One of the foundational elements of many misunderstandings is cemented in place when one side of a relationship presumes the other is operating at a level of knowledge, vocabulary and general awareness that they do not, in fact, possess. No one likes to be taken advantage of, a concern that compels some consumers (most often male) to disguise their vulnerability by embellishing their resumes, beginning with the self-assessment of their skiing skills.
One of the problems with this sort of seemingly harmless puffery is that, if the salesperson takes this optimistic testimony at face value, he or she will automatically import a large bundle of presuppositions to the party. When a prospective ski buyer alleges advanced ability, salespeople are naturally going to presume there’s little need to revisit fundamentals. The rift between knowledge presumed and knowledge possessed has already begun to form, and only a return to basic training can heal it.
So, what sort of stuff do we, the ski salesmen and bootfitters who toil in America’s specialty ski shops, presume you know? Or looked at from a slightly different angle, what do we find ourselves explaining over and over to skiers who have been skiing for years, even decades, blissfully unaware of fundamentals so basic, no one has ever explained them?
In a properly sized shell, forefoot buckles can be finger-tight. Your forefoot does not respond well to being crushed. To help avoid over-tightening the second buckle on the lower shell, don’t over-tighten the first. I’m not advocating looseness; quite the opposite, I’m interested in the precision that comes from being close to the shell without resorting to excessive pressure.
If you struggle to get your boots on, heat them first. There’s more than one way to skin this cat, but a heated boot bag heats the liner and the shell, which is money.
Your toes will feel the end of a properly sized boot before you buckle it up. In fact, your toes touching the end of an unbuckled boot is one way to know it’s the right length shell.
There is a correct way to hold a ski pole. Look around you in any chairlift line. A hefty percentage didn’t get the memo. Please see attendant illustration for do’s and don’ts.
Wear a thin sock made for skiing. You might think every skier must know this, but remember what we said in the opening sentence about presumptions. Thicker socks are more hindrance than help, and wearing two pairs (or more) is an affront to all that is holy.
An insole that matches your arch doesn’t just feel better, it connects the proprioceptors in your arch with the rest of your balance system, unconsciously making you a better skier. The surreal beauty of this connectivity is that it operates independently of conscious interference.
Store your boots buckled. It’s not about buckling them tightly, merely under enough tension to keep their shape. Make it a habit and you will have fewer fights with your footwear.
While we’re on the subject of common misconceptions, you were not going 70mph, I don’t care what your watch or phone or goggles say. It’s flat-out impossible.
For a quick refresher in basics subjects like those I’ve breezed over here, I refer you, your friends and your skiing neighbors to The Returning Skier’s Handbook. You can find it under the Gear Guide on the home page of Realskiers.com.
And for a master class in miscommunication, I refer you to this immortal Monty Python sketch about a rogue Hungarian phrase book: https://youtu.be/C1Sw0PDgHU4. Even f you don’t find it particularly relevant to the discussion at hand, it’s well worth the 4:20 it requires to view it.
Before I close the book on this week’s Revelation, I want to apologize to my sound engineer, Oscar Wilde, who happens to be a Russian Blue feline, about the “skin the cat” reference. Sorry, Oscar, I said it in a moment of weakness.
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Road Tripping
Among the many dissatisfactions of this most unusual season is that travel beyond one’s local environs has been roundly discouraged. Don’t get me wrong: I’m grateful down to my socks that we’re allowed to ski locally, and my version of same is pretty sweet. Pardon the plug, but between Alpine Meadows, Squaw Valley and Mt. Rose I have a smorgasbord of savory choices.
But skiing close to home and skiing on the road are two different beasts. Nothing is the same, really, and therein lies a great deal of the road trip’s charms.
To shed light on my premise, allow me to pull back the veil on my favorite away game, an annual pilgrimage to Little Cottonwood Canyon. By the end of this brief travelogue you will probably hate me, so please fill your vessel of good will to the rim before proceeding.
It’s About Nothing
In the last week of January,2009 I was able to spend a few days skiing in Little Cottonwood Canyon, which is always cathartic for my ravaged soul. The conditions were all over the map, the mountains having experienced a long, hot spell followed by rain, grapple, wet snow and finally dry snow driven by winds that could flense an adult walrus in a few minutes. Couldn’t have been better.
I had been preparing for the trip for weeks, psychologically. Two back surgeries the previous winter had reduced my training regimen from semi-annual to non-existent. Scheduling conflicts such as work kept me from visiting the areas that abound at home near Lake Tahoe, so I had zero ski days on a body with more fat on it than a French duck. I had as much chance of surviving Snowbird and Alta as a rib roast in a piranha tank.
Fortunately, the Lord is merciful, anti-inflammatory drugs are powerful and there are techniques that allow one to block out pain. There are also many wonderful people in this world with which to ski, kind people who stand quietly by, pretending to be in awe of Nature, while my chest heaves so violently in its futile quest for oxygen that tiny lung particles break lose and make for the exits. One such person is Guru Dave Powers, a man whose passion for the sport hasn’t diminished after thousands of days of riding gravity down the infinitely variable slopes and crannies of Snowbird. The Goo knows this hill, and in knowing it well knows so much more.
The Making of a Skier, Chapter XII: Putting Words into the Mouth of God & Other Mid-Life Adventures
When I was cut adrift by Head on June 13, 2001, my once glowing prospects dimmed considerably. The date is etched in memory because I hosted a small soirée that evening in honor of my darling wife’s 50th birthday. One of the attendees was Paul Hochman, who would play several roles in my life as I wandered in the wilderness of unemployment during what were supposed to be my peak earning years.
During the gaping hole in my career that spanned 2001-2011, I would eventually spend every cent of my inheritance, plus most of what I’d saved from earlier bouts with gainful employment, just keeping the household afloat. Despite a river of red ink, my resume would suggest that I was not only commercially active during this epoch, but had my hand in all sorts of ventures.
