I should have just hung out in the ski lodge hot tub with the cougars...

Have you ever looked at the pictures of attractive girls and guys snowboarding and skiing in magazines such as HerSports, Fitness, or Self and thought....gosh, that looks so easy and fun?  Well, I'm here to tell you, that yes, it can be easy and fun.  If you want to stick to the bunny hills with the overweight moms and five-year-olds.  For the rest of us, skiing and boarding as sports.  And sports, well, there's blood, sweat, and tears.

Or in our case, the sub-zero celcius temperatures did not allow for tears, so there was frostbite.

I remember one particular incident abover all others.  There I was....having transversed the treacherous terrain of the Rocky Mountains, negotiating avalanches, blinding snow, and turbulent wind, I had arrived to go skiing.    Much like the pioneers faced these hard conditions in their covered wagons, I faced them in Kristi's rugged Xterra.

We arrived at Breckenridge later than planned dut to I-70 being closed.  As much as I would like to think I am hard-core, Jen and Rachel take the cake, as they were forced to sleep on the hard gym floor of a red cross shelter.

But I digress.

Most intelligent people would have seen the -40 temperatures and gone and sat in the hot tub with a bottle of Tuaca.  Not me.  As I was riding up the lift, the old guy sitting next to me said, "My, my, young lady, you must have quite the sense of adventure."  

As I was bundled up and wearing a full face mask, I flashed the thumbs up, and yelled, "You're only young once!  Fuck yeah!"

Now, I could have stopped at the top of the normal lifts, but I figure- go big or go home, right?  Despite blinding snow and winds of 72 mph, I insisted we take the T-Bar and hike to the bowls.  Those of you not familiar with skiing- the translation:  White people's version of showing how real they keep it. 

As I got to the egde, my pride and common sense debated each other.  The common sense said, "Zoe, it's pure ice and the wind is blowing.  You could die."  The pride said, "Screw it- your'e only young once."  Guess who won.

I jumped off over the side, sliding down pretty easily, until out of nowhere, a huge gust of wind caused pure whiteout conditions.  Suddenly, I could not see my friend 10 feet ahead of me, the trees to my right, the drop off over the edge, or the rocks right below me---

DAMMIT!!!!

That was the nicest word I said as one knee went in, the other went out, and I flew down the hill, hitting my face on another rock.  By the time ski patrol found me, I was lying in the snow wishing for an early death.  Eventually I got down to the lodge. 

As I sat there, my friend said, "Zoe, maybe we should call it a day.  You're hurt."

"Hey, just because I can't bend my knee is no reason not to ski.  Calories won't burn themselves."

Then, I had an epiphany.  I remembered in elementary school learning about the civil war.  When they were about to amputate an arm to prevent the spread of gangreen, the doctors would give the patient a shot of rum to kill the pain. 

Yep, you guessed it.  I figured I was as hard core as any pirate (argghhhh)*

I decided that snowboarding would be less hard on the knees.  After another shot of vodka, I was convinced that snowboarding was just lightly riding a board through some fluffy snow.  I had only done it once before, but I don't remember it being THAT bad.  After another shot, I recalled it being quite pleasant actually.

Now, upon going back up, we had to ride the "easy" lift.  I got stuck with some tourists from Texas.** 

They put down the lift bar (wimps), but upon getting to the top, didn't realize that their feet were on it, and they needed to remove their feet to lift the bar.  As I was trying to communicate this complex law of physics, I had set my poles to the side (my snowboard was at the top of the hill to change in to).  We arrived at the drop off point up top, where we were supposed to get off, with them still unaware of the chain reaction that feet-on-bar-won't-lift created.  Somehow my poles got caught in the machinery as the lifties tried stop the lift while holding their bongs.  I exited the lift to hear the woman from Texas say, "I just don't get still why the bar wouldn't go up...."

I had bigger problems though.  My pole was broke!  In half!  While this would make an excellent zombie-killer, it was useless for skiing.  So needless to say, a broke pole, a broke knee, and a partially broken face....all makes for a totally broken ski bunny.

No problem, I thought.  I got to the lodge and changed into my board, as my friends waited very patiently for me to remember how to hook up the boot straps.

Now there comes a time in every girl's life when she should say, "no."  Despite the injury, I have some athletic ability, grace, and coordination.***

I should note that the night before wasn't spent in adequate preparation for any sort of physical activity.

We planned to spend the evening resting up.  Instead, I was influenced by horrible friends to go out drinking.  Naturally we consumed massive quantitites of alcohol in a short amount of time.  Late that night we came home and watched Jackass while drinking more.  At about 2 a.m., my neighbor decided we should practice snowboarding on the hill outside our apartment.  Luckily, I dissuaded him from this by pointing out there was only 2 inches of snow.

Scotty spent the whole drive throwing up on the side of Stan's truck, and spent the first half of the morning sitting in the hot tub alledgedly getting molested by cougars,.  He met us at the lodge as I was getting ready.

We got to the bunny hill (I wanted to practice first) and I strapped on my last clamp of my snowboard.  Easy enough, I thought.  What wasn't easy was getting on the T-Bar.  I managed to get ahold of it, then fall off.  Of course, I didn't let go.  I was holding on, lying on my stomach, being dragged up the hill, snow getting in my pants.  I let go, and slid down the hill.
   
Face first.
Board behind me.

Arms somewhere out to the side.
I got up and managed to stand upright.  However, bunny hills weren't designed for snowboarding.
 
 "Put your weight on your front foot!" shouted Stan.
   
I tried.  I really did, but all my 109 pounds of pure body fat wouldn't make the board budge.  I held onto Stan and let him drag me down the hill. (Hey, snowboarding is easy!)

    We then took the chairlift to the top of the blue/green.  This one started off steep, then became more gentle.  Somehow I managed to get off the chairlift without harming myself or others.

    We started down the hill.  Or, should I say, THEY started down the hill, and I kind of slid down on my ass.  I had mastered the art of falling, but not quite the art of getting up.  The next two hours went something like this:

Stand up.
   
Go about 2 yards in some general direction (usually toward the trees).

Fall down.

Swear.

(Repeat 30 times)

After making it down, it was a melody of cursing, swearing, and throwing snowboard with trendy stickers at friends who tried to "teach" me.  I went in the lodge to remove snow from my pants and get a drink.

On Sunday, I woke up not really sure what had happened the day before.  It felt like Satan was playing the bongos inside my head and I had suffered more stab wounds than Charlie Sheen's latest girlfriend.  I somehow managed to make it out of bed and get dressed.  I swore I was not snowboarding, but Scott (who apparently fancies himself a doctor) had the solution.

 According to him, I should drink BEFORE I board.  That way, it won't hurt when I fall.
 
 Stan concurred.
Sometimes, I have no idea why these people are my friends.
At 11 am, we did a couple of shots in the lodge.  At 11:30, we took the chair to the top.  Again, I managed to get off without incident.
Now, Stan was a green beret with special forces.  Scott and Josh went to the Air Force Academy.  You would think that if our military trains it's soldiers to navigate through the desert, it could at least teach these ass-clowns how to read a map.  WRONG!  Somehow we took the WRONG chairlift up to the top and realized we could only go down blue-blacks (For those of you who are not familiar with skiing terminology, blue-blacks are not hills, but trees with a narrow path cut through them, angling at a sharp 80 degrees downward).  I was sure if I fell, the furry hood wouldn't protect me.

However, I had the magic potion, which we will call Tuaca, which was telling me, "Shawna, you're young, you're in shape, you have youth on your side...."

 "Screw it, let's go," I said.    

Somehow I managed to make it a good ten yards before falling and rolling headfirst down the mountain.  My head was pointing left, my arms pointed right, and my board pointed towards the sky.  From a physics point, I should have stopped.  However, I managed to defy all laws of physics and head straight towards the trees.
 I managed to stop myself, realizing I had lost an earring, my ear warmers, and my dignity.  I stood up, shaking the snow out of my pants. 
I cursed.
I kept going, only this time to hit a mogul  (for those of you who are not familiar with skiing, mogul is Nordic for "Mountain of Dirt Meant to Trip Up Stupid Tourist"). 
Again, I tumbled down the mountain, losing my other earring, my camelback, and my will to live.
 I cursed my friends, the snow, and God for making me so stupid.
"I hate you all!" I cried.  "I suck!  I quit.  I'm gonna just walk down!" I announced, to no one in particular, since the rest of my group was not in the trees with me.
 I had just one problem.  I was too cold to walk.  I had snow in my pants, my boots, and my coat.  My ass more than if Lance Bass had gotten abducted by group of soldiers the day "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" was repealed.
I swore to take up a new hobby, such as knitting.  Once I got down, of course.
Now Scott was very patient with me.  He offered to stay right next to me and help me down.  However, I was likely to hit any animate (or inanimate) object within a 30 foot radius at any given time.
 I somehow made it down.  I actually got decent, although I swore enough to put a sailor to shame. 
We ate lunch, drank more, and did a few runs.
It was the last run of the day which damn near sent me to my grave. 
By this time, I had snow in every orface of my body.  I was pretty sure that if I picked my nose, a small icicle would emerge.  Things were going OK until we were on a really flat part.  I looked up for a second and my snowboard decided to punish me for straining it all day.  (For those of you unfamiliar with skiing, "Snowboard" is Nordic for "Deathtrap."
Somehow I hit a patch of ice and went down. 
This wasn't a normal fall though.  This was more like the ground reaching up and smacking me simulatneously in the head and tailbone.
I think a whole 2 seconds went by before I started screaming (yes screaming) in pain.  Apparently, I had bruised my tailbone.  I don't have a lot of fat there, as it all chose to go to my upper half.  Of course, the ski patrol guys came over and helped me up.  I know I was really hurt, because I can't even recall if they were cute or not.  (Yeah, you KNOW I was injured).

Epilogue:
    Of course there was always the possibility of a concussion, so I had to be awaken at regular intervals throughout the night.  This wasn't hard because every time I turned, moved my arm, or even blinked, the pain radiated throughout my body.  That next morning, I swore I would never snowboard again.

However, in a random twist of irony, I ended up modeling for, get this, a skiing shoot in HerSports magazine the next winter.

We shot it on a sunny day in March.

On the bunny hill, naturally.


  *Yes, thank you, I am well aware that the pirates did not fight in the civil war, but I like to make the arrgggh sound whenever possible.

**The same state that produced Jessica Simpson

***I base this on the fact that I can run.  Because running, which involves putting one foot in front of another really fast, is the basis for all judgement of athleticism.