I love everything about it. I love the speed and the smell and the views. I love the memories I have of skiing with amazing people in Colorado. I love the prospect of skiing with new people.
Fortunately, thanks to a willing boyfriend and a killer hotel discount, I've been able to make it to the mountains two times in the past couple weeks.
This is where we were:
It was 50 degrees. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. If heaven exists, I'm convinced it looks like this.
Rob loves skiing too, though he's not quite the die hard I am. Apparently, the slopes in Detroit's suburbs (built on old trash dumps--seriously) just don't quite measure up to the Rockies.
On our first day out, he said, "Can't you see how this would be intimidating? Propelling down a mountain with two skinny planks attached to your feet?"
I guess I can see it. There are trees and icy parts and random moguls and careless beginners and reckless snowboarders, all potentially available to put a dent in your day.
So the second time around, he asked for a bit of instruction.
I affectionately call it the "Andy School of Pain."
It's a simple regimen of pre-skiing Bloody Marys (for liquid courage purposes), yelling at the student on the hill ("skis down!" and "beach ball arms...pole plant!" are the most common), leading them down unexpected tree runs (exposed rocks and icy terrain add to the challenge), and additional beers at lunch (more liquid courage).
In essence, it's a combination of tough love and good old fashioned public humiliation.
Here we are during the 'barley and hops' portion of the training. Pupil is still smiling:
In my limited experience, I've found the program to be quite effective.
I noted unquestionable improvement in Rob's form. Being the modest and gracious coach that I am, I take full credit for said improvement.
Should be interesting to see if he re-enrolls....
