Last Ski Trip

Dear Rich:

This is just a quick line to let you know how I am getting along. I do not know if I have told you this before, but I have taken up the sport of skiing. What a blast! As with all good things, however, the ski season had to come to an end. Last week we found ourselves taking what Sheri so aptly described as the sort of late season trip guaranteed to convince even the most die hard fan that it is now time to move on to summer sports. There was slush in the sunny areas and ice in the shady areas. Not what you would call ideal conditions. Still, everyone said I was skiing very aggressively, and, for me, quite well. Except on the last day, which turned out to be a bit of a farce with yours truly cast in the leading role.

It all began when I inadvertently performed some aerobatics, which I concluded with the type of landing my skiing companions refer to as a face plant. According to awestruck observers, it was a classic performance: commencing at a launch speed of around thirty miles per hour, skis rising gracefully behind me, body rotating slightly beyond the prone position, and face at a forty-five degree angle to the slope at point of impact.

“Are you okay?” inquired the sweet voice of a concerned female.

This is not an unexpected question. It is also a question that can usually be answered with some degree of confidence, unless one has just used his face as a snow compactor. In which case the face is really quite numb. Not wanting to mislead the young lady, I paused to take inventory before answering.

Teeth? All there.

Nose? Yes, I still have a nose.

Spectacles? Frame broken, clip-ons missing and one lens gone.

“Fine, thank you,” I finally replied, “but I broke my glasses and lost a lens.”

“You’re also bleeding,” she observed.

I reached up and gently ran my index finger over the now stinging portion of my chin. Since the left lens of my glasses was fogged up I held my index finger up in front of my naked right eye.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell without that lens,” I said, trying to impress upon her the importance of finding same.

A successful search was then launched for the lens and clip-ons. The broken frame would not hold the lens but did hold the clip-ons. At this point the fog had cleared, and I discovered that the young lady was quite attractive. Although I could not see her eyes through her dark glasses, she had an absolutely charming smile. Her slim, athletic body suggested that she was very much the skier. If there is one thing I know about skiers, it is that you must ski to impress them. “Well,” I thought, “if Wiley Post could fly with only one eye, I could ski with only one eye.” After thanking her, I took off down the hill at a brisk pace. Of course it did not occur to me at this juncture that Mr. Post had crashed and died in snow.

As I approached the next lift I was pleasantly surprised to see that Bill had waited there for me. It was the sort of lift that seats four, and we took our place in line next to two gentlemen who had some lady friends directly in front of us. The ladies were having a difficult time catching the chair – a fact we all found quite amusing. Indeed, so great was our mirth that our chair was well upon us before we started moving into position. All of us gave a mighty push on our poles in an effort to gain the line before the onrushing chair. The others glided gracefully over soft snow, whereas I shot out like a hockey puck across a solid sheet of ice. To make matters worse, I had to look over my right shoulder for the chair pole I was supposed to grasp, and it was the right lens that had taken leave of my glasses. The chair smacked me about mid-derriere, and Bill’s ski struck me just above the ankle. This caused me to fall in the supine position so that I was spread out across the three pairs of skis belonging to the gentlemen who now occupied the chair. Normally, one would expect the bindings to release those skis, but I must have been well back towards their boots and my weight must have been so evenly distributed that the bindings held. The effect was similar to that of a forklift. I rose one foot, possibly two. It felt like four. Then, as if on command, all three gentlemen thrust the back of their skis toward the back of the chair. Thus dumping me off onto the waiting snow, much to the amusement of the gallery.

Finally, there came evening – blessed evening – a time for repose, libations, and polite conversation. I was delighted to see that the young lady who had come to my assistance graced us with her presence. I entered the room just as she was commenting on how much she enjoyed seeing the type of fall in which the faller did cartwheels and such.

“Now who’d do a thing like that,” I quipped, as I sank back into the only unoccupied chair.

I swear to you, Rich, my tongue had barely flicked the last consonant of the last word off the roof of my mouth when the back legs of that treacherous chair gave way, catapulting me backwards across the room. Furthermore, it turned out that the young lady had an escort.

Looking on the bright side, I can say that the chin has healed well and that providence has served up an experience that softens any lament I may have had for the passing of an enjoyable season. In fact, I am loath to mention skiing in front of those who were there. Do you think a year will be long enough for them to forget?

I am looking forward to hearing you.

Steve

Rich’s reply was well written and funny. I would like to share it with you, but I was not able to reach him to get his permission. He said, in part, that he and his wife thought my performance more closely resembled the antics of Wile E. Coyote than Wiley Post. He also told me that people will not forget, but that I should not worry about that because the entertainment I provided will make them more than eager to ski with me again.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Mar. 12, 2009