I was living in Brooklyn at the time. I was 40-ish. I went home to Oregon for the Christmas holidays, and one of my siblings suggested we go skiing.
We were a skiing family when we were kids. In my teens, I skied nearly every weekend for several months of the year. I got pretty good at it and have fond memories of those days.
I remembered a doctor on TV saying something like: ‘Most injuries I see are older people trying to do things they did when they were young.’
But I had not skied or ridden a chairlift in 20 years. The idea of going again seemed really fun. Why hadn’t we thought of this before?
Toys in the attic
Most of my old ski stuff was still around my parents’ house. I found my slightly rusted skis in the attic. My old Nordica ski boots still fit. I dug up some musty ski gloves and a ski hat and some old goggles. I wasn’t going to look fashionable or current, but I had the necessary stuff to ski down the mountain.
I would be like the eccentric older guys I occasionally rode the chairlift with when I was a teenager. Guys with ancient-looking skis and out-of-date parkas and mittens. Skiing wasn’t a social activity for them. They didn’t mind looking out of place. They were just there for the skiing.
Runnin’ up that hill
My siblings and I drove up to Mt. Hood Meadows and bought our lift tickets. We rode up the chairlift, which all by itself was thrilling.
To actually ski felt weird at first. I did a couple of snow-plow turns, then a couple of real turns, and then I was more or less back to form.
The ski trails were mostly the same. I remembered them from high school. But other things had changed. The skis were shorter and oddly shaped. People wore helmets. There were snowboarders to contend with. And of course, everyone was younger and speedier than I remembered.
After a couple easy runs, I was feeling pretty confident. I decided to check out some of the more difficult trails. So I dragged my brother over to one of the black diamond runs.
Looking down into it, I was shocked by how steep and formidable it looked. I used to ski down this? And then some 12-year-old shot past me and went flying straight down the face of it.
I decided against following him, and instead we found a trail that went along the ridge. Here we encountered a “jump.”
This was not a jump like you see on TV, where you do two back flips and a triple twist. This was a little bump off to the side of the trail, where if you could build up enough speed, you might go two or three feet into the air and land six feet from where you started.
Still, I’d loved jumps when I was a kid. My body reacted to the sight of it so strongly, I immediately sped up and steered right at it.
Unfortunately, it turned out to have a badly shaped landing. You basically stopped dead when you hit. I nearly rolled forward out of my ski boots. It was so jarring, I felt queasy in my stomach.
And then I had to get out of the way, so someone else could have that same experience.
Slow your roll
So that’s how it went. I found that I got bored cruising the easy runs. But whenever I tried something hard, I was outmatched.
After lunch, I made the decision to stick to the intermediate runs. I would do like the other middle-aged people, carving wide, graceful turns, taking it easy, getting into that elder-skier groove.
But then my problem became speed. Each time I did a run, I went a little faster. Soon, I was going a little too fast. But I couldn’t resist that downhill racer sensation.
And then I fell. I don’t know how. I must have “caught an edge.” One moment, I was leaning into a turn, and the next, I was face-planted into the hard pack.
I came to my senses with a face full of snow and my skis, hat, and goggles scattered all around me.
My brother pulled up behind me. He was scared. He said my wipeout looked bad. I told him it felt bad. Though as far as I could tell, I wasn’t seriously injured.
I sat there for several minutes, making sure I was OK. Then I rose to my feet. Eventually, I put my skis back on. Very gingerly, we made our way down.
But by the time we reached the chairlift, I felt fine. I was OK. And there was still time for a couple more runs. I assured my brother I could continue. And we got back in line.
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Dazed and confused
Riding the chairlift was when I realized something wasn’t right. My brain seemed slow. I couldn’t seem to focus. I would look at things and not really see them. Everything felt weird and slowed down and unreal.
I must have a concussion, I thought. So I gave myself a simple concussion test. What was my phone number? I thought about it. I thought about it more. I had no idea.
What about my address? What city did I live in? I couldn’t seem to hold any clear thought in my head.
I explained to my brother what was happening. He was concerned. We did one last easy-does-it run. Then we headed home.
Dark night of the soul
That night, back at my parents’ house, I did the concussion protocols. I stayed awake for 12 hours, took aspirin, drank water, lay on the living room couch, perfectly still, with a dark towel over my eyes. I now had a very sore neck and back. I could barely move. I probably had whiplash.
I was OK in the end. But that was a scary day. As I lay silent and still on the couch, I remembered a doctor on TV saying something like: “Most injuries I see are older people trying to do things they did when they were young.”
That was definitely me. I guess I learned my lesson. But I’d also learned the lesson that — for me at least — the desire to do those things, even when I KNEW I SHOULDN’T DO THEM, could be overwhelming.
In other words, it was best for me to stay off the ski slopes entirely. And maybe take up some new activities, things I’d never done before. Like softball. Or surfing. Or golf. Activities where memories of youthful glory wouldn’t get me into trouble.
