The first half of my life, I spent most of my winter weekends bombing ski slopes. “Bombing” is the verb my dad used to describe our Saturday and Sunday attacks. His word choice was spot-on because our family and two others – lots of us kids, would be out there non-stop, wreaking havoc, all day.
I don’t remember feeling like me and my friends were terrorizing our fellow skiers, but considering that except for maybe twenty minutes for lunch, we commandeered any ski slope we were on, up down up down up down, vadling, slaloming, stem christie-ing with abandon down chutes, through bowls, over bumps, moguls, hardpack, powder, sometimes holding hands five or six across, or partnered up, or racing practically on our knees with poles tucked under our arms, until we were exhausted, it’s likely we did make some sort of negative impression on a few of the more sedate folks -- like our parents, who generally ignored us until it was time to go home. Good times.
By five years old I was comfortable on just about every form of ski transport: rope tows, J-bars, T-bars, Poma lifts, chairlifts, gondolas. Never hesitated to get on any of this machinery. Never thought twice about danger or death. Especially loved the gravity-defying stuff because it was speedy and efficient. I lived in a world where swaying far above the earth, buried up to my ears in pointy hats, wool sweaters, bulky jackets, while wearing ten pounds of boots attached to narrow, wooden boards, was the norm, and the faster we got to the top, the sooner we could get to bombing.
It took until adulthood for me to realize that not everyone was comfortable traveling by air, in big boxes hanging from skinny cables. Last year in Australia with a bunch of marathoners, I traveled on a tourist tram that took us over a huge swath of the Daintree Rainforest. It was a little boring. The weather was temperate, so we were in shorts and T-shirts. No winds cutting through us, chilling our noses or causing our ride to sway back and forth. Instead of skiers cutting paths through moguls far below, we saw a tame canopy that resembled stalks of broccoli.
I kept peering over the railing, disappointed we couldn’t see any birds or four-legged critters cavorting in the density. When I mentioned feeling let down, another passenger said he was avoiding looking below because he was terrified of heights. This was a gent of astounding athletic ability who’d qualified for Boston multiple times. He was heroic in my eyes. I remember thinking about superman and kryptonite, and how we all have something.
Last week in New Mexico I spent a relatively short amount of time on the Sandia Peak Tramway. After waiting almost two hours for what was supposed to be an epic adventure, we spent a total of fifteen minutes in the air. Forty or so of us were crammed into this small, windowed space. I was stuck in the center and had to squeeze myself past my fellow travelers if I wanted to see anything other than armpits.
The views were pretty, but in my opinion not worth a two-hour wait. Some folks were nervous because we swayed a little as we approached the summit. My biggest concern was the line we’d be standing in to get back to the bottom. It looked even longer than the line we’d waited in to go to the top.
We were stuck at a restaurant at the peak for a while, because the tram had to temporarily shut down due to high winds. That was hard, toughing it out in a warm restaurant while courteous waiters brought me anything I wanted to eat, sipping chardonnay and admiring pretty views.
Finally got word that the tram was up and running again and found myself near the back of a ridiculously long line. A few minutes in, several people cut past, following the call of their tour guide far ahead, crazed masses elbowing past the old and the young, anxious to get back to flat ground. At the time, I was chatting with some folks nearby, who, like me, were not part of any tour group. We exchanged glances as these folks pushed us aside, pointing, as their excuse, to the guide calling them.
“True character reveals itself in adversity,” one of the men said.
“True that,” a curly-headed woman replied.
A few minutes later another traveler, dark-haired, rushed from the front to the curly-haired woman, I’ll call her Jane, near me at the back.
“Did you not see your messages? I’ve been trying to reach you. They’re letting us board soon. I told them I forgot my medicine and need to get back fast to take it.”
“You take medicine?” Jane said, then blinked and said something about not feeling comfortable with all this.
“Yes. I need my medicine back at the hotel, and you have to drive me. The rental's in your name.”
Jane averted her eyes, mumbled something to us about not even knowing the friend needed medicine, then said she felt awful about cutting. She muttered apologies to us as she pushed ahead.
I could see the two of them once they were at the front. At first, they seemed to be arguing. Then Jane stomped off and commenced pacing. The dark-haired one turned his back to her and began chatting with his neighbors.
Outside, the wind whistled and soon the next tram began to load. As we slowly moved forward, I couldn’t help noticing all the folks ahead of me waiting to board. There were lots of young folks cavorting around, reminding me of when I was a little kid loaded with energy, but there were lots of older folks too, some quite elderly and infirm.
Ahead, Jane’s companion in need of meds continued chatting and laughing with the folks around him. He was one of the first to board the waiting tram, while Jane stood at the back of that boarding pack, head bowed and arms crossed. I wondered if her friend did in fact need meds. I wondered if that's what Jane was thinking too. I wondered what I would do in her situation. I started thinking about character and adversity, about how even heroes have kryptonite, and thought about how when I was a kid life was so much easier to understand, and how right then and there I'd give anything to be five years old again, dressed up in layers, wearing those insanely heavy boots, and getting ready to bomb down a mountain or two.
No comments:
Post a Comment