Why I Tri

I signed up for my first sprint triathlon almost four years ago. It was January, and I was sitting in my cubicle at my old job, my leg splayed out in the aisle next to me encased in a metal brace. It was the armor around my torn MCL that I had damaged while on the ski slopes. I was sad and depressed, and I was 60 pounds overweight, not to mention finding it almost impossible to quit smoking. I felt empty and ugly.

I’m not sure what possessed me to sign up for the race, although I am pretty sure I felt the need to scare myself out of the depression and the pattern of emotional eating that seemed to always accompany my funks. I had previously read about the Tri for the Cure somewhere, but that day I had a sudden surge of guts that caused me to check out the website. It was a sprint triathlon for women only. There would be a half-mile swim. (I hadn’t been in the pool since my days on the high school swim team 13 years prior, and the thought of seeing myself in a bathing suit caused acid to rise into my throat.) There would also be a 12 mile bike ride. (I thought about it as I studied the website some more and realized that the last time I had been on a bicycle was right before I had gotten my driver’s license.) And the last part of the race would be a 3.1-mile run. No problem. I could totally do that. I mean, sure I was out of shape, and heavier than I had ever been before, oh, and my knee was currently in a brace that barely allowed me to walk, but I thought, it couldn’t be that hard. Right? I paid my 85 dollars, and convinced myself that I could accomplish a lot in the seventh months before the race.

Or maybe not.

I spent five out of the next seven months not really doing much of anything except continuing to feel sorry for myself, eating and drinking too much, and complaining about the way I felt and looked, but never owning it and taking action. Two months before the race my friend, Brenna, asked me if I was still going to do it. I hemmed and hawed and said, “I don’t know; probably not.”

And then I made a bunch of excuses. My knee was still bothering me a lot. I needed to get my old bike back from someone I had lent it to. I hadn’t been feeling so great lately. I needed a gym membership with a pool. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Somehow though, she managed to talk me out of the haze I was in and into doing the race. She was signing up, too, and we would tackle it together. She could barely swim; I was vastly unsure of my cycling and running skills. We had two months to figure it out.

My first outing on a bicycle was traumatic to say the least. Brenna and her then fiancé and Mike and I hit the road. All three of them are avid cyclists. Next to that trio, I was a hot mess. I was wobbly and tentative on a hand-me-down bike that was about six inches too small for my six-foot-one, bordering-on-obese frame. I felt like a circus clown cruising around on a child’s tricycle, although I was much less coordinated. My brand new helmet and rolled up yoga pants reeked of my amateur status. As soon as Brenna saw my bike seat, she said, “You’re going to have to get a new saddle.”

Once I realized that a saddle and a seat are the same thing, I asked why. She said, “If you don’t know why when we’re done riding today, I’ll explain it to you”

The brief ride that followed was devastating. I fell just short of having a seizure as each car drove past me. I was in the bike lane, sure, but all I could keep picturing was one false move, me falling sideways into the road, and my head being crushed like a grapefruit beneath the tire of an aggressive Prius. The other three rode ahead of me, going only slightly faster than my snail’s pace of about two miles an hour. They almost couldn’t go slow enough to let me keep up.

When we returned from our ride, which couldn’t have been more than about 6 miles or so, I said to Mike, “I’m going to have to get a new saddle,” and hobbled inside to remove the sandpaper that had seemingly been planted in my underwear

One down.

I dragged Mike to the pool at 24hour Fitness the following weekend, and I was delighted to discover that I could still swim. In fact, I had finally found the one thing I was better at, athletically speaking, than Mike is. Even though putting on my newly purchased, plus-sized bathing suit was depressing, the weightlessness I felt in the water, and the fact that I was still capable of effortlessly gliding through lap after lap did wonders for my severely broken self-esteem. I felt just like myself for the first time in a long time, and the muscles beneath my thick layer of fat felt suddenly useful again. My body was remembering what it felt like to be an athlete instead of a professional depression victim. After swimming for an hour, I reluctantly dragged myself out of the pool, showered, went home, and promptly slept for 10 straight hours. It wasn’t the usual depression-induced sleep; it was a good, tired, earned sleep. While I was sleeping, the old me was just starting to wake up.

Running is the obvious third member of the trifecta. I have always had a weird relationship with running. I actually like it. But I have never been good at it, even when I was really slender. Add 60 pounds to that, and a few more years of puffing on Marlboro Lights, and I was basically screwed.

That first attempt at running will stick in my mind for probably the rest of my life and will keep me from ever becoming sedentary again. I slipped into a pair of XXL sweat pants and a giant t-shirt and put my dog on his leash. My knee was mostly healed, although the strain of weighing almost 250 pounds was still the cause of some occasional pain. With my trusty dog, Blue, by my side, I walked out the door and up the block towards the corner. I told myself that when I reached the corner, I would begin to jog. And that is what I did. As each foot hit the ground, I felt every extra pound that had gathered on my tall body jiggle and jump around. After I heard the smack of Nike to pavement, I would feel the meat of the corresponding thigh continue it’s Jello-like motion for a full second afterwards. A car drove by, and the driver stared openly. Tears started to run down my face as I realized that I must look absolutely ridiculous. I made it one block before I had to stop. My knee was screaming and my lungs were on fire. I walked for about a mile and made another attempt at a run. This time, I made it about half a block and could go no further. This was not going to be good.

Eventually, the day of the triathlon arrived. As I stood in the water with all the other women who were between the ages of 30 and 35 waiting nervously for the gun to start us off, I felt like I was going to throw up. I felt fat and exposed and scared out of my mind about what I was about to do. Then the race started. The water became a whirlpool of athletic 30- to 35-year old limbs and torsos. It was organized chaos, only organized in the sense that everyone was headed in the same direction. I took a foot to the face and got a noseful of water. I freaked, but then realized that my feet could still touch. I thought, I am just going to stand up and turn towards the shore and walk my fat ass the hell out of here. Then suddenly the wake of 100 swimming women picked me up, and I was doing something that I had done naturally my whole life. I was swimming, and I was good at it. I swam past half of the women in my wave, cranked my propeller arms around and around, and felt better about myself than I had in a year.

I finished my swim in a very respectable 19 minutes. The bike and run would be a different story, and it would ultimately take me almost two hours and twenty minutes to complete the race. But complete it I did.

Yesterday, I completed my fourth sprint triathlon. I did it in 2 hours and 2 minutes, feeling slightly defeated because I really thought I was going to break that damn two-hour mark this time. Real triathletes would probably laugh at a time of two hours for a sprint race. It is hardly impressive, and many everyday athletes do it in an hour forty five or less. The elite do it in just over an hour. But I only let myself feel defeated for a few minutes when I remembered that I’m not competing with the elite triathletes of the world. (if I was, I'm pretty certain they wouldn’t feel too threatened) I am competing with the sad, fat girl who started this race three years ago, and I am competing against her with everything that I have. And she is backing down. In this competition, I get a little faster every time. I weigh 47 pounds less than when I first put my shaky toe in that tepid reservoir. I will never touch another cigarette in my life. I can lift heavy things and do hard stuff. When I absentmindedly reach to scratch my arm or leg, I am shocked to find that the flesh is firm and muscular. I sign up for scary things like half marathons and 10k races and then I show up and do it. I log miles and miles running around my neighborhood knowing that the drivers are now staring at my backside in a good, albeit chauvinistic and degrading, way.

Today I turn 33, and I do so knowing that I will never go back to being what I was; I’m in too deep now. Instead of being addicted to ice cream and nicotine, I’m addicted to the endorphins and the runner’s high, and the happy lolling tongue of my dog as we hit mile three. I’m addicted the rhythm and purpose it gives my day and the way it allows me to have an ice-cold Coors Light or two on a summer afternoon without worrying about the calories. I’m addicted to the thought that I will someday raise children who are strong and aware of what their bodies are capable of and who takes risks to see what they can do next. I have more goals to meet along this road: shorter times, longer distances, smaller jeans. There is nothing standing in my way, though. Tri me.

Never Let Them See You Sweat

It’s official. I have to switch gyms.

I have mentioned before how I always feel awkward at the gym, but last week, I really took that to a new level. I went straight to the gym after work and actually felt kind of pretty strolling in wearing a cute dress, control top pantyhose, and sassy heels, my Nike gym bag slung ever-so-casually over my shoulder. I walked straight back to the locker room, changed into my workout clothes, and got ready to hit the floor. I realized that I had forgotten a ponytail holder. This wasn’t a HUGE deal, not like forgetting running shoes, or even a sports bra, however, it still takes away from the sanctity of a workout when you have wet, sweaty hair stuck to your face and neck. I decided that I would go to the front desk and ask for a rubber band thinking that having a few broken hairs would be a fair trade for keeping my mane out of my face for the next hour. First though, I had to pee.

The bathrooms at 24Hour Fitness are not always in the best of shape. So while I am not normally a huge germ freak, I do take serious precautions at the gym in order to protect my nether regions from horrible locker-room concoctions like staph and athletes’ foot. So, I spread toilet paper liberally on the seat before sitting down. (my bad knees just can't handle the squat method)

After going to the bathroom, washing my hands, and shutting my locker, I strolled towards the front desk to ask if they had a rubber band I could have. They did not, so I decided I would check the depths of my gym bag pockets one more time before resigning to a sticky workout. As I was walking back towards the locker room, I absentmindedly reached to scratch an itchy spot on my lower back. That is when I discovered that I had about three feet of toilet paper hanging out of the waistband of my workout pants and trailing behind me like a cheap wedding dress.

Devastation ensued.

I had paraded through my crowded gym with a toilet paper tail while the onlookers could only stare, rather than graciously stopping me. And who were these girls in the packed locker room who let me walk out like that?

As I yanked the TP from the back of my pants, I looked up to see three guys standing together in front of the water fountain all staring at me with smirks. I disappeared into the solace of the locker room and hung out in the doorway for a minute pleading with my cheeks to go back to their normal color. It took every ounce of courage I had to go back out into the gym for my workout, but I did it.

After the first five minutes on the elliptical with my hair already plastered against my neck, one of the smirkers from downstairs hopped on the machine next to mine. I looked up. He smirked again. I rolled my eyes. And then I proceeded to do what any self-respecting woman would do in this situation. I kicked his proverbial cardio ass.

I looked at his screen and, with purpose, set my cross-ramp higher than his. Then I upped my resistance so that he looked wimpy by comparison. He looked at my screen and turned up his cross-ramp. I only cranked mine higher. He started going faster. I zoned out on my “best-workout-mix-ever” playlist and got my pace up about three times faster than his. When he got off 30 minutes later, I went for ten more minutes, completely aware of his stares from across the room. I finished my workout and walked out on wobbly legs, smirking at him where he was sprawled innocently on the ab roller.

“Take that!” my smile said, “This is MY gym! I will wear my toilet paper proudly, and I will beat you at any machine out there! Bring it!”

In what can only be a moral to this story, I spent the rest of that evening feeling like crap from over-exerting myself and suffered from a pulled muscle for the rest of the week.

Totally worth it.

Dear Michael Phelps

Dear Michael Phelps,

This isn’t a fan letter, so don’t go getting any ideas. I’m a little too old for that. It isn’t a letter resulting from a schoolgirl crush either, although I will admit that I have a grown up appreciation for your goofy ears and puppy dog eyes and probably wouldn’t kick those sinewy legs and torso out of bed for eating crackers.

But I digress.

This is, quite simply, a thank you letter. I was raised the right way and know to send a thank you in return for something I’ve been given; and you, my aquatic friend, have given me something. Maybe you’ve given it to many more than just me, but I really see its value and just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for getting me back in the water.

My triathlon was over just a week before the Olympics began, and in the same tradition as my triathlon last year, the end of the race seemingly marked the annual hanging-up of my cap and goggles until training begins again next summer. I’ll still ride my bike and go for a run on a fairly regular basis, but the swimming always seems like too much of a pain.

Then came 08-08-08 and along with it the buzz that surrounded your attempt at a record-breaking eight gold medals. The spotlight was all over you, and swimming was suddenly cool again. What was the coolest about it for me, though, wasn’t necessarily the racing or the world records or the amazing hundredth-of-a-second finishes. For me it was all about watching you before and after the races. Sitting at the end of the lane, crouching against buoyancy with shimmering turquoise lapping at your neck, hanging over the lane-lines to talk to your buddies. You belong in that water. I used to, too.

Being raised in a single-parent household meant that my sister and I were also partially raised by the Village Seven Swim Club. My mom was a nurse who worked nights and needed to sleep during the day. During the school year this was the perfect schedule, however, when summer vacation rolled around, my mom had to get creative. The pool was within walking distance of our house, open from 6am to 8pm, and had lifeguards on duty at all times. For fifty dollars a month, she could send my sister and I down the street and know that we were happy and taken care of all day.

We donned brightly colored bathing suits, Courtney taking pride in the fact that hers was one of the few pieces of her wardrobe that wasn’t handed down from me. This was because a suit would never last us more than one summer after being worn every single day subjected to the chlorinated chemical warfare, our little butts barely covered by the threadbare material that scraped across the cement each time we lifted ourselves out of the pool. We looked like alien children with our green hair and chocolate skin and sturdy quadriceps muscles. We thought we owned that pool.

I was on the Village Seven club team for the first time the summer between the fourth and fifth grades. I was a backstroker from the start, a five-foot-six nine-year old built like a toothpick wearing a backpack. I was an average swimmer relative to my team.

I made the high school team, too, but was still average. 100 meter backstroke, 200 meter backstroke, the team’s only backstroker, but still just average in the grand scheme of high school sports. There would never be any state titles, never any Olympic dreams, and never anything to write home about. Once high school was over, I basically forgot about swimming.

I signed up for a triathlon last year as a goal to help me rehab my knee. Later in the training than planned, I went to the pool at 24Hour Fitness and jumped into the water for the first time in over ten years, just to make sure I could still swim. Mike got in too, although he had never spent much time swimming.

Weightless in the water, I suddenly felt at home again. Not chubby, not injured, just at home. I stroked out three quick laps then stood to look for Mike. I squinted though my goggles to see him hanging on to the edge of the lane at the other end huffing and puffing. I glided 25 meters underwater and came up for air right in front of him. The man who has beat me handily at every single sport, who leaves me in the dust on every mountain trail and ski slope, the man who has climbed Kilimanjaro and played soccer for 25 years asked me “How in the hell can you do that?” I grinned at him. Later during that same workout, an elderly woman doing water aerobics in the corner of the pool asked me in a thick Eastern European accent if I had been a “stet chomp-ee-yun”. I laughed and thought of my mediocre high school career. Had I actually gotten better in all of these years of swimming apathy? I strutted into the locker room with my head held high, but then I practiced for a few weeks, competed in my triathlon, and for some reason forgot about swimming again.

Keep listening, Michael Phelps; we’ll get back to you here in a second.

A few weeks ago, I had drinks with an old high school friend whom I had randomly found on Facebook. She was a standout on our high school swim team, and during the course of our feverish catch-up conversation I asked her if she was still swimming at all. She said no, and it shocked me in a way. But then she went on to talk about how it ruined her hair, and was so time-consuming what with the multiple showers and wet towels and musty locker room showers. I totally related, knowing that part of swimming sucks.

A few days later, I raced in this year’s triathlon while suffering from a chest-cold and sadly added almost four minutes to my time from last year. I raced, vowed to get ‘em next year, then hung up my cap and goggles, leaving those musty locker rooms behind for awhile.

Then I saw you. Crouching in the end of the lane, eyes upturned towards the scoreboard, waiting on the results of your first semi-final with chlorine-laced water flowing freely into your open mouth. You were almost breathing it in. Like a fish.

I could taste that water. I could suddenly remember the way it felt to be at home in the water. Not even just the way it had felt last year in my tiny moment of fame with the old ladies at the gym. You made me remember the glory days of swimming. For some reason watching you made me think of those late summer afternoons at the VSSC. I could remember my red, burning eyes, and my squeaky brown skin. I could smell the hot pavement mixed with chlorine, taste the melty PB and Js that my mom packed for lunch. I could even remember the swell of responsibility I felt in being in charge of my sister everyday, always making sure to keep an eye on her in the pool. I haven’t thought about those days in years.

I don’t know what it was about your focused, calculated journey to victory that made me think about my lackadaisical, childhood dog-days at the pool. I think I just saw something in your eyes that said “this is still fun.” Whatever it was, I came home from work yesterday and decided to go for a swim.

I packed my bag. With towel and shampoo, and ultra-moisturizing conditioner. And comb, and lotion, and underwear and shower-flops. I pulled my cap and goggles down from their proverbial hang-up all the while praying that my (completely unnatural) blonde hair wouldn’t turn green. I got to the pool, jumped in, and powered through a few laps then stopped for a drink of water from my bottle at the end of the lane. The guy in the lane next to me had been swimming slow physical-therapy drills with a kickboard when he stopped and looked over at me. “Were you some kind of state champion or something?” he asked. I just laughed and told him “Let’s just say I’m no Michael Phelps”

I think I’ll go back tomorrow. So thanks.

Sincerely,

Cara Volle

Photo courtesy of LA Times

Girls' Ski Trip- I Could've Danced All Night

Last time, we made the front page of the paper. There we are, five out of the eight of us, plus some weird guy, emblazoned on the cover of the Summit Daily News. We were captured, frozen in time, dancing to an 80’s band in the town plaza of Breckenridge, our faces still burning pink from the day on the slopes. I was clutching a Coca-cola cup in my hand, a cup that did not contain any Coca-cola, but was instead full of warm beer. Tonya was doing air guitar. Betsy's eyes were lost somewhere behind her huge grin.

The band was called Latex Limousine, and they went all out, dressing in animal print spandex and teased hair-band wigs. We requested song after song, and they complied, so we stayed there dancing and singing until long after the last amp had been loaded into their beat up van. We felt like mini-celebrities, blazing into town, partying like rock stars, (minus the drugs and groupies, of course) and then getting hounded by the paparazzi, or in this case a part-time, freelance photographer/ski bum living the dream in a mountain town and actually getting paid for it. But that was last time.

This time, we are all two years older. We have all, for the most part, settled into relationships, married or moved in with our significant others, and come to terms with the fact that our thirties are here, or at least for the younger ones not far off. We are grownups now. Some of the girls from last year didn’t even make it. Pregnant? of course. Overtime? Yes. Relocation? Yeah, that too. This year is definitely different. We won’t make the paper this year. We’ll be a little more laid back, a little less intoxicated, and a little more comfortable just hanging out in the condo relaxing in front of the fire, sipping glasses of wine, and talking about our futures. We will compare notes about our men back at home and the things that all men do that make all women crazy. We will tell hilarious stories and laugh until our abdomens cry for mercy, and we will cook great meals and take time to really enjoy the company of the other smart, funny women with whom it seems we never get to spend enough time. Then we will get dressed in our comfortable jeans and sensible turtlenecks and we will go do what every intelligent, successful, mature woman comes to Breckenridge, Colorado to do. We will go forth, and we will dance our asses off. Like nobody’s watching.

Friday night, the scene was at the Gold Pan. It was said that there would be a great DJ, although I’m not sure how whoever imparted this knowledge found all of this out. I never know where the scene is anymore.

We ate dinner and had a couple of cocktails at the condo, and then we wandered out to catch the bus downtown. We were riding in ski-town style, now, and it was The Gold Pan or bust. We made loud jokes on the bus, hoping to entertain some of the other riders. One guy smiled. A lady rolled her eyes. The bus driver never looked up from the road.

Upon our arrival, the Gold Pan was indeed quite the scene, and as foretold, the DJ was awesome. We were nine strong in number, (having left two back at the condo, one with a cold and the other dead-tired) and we wandered in like we owned the place. Lena stole a table from some guys. Jen went to buy a round of beers only to have all nine of them purchased for her by a man on a barstool who apparently liked her style. We peeled off our puffy vests and hit the dance floor, and I was dripping sweat before the first song was over.

The boys were on the prowl. We ignored them and kept dancing in our girls-only circle. We had the luxury of being confident enough not to need the male attention, and the good sense in being slightly old enough to really appreciate it. We resorted back to our junior high alter-egos. We smiled back at them, but we didn’t let them break into our club. As Dane Cook said, “tonight, we just want to DANCE”

An hour later, the DJ finally answered my request. I jumped up and down to the beat, smiling, screaming “Josie’s on a vacation far-a-way…!!” My friends laughed at me. Life just doesn’t get any better than this. Great music, a couple of beers, boys who think you’re pretty, and a bunch of hilarious friends on a vacation faraway. Well, eighty miles or so away.

Outside the bar, this guy was chatting up another couple of girls from our group. He wasn’t being a slimeball, just chatting. Nice guy. He was there for his bachelor weekend, even sweetly producing a cell phone shot of his wife-to be.

I stared at him. I used a line. Only it wasn’t a line, it was really true. “I know you from somewhere,” I said.

He had been busy trying to get one of my friends to dance with his brother, but he looked up at me with a knowing smile. “Do you have kids?” he asked, still smiling.

I was already shaking my head violently before he finished the last word of his question, but still, I couldn’t stop staring at him. I KNEW him. This feeling of being sure I know someone happens to me quite a bit. When I get this feeling, it takes over my brain and defies all logic. I am immediately compelled to stare at, harass, and quiz the person I’m sure I know until he or she helps me figure it out or files a restraining order, whichever comes first. Usually, when I see someone and keep insisting that I know him, it turns out to be the person I yelled at for going slow in the left lane, or the guy from the dog park whom I firmly informed of the law regarding how he needed to properly dispose of his Labrador’s droppings. It never seems to be anyone good when I know I know them, but I still can’t let it go. This guy was helping me through it, though.

“Do you have nieces and nephews?”

I nodded. “Yes, one of each, but I don’t know what that would….” I just wasn’t getting it.

He had clearly been through this spiel before, and it was time for his dramatic reveal. “I played Joe on Blue’s Clues!” he said with a flourish.

I laughed and covered my mouth and hopped around a little bit, “I love Blue’s Clues!” I shrieked, involuntarily letting on that I was a freak who did not watch the show with my little niece and nephew, but instead by myself in the throes of Saturday morning hangovers during a solid portion of my twenties. “I have a dog named Blue! I loved that show! This is so awesome!”

At this point, Joe from Blue’s Clues began to realize that I was way too excited about a show with a target market between the ages of two and five. I wanted to ask him about a million things, but he started to look uncomfortable. It was the celebrity sighting of the weekend, and I was ruining it by being just a tad too eager.

I tried to chill out, but I had to tell all my friends. “Psst, guys... that guy Donovan over there? He played Joe on Blue’s Clues!” A couple of the girls had the attitude of “Oh, cool, nice” A few had no idea what Blue’s Clues even was, and the rest of the girls were totally unimpressed. No one had the same reaction I did, and so I sighed and then let it go. Back to the dance floor where people understand me.

We brought the night to a close by screeching the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believin’” in the middle of the dancefloor. We were a chorus of sweaty, Journey-loving, throwbacks, and we didn’t even care. Even Joe from Blue’s Clues got into it, singing loudly while one of my friends finally danced with his brother.

We left the bar with the intent to walk the mile or so back to our condo. We all hated this idea, but it is almost impossible to get a cab in downtown Breckenridge the way you can in the city. The buses had stopped running at this late hour, and our thighs were burning from the hours of modern dance that had just preceded. We had just grudgingly begun our trek when a beat-up 1980’s Chevy Blazer pulled up. It was disguised cleverly as a cab with the simple addition of a yellow TAXI sign stuck to the top. Legs and arms everywhere, we all managed to fit inside with the cheerful driver who did not seem to mind the illegality of the situation one bit He drove us a mile right to the front door of our condo and asked us for twelve dollars in return. Cash came from everywhere. We were so thankful for the miracle Taxi-Blazer that I think he ended up netting around thirty bucks. Definitely his best fare of the night.

We wandered in to the condo together, some us with our arms linked, still singing.

“Hold on to that Fee-ee-lin!”

First photo courtesy of The Summit Daily News. Second photo courtesy of Amazon.com.

Back on Two Planks

In August, I was positive that I was going to buy a season ski pass for this year, and I began saving my pennies. Then in September, as winter got closer and the memory of last year’s knee injury began to refresh, I decided that maybe I would just get a discounted four-pack of lift tickets. So I used some of those saved pennies to buy a pair of black Mary Jane pumps instead. Then, Mike looked sad when he heard that I wouldn’t be joining in all of the fun, so I said I would get two four packs so I could ski with him eight times. It was a compromise. Then, in October when the first snowstorm hit, I changed my mind and thought, maybe I would pass on skiing altogether this year and just work out at the gym every time Mike went skiing. I would spend this year getting back into great shape and then test out my knee next season; plus, I could surely get some of those trendy riding boots with the money I would be “saving”. Then November hit, and the purchase deadline for four-packs and season passes loomed. I felt an urge. I drove down to Colorado Ski and Golf to wait in line dutifully to purchase one four pack; I had made my final decision that I would ski four times for the season to make sure I still could and then get back into it seriously next year when I wasn’t so scared.

As I got closer to the front of the ski pass line I started berating myself for being such a baby. I had one bad fall out of many fun ski days, and here I was about to waste most of the weekends of ski season inside at 24Hour Fitness instead of outside in the fresh air with my friends. I thought of the gorgeous, twinkly days. I thought of the hilarious, two-hour car rides up and down I-70, the ones when someone inevitably has too pee on the side of the highway and someone else inevitably gets a snapshot of it. I thought of how, this year, I might improve my skiing to a point where I would impress the pants off of Mike instead of always having to ask him for pointers. I thought of the après ski beers and the laughs at the lodge and the President’s Day weekend trips where we all rent a house and ski and party until we are so worn out that we all end up just sitting around staring silently at the fireplace with stupid smiles on our faces. I even thought of my cute helmet, ivory with pink and blue flowers on it, and the perfect way it contrasts with my chocolate brown ski jacket. I was thinking about all of these things instead of the task at hand, and in my sudden onset of ski-season fever, I slapped down my credit card and purchased a full 5-mountain season pass for $449.00, just like the one Mike and all of my friends already had in their hot little hands. I know, it is ridiculous, but this expensive investment is just part of living in Colorado. At least it is now.


I grew up in Colorado after my dad’s company relocated us here from Illinois in the late 70’s. I was two when we moved here and honestly, minus a couple of wanderlust years in college, I have never wanted to live anywhere else. The weather, with its dazzling sun and sparkly blue sky is amazing, the activities are too many to count, and the people here are some of the nicest I have ever encountered. I am a Colorado girl through and through, and I have the muttly dog, the beat up SUV, and every brand of hiking boot, camping gear, and 80 SPF sunscreen to prove it. However, I somehow managed not to become a skier until I hit my late twenties.



My dad is from the Midwest where it is flat, and my mom was from Ireland where it is an island. Neither of them had skied growing up, and so it was never that important that my sisters and I learn. Then, when I was about 10, I discovered swimming, and it was my sport. I swam on summer leagues and my school team during the winter, and I never really felt that compelled to give up a day at the pool in order to be out in the cold doing something that looked insanely dangerous.


I tried skiing once in junior high. A cute 8th grade boy organizing a trip to the slopes was my rationale behind trying a sport like skiing in the middle of my unwieldy years. This was a time in my life when my feet had already grown to accommodate what would be a 6-foot-1-inch frame long before said frame actually got there. I spent half of that day sprawled in the snow freezing my awkward little ass off and vowed that I would never waste my time, not to mention three weeks allowance, on skiing again. I stuck with swimming where I was graceful and quick like a fish. You can’t fall when you’re swimming; even if you’re a major klutz like me.


Four years ago, I met a group of girls who had just moved out here from Chicago. We all got to be pretty decent friends, and they were all getting a Learn-to-Ski Pass so that they could, in fact, learn to ski. They tried to talk me into it, and I declined, relaying the story of the ski trip from my youth and the damage it had inflicted on my fragile 13-year-old psyche. They weren’t buying it. Of all the people they had the opportunity to make friends with in Colorado, they had chosen the one who knew nothing about skiing, and they weren’t about to let their bad luck affect their good time. Within a couple of days they had me talked into it; I was going to ski if it killed me, which it totally could. So I pretended to be new to the state just like my girlfriends, and we all purchased our Learn-to-Ski packages. I took two lessons, and I was hooked. I became a skier; I became a slope-bunny; I became very angry with myself for wasting so many years not doing something that is so much fun.


The next year I met Mike. Mike has been on skis every winter since he was three years old. He looks as comfortable on skis as he does just walking around the house, and he moves with more speed and grace than I feel like I could ever muster, even when I’m in the pool. Skiing is like breathing to him, and deciding whether or not to get a season pass has never even crossed his mind. He moved here to go to college and to ski, and he never left.


Up until my fall last year, he was patiently teaching me tricks and tips to make me a better skier, and gradually, I was getting more and more comfortable. We were having such a great time together and he was such a great teacher. That last day I skied last year was the first time I really felt like a real skier, like I had truly earned my right to call myself a Coloradoan. Then, that afternoon, I fell. That was January, and I sat out the rest of the season. I was already in a bad funk that year, and skiing was one thing that made me feel free and happy, like I was a real person again, not some depressed sadsack who would never get over losing her mom. My funk came back quickly and I spent the next two months in serious pain, wearing a huge knee brace, and feeling really sorry for myself.


Yesterday I hit the slopes again for the first time since that day last January. The first lift ride up, I felt sick. I was nervous, and it suddenly seemed like the worst idea ever. It became apparent that, while my knee was better, I had yet to grow my balls back. Why should I risk falling and injuring myself again? Why should I risk not being able to go to the gym, or take my dog for a run, or play sports? Why would I want to rack up another $400 in insurance co-pays? The lift reached the top of the hill, and I carefully slid to the flat area at the top of the slope. I bent to buckle my boots still thinking this was the about the dumbest thing I could be doing. Then I saw three little kids whoosh by me laughing and shrieking, their little cheeks bright pink, their eyes smiling behind the orange plastic of their goggles. They were not thinking about torn-up knees or medical bills. They were having a blast.


I skied the first hill tentatively and spent the day on the easy slopes. I was being careful, but I was having the time of my life. Even as one of the slowest skiers on the hill that day, I still felt free and happy. As I made my vigilant turns down the hill in the direction of Mike waiting patiently below me, I laughed and shrieked. My cheeks felt hot and pink, and my eyes felt as if they were smiling behind my goggles. I ski again. I ski towards the sun on my cheeks and the crystals of snow hitting my nose. I ski towards the love of my life and an ice cold Coors Light at the bottom of the hill. I ski towards a smaller backside and thinner thighs. I ski, and there is nothing else like it in the world. I can’t wait to get up there again next weekend.