From the Ski for Light Bulletin - Spring 2011
by Andrea Goddard
Clearly, this was not going to be as I'd envisioned. The first clue I had hit my boots and face simultaneously at about 6:45 a.m. that Saturday. Of course, no civilized person should have been outside at that hour, but I thought my dog guide would appreciate a bathroom break before the start of our big day. Race day. More accurately, my big day would be unfolding as he lay around doing nothing in our room. Granted, I knew it had started snowing the evening before, but this --- this was inches deep (judging by the distance my boots and support cane sank upon contact), and was getting deeper by the minute! As my hair and face grew wet with the falling snow, a rueful sigh escaped me, along with a little half-smile. So it was going to snow on us sit-skiers, huh? Well! My guide, Ted, and I had spent the entire week working toward this day, and I knew a little snow wasn't about to stop us now. As I geared up for the last time that week, I felt a sad-sweet exhilaration. Exchanging my every-day winter boots for my snow boots (good for keeping feet warm while not moving them much in a sit-ski), I felt sad that I wouldn't get to do this again at least for another whole year, and simultaneously excited about and proud of our achievements that week: Ted's easy, competent coaching, and my own determination and improved skiing technique. If it was still snowing at the start of the race, I knew everything I'd learned and honed in the last handful of days would be put to the test; however, after skiing Wednesday in 20 below (it may have been 28 below at one point) with a wind-chill that made it feel like 36 below, I knew Ted and I were more than ready to handle this!
Though it was called "race and rally" day, and I was competing against only my best estimate of my own time on the 5 K trail, it felt like every bit as much of a race as I'd ever done. As a recording of many national anthems heralded the commencement of the race, I sat, jittery with excitement, waiting to get closer to my start-time to get in my ski. Finally, the first of the MIP's (mobility impaired participants) took off, and I tensed with anticipation, and brought my poles into position. This was it! This was --- "119!" the announcer called out, and the rest of any introduction they may have given us was lost as I reached out, leaned forward, and began pushing snow with my poles... to find myself instantly skiing WITH NO TRACK! To add insult to injury, the wind had started up earlier that day, and it was near blizzard conditions! Blowing snow wet my knit cap and my face as Ted helped me do the work of navigating my sit-ski. When he finally said, "We've got tracks", I smiled. As we left the noise of the crowd further and further behind us, I thought: This is the life, man. Just me, my guide, his voice and mine trading directions and commentary, the chilling wind, and the sound of our skis pushing the softest, driest powder I'd ever been in. I could do this forever. No, I couldn't! My smile turned quickly to gritted teeth as the initial slight descent of the trail became a vicious "not downhill", the phrase Ted had used throughout the week once we agreed that, to a sit-skier with cerebral palsy, "uphill" is just plain a dirty word, and never to be used on the trail! At least this stretch of the 5 K presented itself at the beginning, when my stamina was up. It was about 20 degrees, with a wind-chill of 8. The snow showed no signs of abating, my whole body was singing with the challenge, the exertion, and the excitement of feeling at the top of my game. As we skied gentle and steeper downhills, leveled out, greeted other teams when they passed, I realized that I felt physically and otherwise better than I had in years; alive and attuned to the present moment, for there was nowhere else I'd rather have been, nothing else I'd rather have been doing, and no one else I'd rather have been skiing with. At one point about mid-way through the course, Ted and I stopped for one of my many breaks. Sit-skiing is rather exhausting, so I didn't mind a breather. I rested my poles in my lap, took a drink of icy water, and let out a contented sigh. We shared a companionable silence, then marveled together about how wonderfully, exquisitely quiet it was. The fresh, falling snow gave the spot a sacred feeling, and I just sat, drinking it all in, savoring this moment for the gift it was. I wished briefly that I could have visually enjoyed our surroundings, too, but the thought passed easily into the clear, deep stillness that held us spell-bound. With a smile in his voice, Ted told me that my scarf was frozen over. As I reached up to admire the near-blizzard's handiwork, Ted stepped to the side of the trail. He picked something up, and brought it to me. It was a pine cone that felt almost like a little, blooming flower. I thanked him, setting it in my lap as we got ready to start back. What a great memento it would make.
As we approached the last leg of the trail, one of the other guides (David) joined us for a while. I don't remember just when it happened, but I must have hit a bumpy patch of snow or been trying to slow my ski on one of the downhills, - one second I was fine, the next, feeling my ski tipping all too quickly to the right. Of course, I was powerless to stop it at that point and, for the second time that week, I landed hard in the waiting, soft snowdrift. Anyone within earshot could've heard what I said then: a very passionate four-letter word, the first letter of which is found near the beginning of the alphabet, and the rest of which I'll leave to your imagination! Poor David had just discovered what Ted had come to know early on that week: if one were strongly opposed to hearing occasional profanity, they shouldn't ski with me!
After I was comfortably sitting on two skis again, we began the home stretch. As we worked our way forward on a "not downhill" nearing the end of the course, the cheering of the distant crowd caught my attention. "I can do this," I kept telling myself, even though the hardest part of that whole trail was still to come. "Just breathe slow and easy, and keep doing what you've been doing all week." The monologue in my head continued as the last little bit of going got harder and harder; the hill so steep that I was practically reclining in my sit-ski, my effort focused on pacing myself so I could have the strong finish I wanted. Finally, with one last stroke of the poles and guidance from Ted, we crossed the finish line. The cheering was loud in my ears as we received our medals, and as I got out of my ski. "Great job!" Ted said. "You rocked!" I responded. I was so giddy that I found myself giggling helplessly at intermittent intervals, and grinning like an idiot for the next couple hours.
That afternoon, packing for the trip home (which is a story in its own right), I took a minute to savor the feel of the medal I'd received before folding it carefully in a bundle of clothes. It meant as much to me as any award I could recall winning. We'd done some amazing teamwork, and the snowflake-shaped medal would be a tangible reminder not only of race-day weather conditions, but that feeling this good about something I'd worked hard for was possible.
After the awards ceremony, I wanted to thank my guide somehow for making it such an enjoyable, productive, spirited week. The only thing I could think to say was awkwardly sappy, and solidly true: "It's been years since I've met anyone who knew how to bring the best out of me, and you did." As we made our way from the dining hall to the building that housed important things (like our rooms and the bar), my musings were punctuated by the squeaky crunch of boots in the snow, and the distant sounds of talking and laughter. "I can't wait for next year," I thought. "After all, if I can ski in this, I can ski in anything!"