knee surgery. The non-surgical knee hadn't been behaving for years either. The bulged disk in my back was another consideration that helped me make this solemn promise. I was satisfied with sitting and sipping on beer, I mean hot-chocolate for the day, but I kept seeing young children maybe only 3-4 years old come flying down the hill almost effortlessly. My wife sailed through her ski-lesson with ease and even though it was her first time, she looked like a pro. How hard could this be? I began feeling this old competitive flame trying to ignite in my chest. I knew resistance would be futile. Before I had even finished my third "hot chocolate" I found myself filling out rental forms and being measured for equipment.
The rental consultant asked what my ability number was from one to five. I said, "Well, I used to be pretty athletic so..." He smiled. In retrospect I now see that his smile was more of an evil grin. He gave me a special pair of skis from the back room, telling me that since I'm a beginner, these skis would help me with stability, turning and keep my speed down. He lied like a rug! I did some research the next week. I found out that those particular skis make you go faster and have less maneuverability.
It was a fairly nice day. The temperature was in the low 40s and it was sunny with a light breeze. Seemed perfect for skiing. But since I hadn't planned to ski, all I had along was blood stained camouflage coveralls I use for hunting. No hat or gloves, but I shouldn't need them, right?
I made my way to the chair-lift and hopped on like a professional. I sat next to a tall, older man appearing to be in his 80s. He looked me over head to toe. After a moment of silence he asked, "Um... first time skiing, by chance?" I told him indeed it was and how could he possible have known? He just kind of smiled, not unlike the guy in the rental office. "How did your lessons go?", he asked. "I didn't have any. I'll figure it out" I said. His smile turned to confusion and he muttered, "Oh.... Oh my. Well, good luck"
I navigated off the chair-lift successfully, but that's about where things turned sour. Someone told me to follow the path west to the end because that is where a beginner would have the best chance of survival. The path was only slightly down hill, but it was narrow and had a few turns. I began to ski it slowly. I simply could not turn. Not matter what I tried, leaning, putting weight on one ski more than the other, turning my torso, nothing was working. When I needed to turn to avoid running into a cliff or falling off the mountain, I would just sit down, get back up, and aim the direction I wanted to go for a little while, then repeat. Finally, I figured out that I could dig a ski-pole into the snow like a canoe paddle and turn ever so slightly to avoid running off the path. Even when I didn't need to turn I would fall, sometimes in spectacular fashion. Once I got going too fast and decided to bail out and take a seat. My ski popped off and flew high in the air and I didn't even realize it until it hit me on the top of my head. As I was holding my head and wincing in pain my nephew flew over the top of me on his snow board to make fun of me. At the same time my teenage son covered me with a large wake of snow like a plow would from behind me as symbolic of a burial. Eventually, I got to the end where I was able to begin my actual first downhill run. It was a wide open bowl-shaped run several hundred yards wide and a straight shot to the lodge, so no turning was needed. But as I looked down the two miles to the lodge, I thought, "There's no way I survive that". I thought about taking my skis off and hiking down the mountain. But as I was contemplating that, I leaned a little too far over the edge of the drop-in area and involuntarily started the most exciting two minutes in ski racing history.
Back then I weighed 265 pounds and with my low center of gravity (short legs) it took about a second and a half to reach what many onlookers would swear to be about 75 MPH. No hat or gloves, remember. The wind noise muffled out the screams of "hey look out" from people warning others of a mad-man coming down the hill with no ability to turn or stop. When I would see someone cutting in front of me I didn't know what to do, so I just yelled "FORE" as they do in golf. One family member noted that they believe they saw a camo-colored bowling ball on toothpicks going down one of the runs that day.
I knew I was going way to fast, but I went ahead and got down in the classic downhill speed racing position of bending over and crouching slightly. Soon enough, the end of the slope was only 400 yards away and I did a quick calculation of speed, wind resistance, inertia and my inability to stop. The odds of surviving the impending crash into the lodge were low at best. I remember someone talking about putting your skis in a "snowplow" shape to stop, so I began to try that and I slowed a little, but not enough. I "snow-plowed" harder and harder making two large sprays of snow as I slowed more.
A large group of kids saw that I was coming in too fast and started to scramble and grab their friends and baby sisters from my path. It looked as though I wouldn't run into anybody, but there was still a very well made log lodge to deal with.

I was aiming at the deck of the lodge, particularly the steps to the deck. Somehow my skis popped up the stairs and I slid across the deck slowing enough to put my hands out to catch myself on the entrance door. It was over. I was alive. I noticed a paper sign between my hands on the door. It read: RENTAL RETURNS DOWNSTAIRS. What a good idea! For the record, my wife was not nearly as amused by my story of survival as I was that evening.