I was solo. On my own completely now, I knew the only choice I had was to brave it and get down the slope so off I went. Things were going great when I realized that I seemed to be gaining speed and was unable to slow myself down. Most objects became a dull blur as I struggled to cross my skis even further (which at that point was physically impossible). Suddenly, something ahead of me came into clear, sharp focus and my heart fell to the bottom of my boots. A ski class! Had I been able to, I would have thrown myself into a snow bank, anything to keep from passing that class this fast! Instead I mentally hit my knees and prayed as images of a ski pole flying across my path from an angry instructor crowded in. I frantically tried to will my knees into double-jointedness so I could snowplow completely around. Much to my relief I passed the class without realizing my fears and somehow managed to slow myself to what I felt was a reasonable and safe speed. I am sure though that the trenches I dug trying to slow down with my skis are still there to this day!
What a sigh of relief when I saw the ground beginning to level out and knew that I had reached the bottom all in one piece. Not the end of the story though because my eyes locked on a tiny flat object lying ahead of me. A comb, one of those big, flat, bulky handle combs like everyone carried in their hip pocket in the late 70's. Okay I decided to just spread my skis the tiniest bit and avoid the comb. Man was I wrong. As soon as I spread my skis, it was the beginning of the end! To this day I can't tell you what happened except that ski poles and skis went every direction and my body did movements I am sure it wasn't meant to do. As I dug myself out of the snow, checked for broken body parts and gathered my equipment for a quarter of a mile. I carried everything the rest of the way down and grinned a bit as I realized I had survived my first time out and I knew in my heart that it wasn't my last time out!
Text by Lori Collvins (bellaonline.com)
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