One Last Run, and Snow > Rain

Yesterday was my fifth day of skiing in a row, and I was kind of tired of the whole thing. After the first three runs of the first day, I was skiing by myself as Jack and the kids decided they wanted bluer and blacker pastures. Skiing alone gets old, although I did get in the "Singles" lift line and bypassed the longer lines with people skiing with friends and family.

There are many reasons I love/hate skiing. First, it is depressing to suck at something I used to be decent at, avoiding runs that I used to easily do. The best part of Whistler is exploring different runs. It would take days to do all of the runs there. I stuck to the same two or three runs the entire five days.

I suppose this is part of aging and/or recovering from injury. Jack told me about some extreme athlete who was seriously injured when he was hit by a car. He started his training for the Boston Marathon while wearning a halo, a nasty brace that keeps the head, neck and spine aligned. (I'll spare you a direct link to the google search or the NYT article about the guy.) Part of me thinks the guy is nuts, but am I any different for wanting to ski again after I tore my ACL?

Back to the knee. Yesterday after lunch and before we drove back to Seattle, I was going to do one last run. One last run. I put on my right ski and then as I was about to snap into my left ski, my formerly injured knee gave me a ping of mild pain. I tried again. Ping.

What did that ping mean? Should I do one last run, or ride the gondola down? How does one know when it is time to call it a day and when there is still enough energy to do another run? On the previous run, I hit a mogul and fell over. When my legs are tired, my form reverts to my sloppy old ways. When I ski sloppy, I am more likely to fall. Did I want to end of a bad note, or a good one? You never know. I played it safe and I took the gondola down. I wasn't happy about it. Part of me wanted to ski some more, but the other part didn't want to get hurt.

I stopped for coffee while the rest of my family skied and then later met Jack and the kids at the car and we drove home. Sometimes I feel like that song from Sesame Street where they show a grid with four objects. Bob sings:

One of these things is not like the others

One of these things just doesn't belong

Can you tell me which thing is not like the others

By the time I finish my song?

I am green and they are black. It is miserable to listen to them talk about all of the fun they had while I was struggling. But what am I supposed to do, not let them ski? (And by the way -- what the hell Sesame Street? What a depressing song. How would you like to be the rotten tomato in a pile of fresh fruit?)

A few miles outside of Vancouver, B.C., it started to pour. It rained buckets all the way back to Seattle. During this awful car ride, I remembered why we started to ski. In the Pacific Northwest, it rains from November through May. Given the choice between rain and snow, I'll take snow.

This afternoon, Jack and I went to the grocery store. Walking around QFC, my legs felt strange. They missed my ski boots. They wanted to be back on the mountain.