It had been 15 years since I last dared to get on a chair lift and slide down the mountain.
Over the past decade and a half I avoided skiing. Too much fear, too much trauma had kept me away from the sport that my father loves so much.
It was with him that I had the fall that left me shaken on the ground, unable to move, as my desire to ski again seemed to disappear forever.
Fast forward to 2018. I am twice as old now. A new desire was born and I challenged myself to learn, and love snowboarding.
I had faith I would succeed. I bought all my equipment and lift passes way in advance. A good friend lent me his board and so I headed to the mountain for my first snowboarding ride.
Of course I started on the easiest terrain. A lift that wasn’t longer than 200 yards.
I had seen some Youtube videos and knew the most basic of the basic stuff. It all proved to be harder than expected.
I was on my ass half of the time, and another chunk was spent on my face.
I felt disappointed with my lack of skill, I thought it would be much easier. I thought I would be good.
That day I went on two runs with my family. My father, sister and her fiancé had come with me.
The first run may have been 20 minutes long, I felt like I could barely move. My sister’s fiancé taught me a couple of things, I just couldn’t do what he wanted me to.
After hurting my tailbone and my head I chose to take a break. The guys went for a few more runs while I had a beer and listened to some blue grass.
During that time I got to admire the beauty of the mountain. I noticed the breathing of the sport. In as the winter comes, out with the summer. In as people are breathed in the morning and out the go by night. I felt the connection with the experience, snowboard yoga if you will.
I left with mixed feelings. Disappointed in one hand, fulfilled on another.
Despite all my falls, I was back on the track, and this time I plan on staying.
