Lessons Learned Beyond Skiing.
When I told my companions I was going to take a lesson in the middle of our three-day ski getaway in Maine a couple of weeks ago, they uniformly said, “What a good idea! So should I.” But it was just me signing up for an hour-and-half with instructor Fred (not his real name) whom I was to meet at the ski school hut at 10:00 am the next day. Regardless of the expense, a private lesson, I conjectured, would erase years of skiing almost okay.
Confession: I never took a real ski lesson. I got some tips from Ginny Pfeiffer at Hunter Mountain when we had a SKIING Magazine outing one evening back in 1971 or so (yes, evening). I watched ski instruction videos from time to time, read articles, but never really a bona fide lesson. I just learned vicariously.
But, I had the feeling that an important experience was missing. Not to mention I couldn’t really carve a turn. I mean really, neatly carve; I couldn’t match those clean, incised, parallel arcs I saw people making under the lift line. I could skid a turn, I could stem christie a turn, I would have a great run and then five un-great runs. My new shaped skis were not being optimally used.
Fred was a veteran instructor. “What do you want to focus on?” he said when we met. “I want to carve these skis. The perfect turn is eluding me.” So up we went to a nice wide blue cruising trail. “Ski down fifty yards or so, I’ll be right behind you,” said Fred. I did, I was self-conscious and tight, nervous, but nevertheless, I wanted Fred to see what he was dealing with.
“You are skiing with your feet together,” Fred said as his first lesson. “Keep them shoulder width.” Hmmm, I thought, I knew I did that, but only sometimes. Is sometimes okay? After all, couldn’t sometimes be okay? Resistance was emerging.
We went another fifty yards. “Now, watch how I link my turns. Try that and don’t take such long traverses.” He showed how with me tagging in his tracks. Ah, linked turns. Then, I went down with him behind, watching.
“Okay, you’re not putting pressure on your front edges. Feel your shins pressing on the front of the boot. The toe of your outside ski and the pinkie toe of our inside ski need to do the pressing.” Ah, pressure, okay.
I tried. It was hard. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t like it. It was uncomfortable. I was incompetent. I wanted Fred to go away and stop watching.
More conferences on the side of the trail. More advice and demonstrations. “I will try harder,” I said to myself, thinking I paid a lot for this. But I am not liking this.
Another couple of runs, Fred skiing behind, and I finally felt it. I felt my big toe pressing, I was linking, my feet were shoulder width apart. I was doing it. I was far from proficient, by a long shot, but I had the idea. I was linking my way down a long blue trail, non-stop, with Fred behind. I was learning. I found it was hard to learn, I resisted the new physical move, but eventually I learned at least something. I was surprised at how hard it was.
We talked at the bottom at the end of the lesson. On the lift, we learned we had sailing in Maine in common. I realized I hadn’t actually seen Fred’s face since we started as we were both goggled up and helmeted. He took off his goggles. “How old are you?” I asked, just curious. “Sixty six. How old are you?” “Seventy two”, I said.
“No dust on you,” he said, shaking hands.
That made my day.
