You need faith to take that first step, but a plan is good too.
When my husband and I met in 1987 we each told a lie. I said I loved to go to the mountains and ski and he said he loved to ride horses. This ruse went on for decades...decades! I bought him horses, he bought vacation homes in the mountains next to ski resorts.
It was on a trip to a small ski resort in North Carolina, a place we didn't own a vacation home, that I decided to double down on my commitment to enjoy skiing. If this was going to be such a big part of my life I should embrace the freezing snot rolling down my face, I should learn to love the cramps in my shins, and I should once and for all ban the fear!
"Just point your skis downhill," my husband would coach, "You keep trying to stop yourself. You need to pick a line down the mountain and go for it."
Yeah, but picking a line and pointing my skis downhill means speed, speed means fast, fast means out of control, I don't do out of control.
I'm making it sound like I am a bad skier. I am a better-than-average intermediate skier. I can do blue diamond slopes all day but put me on a black diamond and I wedge my skis in a deep-v and cry like Lucille Ball. It's all about fear.
On this sunny winter day in North Carolina, I decided to embrace the suck and go for it. Fear be damned. My husband picked the line down the slopes and I followed behind imitating his pole plants and smooth turns. I pushed the voice screaming, "Oh my Gawd, I'm gonna die!" out of my head and replace it with, "Wheeeeee!" It worked. For a few moments I felt the rush of speed, the ease of the corners, and the joy of racing the wind.
Then came the jump. One mound, right in the center of the run, directly under the ski lift. Not too big, but big enough. My husband pointed his skis at the center and took it with ease, hopping lightly in the air, landing, then swooshing to a stop just to the right of the run.
"That didn't look bad," I thought, "I'm going to do it."
I saw how my husband did it. I saw his tracks in the snow. I've watched ski racing, ski jumping, and ski-jouring. I've seen how it's done. I don't know how to do it, I've never done it but I know what it's supposed to look like.
I straightened my skis, pointed them down the mountain at the jump, and let slip the dogs of war.
"Have faith for the leap," I told myself.
My skis raced to the jump, right in front of the mound I felt a dip, I let my knees absorb the change, and full of hope I pushed off the jump. I was flying! I mean really flying, like looking down on the heads of the people standing next to my husband flying.
At that moment time slowed, as it does before an accident and I realized many things:
My take-off felt good.
My skis were even, I had a slight tuck as I soared.
My husband's mouth was open.
Lots of people were watching.
I had no idea how to land or even what that would look like.
The final realization occurred to me at the apex of my jump. Not only did I not know how to land I couldn't even picture it. At that moment I abandoned all rational thought and decided I no longer wanted to be me, here, now.
Don breaks in to explain...
I guess I should have mentioned to Kiki that the first time over any jump, it’s a really good idea to scrub your speed and hit the thing at a manageable velocity. Imagine my surprise to watch my wife (a solid intermediate skier) tuck and race toward the snow ramp of doom like she was a downhill racer at the Olympics.
In retrospect, maybe I should have shouted “slow down” as she hurtled toward destiny, but I was honestly so impressed by her gumption that “let’s see how this plays out” seemed the better call.
And it was the better call.
If Kiki had approached the jump with caution, she would never have felt the amazing sensation of having the earth fall away from her, seeing the shock on all those onlookers' faces, throwing herself sideways in mid-air, and finally crashing everything first into the hard-packed snow…creating what skiers call a yard sale.
From Merriam-Websters Dictionary:
Yard Sale - noun
When a skier impacts the snow so hard, every item not permanently affixed to their body (skis, poles, gloves, goggles, helmet, car keys, wallet and cell phone) flies in a different direction, spreading across the slope and landing pretty much everywhere.
Here, I’ll use it in a sentence:
“Holy crap, did you see that? That chick just totally did a yard sale.”
To her credit, that chick (my wife in this case), then got woozily to her feet, bowed to the gathering crowd, threw her hands in the air, and shouted “Did you see that?”
I did sweety. It was glorious.
I don't remember hitting the ground but when I opened my eyes I saw all of these things
My husband staring at me concerned.
Skiers on the side of the slope clapping mitten-muted applause.
Skiers on the lift waving and holding up fingers ranging from eight to ten.
My skis, detached from my boots, sliding slowly down the mountain.
"Are you OK?" My husband asked.
Mental check of physical condition came back Okey Dokey.
"Yeah," I said, "I am, actually."
Down the hill, someone had wrangled my wayward skis and planted them in the snow.
I took in the carnage, my skis, poles, hat, and one of my gloves lay scattered on the mountain.
"You had quite a yard sale," he said.
"I see that," I said.
He looked me in the eyes.
"Why did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Bailout in the middle of a perfect jump?"
"I did a perfect jump?"
"It was amazing! Then right in the middle of it you just gave up and, I don't know, decided to Superman your way out?"
We gathered my stuff off the mountain. I reassembled my attire; clicked the boots into the bindings, slipped the pole straps over my gloves, and headed back to the bottom and hopefully some hot chocolate or maybe something stronger.
I didn't get hurt, I bruised my ego a bit but I'm used to that. I did learn a lot though.
Have faith for the leap but always plan the landing.
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