It IS Genetic!

Remember my post about skiing a coupla days ago?

Well, as it turns out, my dear father has a story of his own...which, of course, proves that it's in the blood! It's not my fault!

IT'S HIS!

Hehe.

It's actually more impressive than mine, and he's given me permission to post it. Thanks, Dad!

Enjoy!

~~~

During my last winter living in Topsham, I went to my friend Lee's house and skiied down the little hill behind the house with him. I used Lee's big brother's skis and boots, and there was plenty of room at the bottom for me to coast to a stop or snowplow. So that was the extent of my experience, straight down Lee's hill, a kiddie toboggan hill really, and all the space and time in the world to stop at the bottom. I was satisfied. Lee wasn't, and he talked his expert skiier brother into taking us to Sugarloaf the next weekend. Hmm, a real ski hill, huh? Sure man, what could happen?
Well. We went. I don't think I mentioned that Lee was a lot better than me. He had nice skis and boots, the latest stuff. And to my mounting horror the week preceding, I had no skis. No boots. Mom helped me dig Patsy's old equipment out of a corner in the basement, and oh my, it was pretty awful. The boots were way too small. One of the bindings was gone, bootlaces substituted. We managed to find only one pole. Anyway, that's what I took with me to the famous Sugarloaf mountain. Lee's brother fed us beer on the trip there, and no pain was being felt. And, as God is my witness, I actually made it up to the top and skiied to the bottom of the bunny trail.
Funny how the human psyche is. Every fibre of my being was yelling Great, you did it, cool! Be satisfied. But I wasn't - I bet myself that I could ski that trail that Lee took, foolish, foolish me. Back up on the lift, not a lick of hesitation at the top, wham, away I go on the intermediate, and I suddenly found myself going like, I don't know, a significant fraction of warp speed, and hey, I don't know how to a) steer, or b) stop, a couple of very useful skills to bring to the skihill with you.
Well, yeah, I wiped out - the laces let go on the ski with no binding, I kicked that ski out from underneath me, and all I remember is the world going around and around very fast. Everything stopped spinning eventually, and I lay there kind of moaning, but somehow not hurting anywhere. That's when two guys arrived with some kind of contraption, one of them asking "holy shit, are you alright?" I tried to say "F off and leave me alone" but all I could manage was, "my ski broke". They decided to take me down the rest of the hill and to the lodge on the stretcher thingy, as a precaution I guess, and they carried me to a couch in the lodge. On the trip down the trail, I heard one of them say "man, I never saw anyone pinwheel like that and not break something." Pinwheel. Good word for it.
I've never gone skiing again, never wanted to. I brought one ski home with me (I don't think I even got a bruise), they couldn't find the other, and Patsy said "they were no good to use anyway." Yeah, Pat, I know...
I'm glad you're okay, and I'm glad I came through my pinwheel unscathed.

~~~

After I asked Dad if I could post it, he sent this:

You can use my story if you like, my blog is writhing in its throes, I think. One thing: I would absolutely love to go back there and watch myself wipe out. Just that, nothing else.

That tickled me enormously. A gem, is my Pa.