When dreams and reality collide

Back here I promised that I'd someday tell the story of what happened on a ski trip to Lake Louise, in Alberta, Canada. I figured what better time to do it than today, as the resort prepares to host two women's World Cup downhills and a Super G this weekend.

Like other trip-down-memory-lane posts that I've done, I suppose you could say this one has a moral, of sorts. For now let's just file it under the heading of "be careful what you wish for."

For years, Lake Louise had been my dream ski destination, in large part because of its reputation for having the most beautiful lift-served scenery in North America. In those reader polls that ski magazines like to run every year, Lake Louise was rated number one for scenery almost without fail. One reader even went so far as to describe Lake Louise as "burst-into-tears beautiful." I liked that description.

As it would turn out, I did burst into tears during my trip there, but my outburst was triggered not by the rugged beauty of the Canadian Rockies, but rather by an overwhelming sense of fear, failure and disappointment. This is an embarrassing story for me to tell, so maybe it should be cross-referenced under "the ability to laugh at oneself is healthy."

Marge and I traveled to Banff, Alberta, in February 2005 with nearly her entire family — parents, sisters and their husbands, and their children — hard-core skiers all of them. Though I had been skiing for 21 years, I had never skied outside of New England. I was primed for my first taste of powder, above-treeline skiing and wide open spaces.

We stayed at the Banff Springs Hotel, where we would have our choice of three nearby ski areas: Sunshine Village, Lake Louise and Mt. Norquay. I was a little disappointed on that first ski day when almost everyone except me voted to go to Sunshine. I was so close to my dream, but it would have to wait another day.

On Day Two we headed to Louise. I was so excited as the shuttle bus neared the resort and the ski trails came into view. This was it, the place I had dreamed of, the very place where some of my skiing heroes — Picabo Street of the U.S., Pernilla Wiberg of Sweden and Katja Seizinger of Germany — had raced. It was almost as if I could feel their energy.

Unfortunately, the day got off to a bad start when a member of our party (who shall remain nameless to avoid embarrassment) had an accident involving a chairlift. Things didn't improve much as the morning wore on, for reasons that I needn't go into here. In any case, I was enjoying the scenery, which was every bit as beautiful as the magazines had promised.

After lunch Marge and I split off from the rest of the group. Lake Louise is pretty vast, and late in the afternoon we found ourselves somewhere that we couldn't locate on the trail map. We were, in a word, lost. We're both good skiers, so we weren't too worried, and we soon found a trail that looked promising. But what started out as a wide, groomed trail soon became wild and narrow and dropped us into a steep gladed area from which there was no escape.

Up until this point, because the Canadian Rockies had been experiencing a lean snow year, the conditions had been about what we would have expected back home — hard and icy. But deep among the trees, protected from the wind, it's a different story, as I found out the hard way.

Having found myself in a situation that I wasn't at all comfortable skiing in, I made the ill-fated decision to take my skis off and try walking a bit. I took my right ski off first, and my right leg immediately plunged through the top crust and into the snow, which was quite deep. I was now twisted around in an awkward position, and the ski I had just removed slid away from my reach. I felt helpless and afraid, and the panic set in much earlier than I'd like to admit.

Marge had had the good sense to stick it out with her skis on, and she was now pretty far ahead of me. I yelled down to her. She tried to coax me into getting up and putting my other ski back on, but every time I tried to stand up, I slid a little more toward a steep drop-off into a tight grouping of trees. I was in full-blown panic mode now, envisioning myself in a free fall, bouncing off trees like a pinball.

Marge patiently sidestepped her way back up to where I was, helped me get back into my ski, and then we continued on our way, slowly and sloppily picking our way down through the trees. By the time we made it out of the trees and onto a tamer part of the mountain, I was exhausted and my feet were in pain. We made our way over to a mid-mountain lodge that wasn't even open and sat on a picnic table to regroup. It was there that the tears started flowing, first a trickle, then a river. I was upset with myself for having been so afraid, upset with myself for not having had more confidence in myself, and most of all, upset that my dream had turned into a nightmare.

That's sometimes the problem with dreams — reality gets in the way.

On the last day of our ski week, Marge told me I could pick the area that we would go to. It would be just the two of us, because once again everyone else wanted to go back to Sunshine. She was certain, knowing how stubborn I can be at times, that I would pick Louise, if for no other reason than to try to salvage my dream. She was shocked when I whispered in her ear "Norquay," the area everyone else had derided as too small and too easy, the area that I had never even heard of before our trip.

Maybe another cross-referencing is in order here: "bigger is not necessarily better." Marge and I ended up having a glorious day at Norquay. It was sunny and mild there — while the others reported clouds and chill at Sunshine — and, perhaps because so many other skiers were chasing their big-time dreams, we had the mountain to ourselves:



It was the best ski day of my life.

Why the helmet debate? Just put a lid on it!

It's getting to be that time of year when I eagerly await the start of ski season, devouring each new issue of Ski magazine and fantasizing about making those first turns on the snow. Unfortunately for you non-skiers, that means I'll be writing more about skiing for the next five months or so. You see, skiing is my sports passion, so I can't help myself. But I hope you'll stay with me, because I like to think that many of the lessons learned on the mountain can apply to off-piste situations as well.

Anyway, the November issue of Ski arrived in our mailbox a few days ago, and I was happy to see an article about the use of helmets on the slopes and the debate over whether they should be mandatory. As the author pointed out, this is an issue that comes to the fore every so often, usually as a result of a high-profile skiing death, such as that last year of actress Natasha Richardson. Richardson, who was not wearing a helmet, died the day after striking her head in what seemed to be a mild fall at Mont Tremblant Ski Resort in Quebec, Canada.

The article went on to assert that the debate over mandating helmets has become the skiing equivalent of the debate over seat-belt laws. I think all skiers should wear helmets, as a matter of common sense, but rather than wade into the debate over personal choice versus safety here, I'm going to simply offer my own cautionary tale, for whatever it's worth.

I have been happily wearing a ski helmet for 13 seasons now. It did not take a law or resort rule for me to realize the value of a helmet, it took a concussion.

In what was one of the most bizarre days of my life, I found myself getting a ski patrol-assisted toboggan ride down Stratton Mountain, Vermont. I will never forget the date — April 11, 1995 — even though I am unable to recall the events that made it so memorable.

I was skiing at Stratton on a Tuesday just days before the mountain was scheduled to close for the season and although it was a beautiful day and the snow still abundant, there were very few skiers. I was skiing alone — a classic no-no, but it was either that or not ski at all, and I've never been one to shy away from doing things because I lack a companion.

I'm a very good skier, and I like to ski fast, but always in control. On that day, because I had the trails practically to myself, I was perhaps opening up the throttle a little more than usual. In any case, I was having a great time, enjoying sport, nature and life to its fullest.

The last thing I remembered was riding up on a chairlift, thinking about which trail I was going to take next. The next thing I remembered was looking up into the concerned faces of several men who were clad in bright red parkas. One of them was asking me if I knew which month it was. He put an emphasis on the word that made it all too clear that I had just flunked the quiz about which day it was. I was confused and terrified.

I then zoned out for a few minutes more, and my next memory was of looking up at the bright blue sky as I lay tucked into a toboggan, some of those same men I had seen earlier steering it gingerly down the mountain while occasionally asking me how I was doing.

If there was any fortune to be found in my misfortune, it was that the medical services available at Stratton are top-notch. It is one of the few ski areas that has a fully equipped medical clinic at its base. Within minutes of being brought down the mountain and into the Carlos Otis Clinic, I was being examined by a doctor and a nurse.

I was diagnosed with a mild concussion, and was kept at the clinic for three hours for observation. One of the ski patrollers involved stopped by later to check on my condition. He told me that he had found me lying face-down, my equipment scattered about. He said I was able to tell patrollers my name, and nothing more.

They had found no witnesses to my accident, but surmised that I had struck no object, just the snow. The back of my head was sore and tender, and my face, where I had eventually come to rest, was scraped from the abrasive spring snow.

I will never forget the professionalism and genuine concern of the ski patrol and clinic staff.

By the start of the next season, I had bought a helmet and hit the slopes confident that my strange day would not be repeated. I was a bit self-conscious at first, because back then helmets were still a rarity among adult skiers, though common among children. My helmet was a great conversation piece that season, and every time I got on a chairlift or stepped into the gondola, someone would invariably ask me why I wore it. I would tell them my story, and almost without fail they would listen raptly, shake their heads and say that maybe they ought to look into buying one, too. No skier ever wants to find himself or herself in a horizontal position, looking up at this:



I'd like to think that my story persuaded at least a few more adults to wear ski helmets. Clearly, there has been a shift in thinking over the past decade. According to the Ski magazine article, nearly half of all adult skiers and riders in the U.S. wore helmets last season.

But wearing a helmet does not make one immune to serious injury or death. As the article noted, while the use of helmets has increased about 5 percent each year over the last 10 years, the number of skiing fatalities — about 40 a year in the U.S. — has remained unchanged.

I have always recognized that a helmet will not help me much should I slam into a tree at 30 or 40 mph. But it most likely will help prevent a recurrence of the type of confusion and fear that I experienced on that bizarre day — April 11, 1995 — at Stratton Mountain, Vermont.

Besides, helmets are a lot warmer than hats.

33 years later, Klammer's run still exciting

Once again I'm in danger of angering people who dislike winter by writing about my favorite sport — even before the all the leaves have fallen — but I have a good reason for my early enthusiasm about skiing. You see, Marge and I just booked a ski vacation, so we're psyched about the upcoming winter.

I can almost hear the roar of the snow guns at night, and can see the rime in the trees sparkling in the morning sunlight. I can almost feel the wind in my face as I swoop down the mountain, leaving my cares far behind. For me, winter brings clarity to life like no other season. It is a time when everything seems in sharp focus, a time when every breath offers a visible affirmation of life.

So today I'm posting one of the most electrifying ski runs of all time, Austrian Franz Klammer's gold medal-winning performance in the 1976 Olympic downhill in Innsbruck, Austria. I know people who don't even ski who remember Klammer's run.

Compared with what today's powerfully built racers can do on modern equipment, Klammer's 1 minute and 45 second journey looks almost primitive. Yet it remains a let-it-all-hang-out pursuit of victory for the ages that begs a question:

How much are you willing to risk to achieve your goals?

It's time to think about skiing!

With that title, I'd better start boarding up the windows in our house to protect ourselves against the mob of brick-hurling summer-lovers who regard any mention of winter before Thanksgiving as a form of seasonal blasphemy.

Sorry, but now that there's a chill in the evening air in New England, I can't help myself. As you can see, I can get pretty excited about skiing. That's me in 2005 upon reaching one of my dream ski destinations: Lake Louise, in Alberta, Canada. Like so many things we might dream about and plan extensively for, reality didn't quite measure up to my expectations, but I'll save that story for another post.

Anyway, the point I was going to make is that if you're planning to go skiing this winter, NOW is the time to start preparing your body for it. There's an old saying in the sport: You have to get in shape to ski, you can't ski yourself into shape. I've always been a firm believer in that.

Skiing is a dynamic sport that uses a lot of muscles throughout the body. Many people make the mistake of regarding it as primarily a leg sport, but think about the effort it takes to pole and skate your way along a flat surface to get to the chairlift, before you even start to ski. If you haven't been preparing your entire body, you're going to feel that in your shoulders, arms and back the next day.

And not to be grim, but I think preparation for skiing demands to be taken a little more seriously than, say, golf or bowling. People do sometimes die skiing. Fortunately, it doesn't happen often, despite what my non-skiing friends seem to think, but with its speed and obstacles and weather-related challenges, it is a higher-risk sport than most in which the weekend athlete typically participates.

"You have to get in shape to ski, you can't ski yourself into shape."

I like to keep risk in perspective, and I've always considered driving to work on I-95 a far riskier activity than skiing. In the 25 years that I've been skiing, I've suffered only three injuries that required medical attention — a sprained thumb, a broken rib and a concussion (in my pre-helmet days). I think that's a pretty good record considering the many hundreds of times I've skied, including participation in recreational races and race leagues. I've always made a pre-season ski-specific workout a priority, and I think it has served me well.

Getting in shape beforehand — for any sport, really – will help you avoid injury.

Ski magazine has some excellent suggestions to help you get ready for the slopes this winter, which you can find here. In case you're tempted to not even touch that link because you think it's going to be another one of those grueling regimens involving lunges, plyometric jumps and wall-sits, think again. No, this is FUN stuff that you can do outdoors, while it's still warm and sunny, such as trail running and mountain biking.

I've always been partial to mountain biking to help me prepare for the skiing season, and for the sheer joy of it even when I'm not thinking about skiing. Mountain biking may be done on two in-line wheels instead of two parallel boards, but the similarities with skiing in movement, balance and mindset are amazing.

So there's no reason for you occasional skiers to be mad at me for mentioning winter so early (the hard-core skiers will completely understand). Get out there and play this fall, whether on a mountain bike or in your sneakers.

Trust me — you'll have fun, and without even knowing it, your body and mind will be ready when those first flakes start to fall.

The agony of ... victory?

A couple of weeks ago while writing about the deadlift, I made the point that strength can help us avoid situations we'd prefer not to be in. Perhaps you thought I meant escaping the occasional parking-garage mugger, but I really had dicey sports moments in mind when I wrote that.

And as this video shows, strength can also help us emerge uninjured from situations we didn't want to be in, but ended up in anyway. (I apologize that the sound and graphics are in Japanese, but it was the best of the video that I could find.)

For those of you who don't follow skiing, this is Hermann Maier of Austria having an epic crash in the 1998 Olympic downhill in Nagano, Japan. Not only did "The Hermannator," as he was called, get up and brush himself off, but he came back a few days later and won Gold medals in the giant slalom and super giant slalom.



And one other thing: the Austrians take their skiing very, very seriously, and the national team had once told a young Maier that there wasn't a future for him on the team because he wasn't strong enough. So what did he do to build that strength that would help make him almost unbeatable in later years? He went to work as a bricklayer.

Just goes to show you, you don't need a fancy gym to get strong.

I've got some swampland to sell you

Have you ever been curious about the sport of mountain biking, but were afraid to try it because you thought it would be like this? Mountain biking doesn't have to be a testosterone-laden sport, though I wouldn't mount that pink basket on the front of your bike just yet.

Rhode Island has a lot of wonderful physical features, but mountains are not among them, so fear not — the state has some excellent places to use your off-road training wheels.

One of my favorite easy rides is the Great Swamp Management Area, in South Kingstown. You won't find any technical riding here, but you will find an abundance of beauty and wildlife. A ride at the Great Swamp is like being part of a living postcard.

My partner, Marge, and I headed to the swamp on Sunday to burn off some of those Fourth of July cookout calories and to take some photos.


The swamp features mostly double-track dirt and gravel roads with just a few tiny pitches. Some sandy stretches provide the toughest challenge (a tip for beginners: switch to a really low gear, keep the front wheel absolutely straight, and pedal like mad through the sand).

There aren't a lot of roads or trails, so it's not the kind of place where you need to worry about getting lost. There are basically two routes: one spur will take you to Worden Pond, the largest freshwater pond in Rhode Island, and the other circles around the swamp. I typically can ride the whole thing, at a moderate pace, in about an hour.

I took up mountain biking nine years ago to help alleviate the withdrawal symptoms when ski season ended, and it turned out to be the perfect compliment to skiing. Not only does it offer some of the same exhilaration when riding downhill, but it also uses many of the same muscles and movements, helps develop balance, and helps train your mind and eyes to "pick a line" (tip #2 for beginners: try to look where you WANT to go, not where you DON'T want to go, because you WILL go wherever it is you're looking).

I've never been too keen on road biking, mainly because I have a deep-seated fear of that wild beast known as the Rhode Island Driver. But I've also found it a little boring, like being on auto pilot.

Sure, it's a great cardiovascular workout, but not much else when you're riding mostly flat terrain (note to Lycra-clad cyclists: please don't start hurling your water bottles at me — I obviously know nothing about logging the kind of miles that you do).

With mountain biking, I'm using all of my body, and it's impossible to get lulled into that steady-state rhythm. It's engaging, fun and physical.

If you're still not convinced that two wheels are the way to see the Great Swamp, it's also a nice place for a walk. Just remember to bring some insect repellent, or you might find yourself going for a run instead.

Fun and games on a slippery slope

One of the passions in my adult life has been skiing. I got a somewhat late start to the sport, at age 25, but I more than made up for that soon after by managing to get in 40 to 50 days on the slopes each season. I didn't want to be just an OK skier — I wanted to be a really good, even expert, skier.

I trace my breakthrough in that quest to a chance meeting in 1994 with a ski instructor at Stratton Mountain, Vermont. The instructor, whose name was Jep, happened to be skiing on his day off when we ended up sharing a chairlift ride. We were both alone, so he asked if I wanted to take a run with him. I agreed. He seemed pleasantly surprised at my abilities after that first run, and we hopped back onto the chairlift together, eagerly chatting on the way back up about books, life, and skiing.

As we slid off at the top again, Jep asked me if I wanted to "play a game" on our next run. "Sure," I said blindly, figuring that as an instructor, he knew what he was doing. He then asked me to follow him down the mountain as closely as I could, keeping the tips of my skis practically on the tails of his. He said if we collided, we'd just get back up and have a laugh. Oh sure, I thought, I'll laugh — so long as the nerves controlling laughter haven't been severed in a bone-shattering crash. I briefly considered whether Jep was insane, then dropped in behind him as he headed down a black-diamond trail.

I'm the sort whose competitive nature can get her in trouble, so I managed to stick right with Jep the whole way down as he carved turns at what seemed like warp speed, first closer to the trail's edge than I usually cared to go, then around lift stanchions and over a couple of rolls before we finally came to a stop, both of us breathless and laughing, our spines intact. This went on for a few more runs, until it was time for me to head home.

I was genuinely surprised that I could ski that well, but it was only later that I truly realized why that day seemed so magical: Jep had gotten me back in touch with the joy of skiing. I had become so focused on my goal that I had lost touch with the means of attaining it. Instead of playfully exploring the mountain and trying new things, I had become beholden to a set of instructions, positions, and expectations. My skiing had lost its spontaneity.

I never saw Jep again, but my skiing improved immensely after our afternoon together — I could simply ski, instead of thinking about skiing.

His little game came to mind as I contemplated why some people seem so averse to regular exercise. Perhaps we've made it too much of a chore (even the phrase "working out" has negative connotations). The movements we spontaneously and joyfully made as children — skipping down the street, tumbling down a hill, running as we played hide-and-seek — have been replaced by a rigid set of rules about what we're supposed to do and when we're supposed to do it, how we're supposed to look, how we're supposed to act.

I'd like to think that becoming fit, or at least fitter, doesn't have to be work. If you don't like treadmills or elliptical machines, take a brisk walk or jog in the woods. If you don't like resistance machines, drop down into the grass for some push-ups or find a suitable tree branch on which to do some chin-ups. Perform lunges while you mow the lawn and let your neighbors laugh — it'll be good for them, too.

If you're the indoor type, do some jumping jacks while watching Wheel of Fortune, dance along with Dancing with the Stars, or try some aerobic vacuuming while plugged into your favorite tunes.

If you're already a gym rat, then mix it up: if you've been doing three sets of 12 reps for as long as you can remember, try two sets of 8 reps with a heavier weight. Add intervals to your aerobic training. Take a yoga class.

My point is, there's no set way to do any of this: just keep moving, and have some fun along the way.

As I write this, I can still remember how the wind in my face felt on that beautiful afternoon at Stratton, when Jep taught me all over again what it means to ski. It felt like freedom.