When I first mentioned that I had a shiny new Misadventures column in The Oregonian, I mentioned that it would be published "occasionally." What does that exactly mean, you might ask? I really have no clue myself. Only that so far, I had two columns published in August back to back, and then one just appeared out of nowhere during the holidays. It's kind of like a Where's Waldo of columns, you never know when I will appear. I like to be mysterious I suppose.
Anyoldhow, here it 'tis...(the picture doesn't really relate but I thought it was cool, taken in my front yard during the recent snowstorm, and no I don't really like snowshoeing either so I guess it is kinda related but that's a story for another day).
Misadventures of Snowboarding
What I’m about to say is incredibly uncool. Take a seat, remove hot liquids from the vicinity of your mouth to thereby ward off accidental spit-takes, and listen up.
I Don’t. Like. Snowboarding.
There, I said it. Now this isn’t the story of “oh, I took a beginning snowboarding class and fell on my butt too many times and I decided that I didn’t like it.” I actually even own my own snowboard (green, with a skull pattern, if you must know). But after my last outing on a frigid February, I decided that enough was enough.
Allow me to elaborate on what I like to call my Circle of Hell.
1. It hurts, part one. The pain begins before you even get out of your car. Snowboard boots—while blissfully pliant in comparison to ski boots, or at least it seems so, I haven’t actually set foot in ski boot for years—are still much akin to firmly attaching a vice to your dainty toes. I get out of my car to give myself enough room to shove said foot in boot, and have to take my gloves off to do so. And, since it’s freezing out, results in cold hands and shoved feet. Not pleasant. I can’t wait to get my circulation moving by getting to the ski lift already.
2. Waiting is the hardest part. For those of you who have snowboarded before, you’ll understand the unique—one might even say contorted—positioning of one’s body as you wait in line for the ski lift. And it’s while waiting in line at the ski lift that I always realize what my true problem is with the sport. I’m just not the type of girl who will talk about powder with a gleam in her eye. I will never talk about how many times I have been on the slopes this season (well, come to think of it, maybe I would, seeing at it’s a grand total of 2 when I’m really going for it). That’s why I always feel like every time I set board on the slope I’m starting from scratch. And why, when I’m standing there in my contorted position, left leg strapped in the board and pointed to the right, right foot tagging along and trying to balance so I don’t fall and make a fool of myself, it’s the only time I actually envy skiers with their two handy poles. While I’m chanting inwardly to myself the “don’t fall, you can do it” mantra, a 20-something boarder strikes up a conversation about the powder falling that day (apparently, it’s “sick” or something, or at least he says). My 38-year-old self nods and smiles and continues concentrating on aforementioned not falling. I’m done with the conversation but he’s not. “So, is your snowboard new?” “Nope, I’ve had it about five years,” I reply. “No way! Because your sticker is still on the bottom of it, so I thought it was new!” “I just don’t snowboard that often,” I reply. I can’t wait to get on the ski lift already and not have to focus on balancing and/or speak with Boarder Dudes.
3. It hurts, part two. When we finally get on the ski lift, it’s so cold that I immediately pull my hat way over my head. I look at my boyfriend Eric who is beside me and I can barely see any part of his head either. “Hey,” I say. “Hey,” he responds. “My face is numb.” “I can’t feel my toes!” “Are we having fun yet?” We start laughing hysterically the whole way up because we’re so freezing. So much so that the stranger next to us asks if we’re okay. I can’t wait to get off this ski lift already.
4. Wait…is that a black diamond? Then, of course, the real thing begins. After scooting off the ski lift (another concentration-builder whereby I’m repeating my mantra of “don’t fall, don’t fall”), we slide on over to the first slope which my boyfriend assures me is only a blue square. I’d prefer green myself—a fitting color, as I’m feeling pretty green—but I just go along with the flow. I’m looking forward to getting circulation back in my toes, anyway. The problem is, there is a thick fog that day. Come to think of it, there was a thick fog the day before, when I heard that a fellow snowboarder was killed when he was sitting on the ground because someone crashed into him and couldn’t see him due to the fog. Right on that same slope, now that I really ponder the whole story. For some reason, I always tend to go on adventures right after a tragedy has occurred. Which is really not a good idea, because I’m convinced that everyone coming up from behind me is going to barrel into me, where I’ll knock my head on the ground and be a goner. Best to play it safe, I think, and safe for me right then is to, well, do the snowplow version with skis on a board. You know, where I don’t actually carve any turns. This way, I won’t take anyone by surprise with an unexpected move, thereby limiting my chances of aforementioned barreling. Let’s just say it made for an unnerving trip, and as much as I know that the people in front have the rightaway, I can’t help but keep looking over my shoulder at what I’m sure is my impending doom (this is where my healthy imagination does a disservice). By the time I’ve slowly worked my way down the slope, my calves are killing me from trying to hold myself in snowplow position. I can’t wait to get down the hill.
5. Circle of Hell, take two. But when I finally get down the hill, that only means I’m standing in the ski lift line again, shuffling along and trying not to fall while also trying to avoid conversations that involve the word “powder” (or even worse, the cringe-inducing “pow-pow”). After a couple cyclings through the Circle of Hell, I was quite content to sit out the rest of the day in the comfy confines of the beer hall, toasting myself by the fire and enjoying an IPA.
One might deduce that I had hung up my snowboard for good after this trip. But that’s just the thing—I never do learn my lessons. So you’ll probably see me this year on Mount Hood—I’ll be the one with the shiny green board, struggling with concentration. Just steer clear (please hold the barreling into me), and wave. When you’re done, I’ll reward you with a warmed seat that I’ve been saving for you, and an IPA.
No comments:
Post a Comment