Part 27 (1/2)
”This is the one I'd like to start you on.”
As I scan to the left, trying to locate Mike, his white teeth, and the ski sled he wants to start me on, I feel increasingly light-headed. I should've stayed in the lodge with my People magazine and my word searches. I should've gone home with my mother and taken a nap. But when I find him, he's not standing next to any of the ski sleds. He's in front of a snow-board. My panic sits down and quiets itself, but it remains skeptical and on alert and isn't one bit embarra.s.sed or apologetic for the false alarm.
From what little I know about s...o...b..ards, this one looks mostly normal. A metal hand railing is screwed into the board in front of the boot bindings, extending up to about waist height, reminding me of a grab bar. But otherwise, it looks like a regular s...o...b..ard.
”What do you think?” he asks.
”It's not horrible. But I don't understand why you think I'm a s...o...b..arder.”
”You can't keep track of your left leg, right? So let's essentially get rid of it. We'll lock it in place next to your right leg on the board, and there you go, you don't have to drag it or lift it or steer it anywhere.”
That does sound appealing.
”But how would I turn?”
”Ah, this is also why you're a s...o...b..arder. Skiing is about s.h.i.+fting balance left to right, but s...o...b..arding is s.h.i.+fting your balance back and forth.”
He demonstrates, pus.h.i.+ng his hips forward and then sticking his bottom out, bending his knees in both positions.
”Here, give me your hands, give it a try.”
He faces me, grabs my hands, and holds my arms out in front of me. I try to copy what he did, but even without a mirror in front of me to see myself, I can tell that whatever I'm doing looks more like Martin Short imitating something s.e.xual than like someone s...o...b..arding.
”Sort of,” he says, trying not to laugh. ”Imagine you're squatting over a public toilet seat that you don't want to sit on. That's back. Then imagine you're a guy peeing for distance in the woods. That's front. Try it again.”
Still holding on to his hands, I'm about to rock forward, but I freeze up, feeling funny about pretending to pee on Mike.
”Sorry, my description's a little graphic, but it works. Forward and up on your toes, back and sitting on your heels.”
I give it another go. I send my right hip forward and then back, forward and then back. And, unlike when I move my right leg or my right hand, when I move my right hip, my left hip goes with it. Always. If this is how to steer a s...o...b..ard, then it seems as though I could do it.
”But what about stopping? How would I control my speed?”
”This rider bar here is for your balance, like how you're holding on to my hands now. But to begin with, it's also for one of us instructors to hold on to. If we go up today, I'll s...o...b..ard facing you, and I'll control how fast you go. When you've got your balance down, we'll transition you to one of these.”
He shows me another s...o...b..ard. This one doesn't have a grab bar, and at first I don't notice anything special about it. Then Mike loops a black cord through a metal loop attached to one end of the board.
”Instead of me pus.h.i.+ng against you from the front, I'll hold on to this tether from behind you to help regulate your speed.”
I imagine a dog on a leash.
”And then, from there, you'll do it on your own.”
He whips the tether out of the loop as if to say Tada! A normal s...o...b..ard!
”But how would I keep from cras.h.i.+ng into other people on the trail? If I'm concentrating on anything, I can't see things on my left.”
He smiles, recognizing that he's got me imagining myself on the mountain.
”That's my job until you can do it on your own. And when you try it without the rider bar, you can transition to using an outrigger if you want,” he says, now holding up a ski pole with a small ski attached to the bottom. ”This would give you an additional point of contact with the ground, like your cane does, offering you some extra stability.”
”I don't know,” I say.
I search around for another but, but I can't find any.
”Come on, let's give it a try. It's a beautiful day, and I'd love to get out there,” he says.
”You said that my mother filled out most of my paperwork?” I say, turning over my last stone of possible resistance.
”Ah, yes. There are a couple of standard questions we always ask that only you can answer.”
”Okay.”
”What are your short-term winter sport goals?”
I think. As of a few minutes ago, my only goal for today was to go for a walk.
”Um, to s...o...b..ard down the hill without killing myself or anyone else.”
”Great. We can accomplish that. And how about long-term goals?”
”I guess to s...o...b..ard without needing any help. And eventually, I want to ski again.”
”Perfect. Now how about life goals? What are your short-term life goals?”
I don't quite see how this information would in any way affect my ability to s...o...b..ard, but I have a ready answer, so I offer it to him.
”To go back to work.”
”What do you do?”
”I was the vice president of human resources for a strategy consulting firm in Boston.”
”Wow. Sounds impressive. And what are your long-term goals?”
Before the accident, I'd been hoping to be promoted to president of human resources in the next two years. Bob and I were saving to buy a bigger house in Welmont with at least five bedrooms. We planned to hire a live-in nanny. But now, since the accident, those goals seem a little irrelevant, if not ridiculous.
”To get my life back.”
”Alright, Sarah, I'm so glad you came in. You ready to go s...o...b..arding with me?”
Spent from all the unnecessary distress, my panic is now snuggled in a soft blanket and sleeping peacefully. Pre-accident me isn't jumping up and down about this idea, but she isn't arguing against it either. And Bob isn't here to weigh in. So it's up to me.
”Okay, let's do it.”
MIKE PULLS ME BY THE rider bar onto the Magic Carpet lift, and we move, both standing on our s...o...b..ards, up the slight but steady incline of Rabbit Lane. The Magic Carpet is like a conveyor belt, and the people on it-mostly young children, a few parents, a couple of instructors, Mike and me-remind me of pieces of luggage at the airport or groceries at the supermarket riding along a ribbon of black rubber, waiting to be scanned.