For most skiers, the first day of the new ski season is racked with anticipation: wondering what the snow will be like, checking over and over that you still have your gloves, speculating how your new gear will perform. There’s a child-like giddiness that keeps you sleepless the night before, just imagining the possible adventures the upcoming season might hold.
This was not the case for me.
Growing up, I spent an occasional day on the slopes with my family. But after my ninth-grade best friend tore her ACL skiing (and hobbled miserably on crutches for six months), I banished the idea of ever skiing again. Finally, three years ago, living in Denver as a therapist and coach, I was ready to try again.
Last year was my first full season skiing; I challenged myself to ski at least ten days. I woke up well before sunrise, fought traffic on I-70, froze my behind off, injured my finger skiing through trees (I don’t recommend this), and loved every minute of it. I totaled 13 ski days and couldn’t wait to get started this year.
My excitement lasted until just after I got off the first ski lift. As I slowly inched my way down the first run – a green, no less (the easiest) – I suddenly realized, “I think I forgot how to ski!”
My thoughts grew frantic: “Could this be?!” My heart started racing and I wondered how in the world I would get down the run without skiing into a tree, falling on my face, or worse – Continue Reading
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