A STORY WORTH TELLING
“ There are only four things you can do on skis: Turn right, turn left, go straight or sell them.” — Warren Miller
Warren Miller was a man known for witty, philosophical narrations that made skiing look like a spiritual calling.
Me? I eventually chose option four, but only after disastrous flirtation with one to three.
Spring cleaning at home last week yielded a poster-size photo of my son, Lee, when he was 8 years old and carving through the powder at Taos, New Mexico. Lee turned 46 this week, serving as a stark reminder of just how long ago my skiing career melted.
Back when the kids were in school, Spring Break meant skiing in New Mexico. I eventually realized the sport wasn’t for me.
Both Lee and his sister, Robin, took to the slopes like seals to water. I tried to learn along with them, at an age where “taking up a new hobby” should have involved birdwatching or stamp collecting.
One year I was in a beginner class, relearning the basics again because my brain seemed to reset every off-season. An instructor speaking to a cluster of trembling “older adults” could have summed up the lesson in two words: “Don’t fall.”
Suddenly, a blur of motion whizzed past. A young ski marvel flew down the slope.
“Hmm,” I thought.
“That backward baseball cap looks familiar.”
The future Olympic hopeful looked back and came to a flying snow cloud stop.
“Hey, Dad!” Lee called out. “Is that you skiing with all those old dudes?”
Trying to maintain some shred of parental authority, I muttered, “How’s it going?”
It remains a mystery how children possess an internal GPS guiding them to the exact location where their parents are at their most vulnerable.
It was either that distraction or my failure to master the physics of a smooth turn that plunged me headfirst into a snowbank shortly afterwards.
Negotiating a curve with two skis in the same direction apparently required coordination I didn’t have.
While the ride down the mountain on a stretcher behind a snowmobile added a certain “extreme sports” flair to my vacation, the visit to the resort’s first-aid station was less than noble. Lying on an exam table, I watched some white coats discussing my knee.
“What are y’all thinking?” I asked, nerves mounting.
“We’re conferring whether to schedule you for immediate surgery in Albuquerque or send you home to your own orthopedic surgeon,” a doctor said.
“Doc,” I said, “I’ll take door number three: the one where you bandage me up and let me retreat to the lodge to sit by the fireplace, prop my leg up and tell tall tales.”
It turns out ski lodge doctors are remarkably short on humor.
The flight home required two seats— one for me and one for my knee. As the flight attendant helped me get situated, a voice drifted from across the aisle: “Skiing accident?”
“Yeah,” I replied casually.
“Taking up skiing at your age with your kids?” he followed.
Bracing myself for an interrogation, I turned toward my persistent inquisitor and then saw his leg in a full cast.
“So,” I said. “Did you know there are only four things you can do on skis?”
Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@ gmail. com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge. com.
