last night, weeks before i am typically bathed in a winter landscape, i got my ski on.
i was expecting gravel and sudden face plants. i got glide and nordic synchronicity.
okay, for a good skier, it is synchronicity. for me it is more like “i was able to make it up the hills.”
i have kept a ski journal for most of my time as a homeowner here at the center of the universe. i do it so when i finally reach my 1000 km goal each season, i know when to quit; know when to start eating massive bowls of nachos and putting on fat for the summer tourist season.
over the past few years, skiing before thanksgiving was unheard of. last year, my first ski occurred on december 8, during a winter that produced only 3 significant dumps (snowfall > 6″) and ended in early march with my tomato seeds 3 inches high.
it was a fluke. a non-sensical, tea-party approach to winter.
everything was forgotten last night on the onion river road, though.
the groomer had been out in the late afternoon and although he asked me not to ski on it because it hadn’t “set up”, i summarily dismissed him because i needed to be the virginal skier on the sugarbush and because from experience, i know how anal groomers can be.
“fuck you darren, i’m skiing”, i said…and was off.
it was glorious, save for the lack of wax on my rock skiis because well, i was expecting rocks, and not a pristeen layer of corduroy that invited me and massaged me with affirmations of “come on fat boy” and “get your mojo going”.
it’s in my journal for november 23, 2010.