Showing posts with label skiing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label skiing. Show all posts

January 19, 2020

Winter Sports

It's not all about the bike. [Well, it's mostly about the bike.]

Our HR system started admonishing me “You should take a vacation!” [Challenge accepted.]

Off to Utah, home to the best snow on earth. And the home of good friends who welcome a stream of visitors, mostly during ski season. Great skiing is just a plane ticket away—it's easier than going to Tahoe.

They encouraged me to give their Peloton bike a try. I'm not really a spin class fan, but ... why not? The beginner workout got my heart pumping. And the advanced beginner session reminded me why I'm not a spin class fan. It's not cycling. It's a workout, for sure; but I'm happier on a rowing machine or a StairMaster. [Personal preference, that's all.] Spinning my legs at a cadence of 90+ rpm bears no semblance to cycling.

Case in point: some of my colleagues are HIIT fans, and they've tried enticing me to join them. “You'd kill us on the bike!” one said. It's not about the cadence, she insisted; the goal is distance, 3/4 of a mile in a minute. [Hahahahahahaha.] In other words, 45 mph. A pro cyclist might average 31 mph in a time trial.

But this isn't about the bike, it's about the skis. Alta had already collected more than 400 inches of snow this year, and mid-week I had the lift (and often the trail) to myself. On the last day, I shared a chair with a woman who exclaimed “Challenger [a black diamond run] is beautiful, they've groomed it!” Turned out she was 83 years old. “My husband passed away at 95,” she shared. “And he kept skiing till the end.”

I had been puzzled why one of my favorite runs was roped off, until it opened on the last day and I realized there's a slide path down the face of an adjacent peak.

One run stood out on this trip, one so special that it will live on in my memory: The snow was the consistency of flour. I've never experienced anything like it.

Looking forward to many happy returns. The best snow on earth.

March 19, 2019

Wintry Fun

My recent Heavenly trip whetted my appetite for more. I have some (very!) good friends in Utah, with a standing invitation to visit. Somehow I keep letting each winter slip away without planning a trip. Work interferes, and then there are social commitments—like season tickets to San Francisco Ballet.

March, already. Was it too late? [No!] It has been a good year for snow in Utah, too.

I continued warming up at Deer Valley. Although I picked up my skis (Völkl Aurora) a few years ago, they are still “new” to me. The first time I took them out, I worried that my friends had overestimated my skills in recommending these. After reading some reviews this year, it clicked: be more aggressive. Words from an instructor at a long-ago Snowbird Women's Ski Camp echoed in my head. Pep is a better skier than she thinks she is.

Biking, hiking, skiing—all involve lots of leg muscles. But not the same leg muscles. I took a day off, joining my friend on a short, snowy hike in the neighborhood—before spending the next three at my favorite place to ski: Alta.

So much snow! Fresh snow, just before I arrived in town. Picture-perfect skies. No crowds.

No snowboarders. [Sorry, not sorry.]

My confidence returning, I turned onto a black diamond slope after lunch. Pep is a better skier than she thinks she is. It was fine.

I picked up enough speed to make it, easily, uphill to the top of Razor Back. Several times. [I'm likin' these skis.]

I was also liking the lack of bumps. I mean, they're there if that's what you want. And I don't mind flirting with them, now and then. But they're not my thing.

I'm in it for the sheer joy of gliding down the hill.

And the views.

“If you've left anything behind,” my friends warned, “you'll have to come back for it.”

Deal!

March 1, 2019

Sierra Snow Day

Snow Day!

Growing up, that meant no school. Today it meant ... no work!

The trip to South Lake Tahoe went smoothly, though chain controls were in effect (that includes you, Mr. Bus Driver!). A few of us had front row seats for a little drama that played out between the (male) passenger and (female) driver of a sedan. He pulled out the chains. He read the instructions. He circled the car. He read the instructions some more. He walked out of view, presumably to observe the process on other vehicles. He reappeared and read the instructions again. The driver grew impatient. We considered taking up a collection to pay the $20 fee for one of the professionals to do the job, but we figured that would just add insult to injury.

I haven't skied in three years and planned to take it easy. [Where does the time go?] Of course, I went straight to the top of the mountain.

The trees were pretty, even if my skiing was not. Two years ago, I missed out on skiing at Squaw when I was humbled by the altitude. I had donated blood shortly before that trip; I would not make that mistake again.

It's another snowy year in the Sierras, bringing an official end to California's seven-year drought. Not that we should stop conserving ...

Heavenly straddles the state line, and I made a point of crossing into Nevada. The contrast was stark: dry and brown to the east, blue and white to the west.

Just when I was getting comfortable, we were advised to head down the mountain. The winds (already strong) were picking up, lifts were shutting down, and I couldn't afford to miss the gondola that would return me to the right base. [Sigh.]

Must. Ski. More. [Stay tuned.]

March 3, 2017

Ah, Altitude

It has been an spectacularly snowy winter in the Sierras. We arrived on a perfect high-altitude-blue sky day,

which became a perfect clear black night.

In a few days, skiers from around the world will compete in the World Cup races at Squaw Valley.

They will be well-prepared. Unlike yours truly, who committed a regrettable tactical error ten days ago by donating a unit of blood. I did consider postponing till after this trip, but then made the wrong choice.

You see, at altitude, you really need those red blood cells.

My heart rate was elevated (normal) and my body was busy shedding plasma (normal) to raise the concentration of those oxygen-carrying warriors. There just weren't enough of them.

I felt tired ... was it only 8:30 p.m.? Maybe I'd feel better in the morning.

I woke up groggy. Maybe I'd feel better after lunch.

Sliding around on a pair of skis while lightheaded would not count as a good idea. The sled dogs were fully booked.

The skies had clouded over as the next storm approached.

I boarded the tram to visit the mountain-top High Camp.

Lake Tahoe was just visible in the distance, through the rings that remain from the 1960 Winter Olympic games.

I wandered through the Olympic Museum. I would not have fared well on those skis, not at all.

Graceful skiers carved their tracks down the slope as I watched with wistful envy.

Next time.

February 9, 2016

Blue Sky Daze

Mother Nature smiled upon me and delivered a fresh foot of snow for my first day on the slopes.

But first, there was the matter of getting fitted with new boots. My old ones were, well ... old. Very old. With (at best) a handful of days per season, I don't wear them out. The master fitter at The Sport Loft joked that the new pair would need to last 20 years, as well.

There's nothing like that new-ski-boot feeling, crushing the bones in your foot and leaving you to wonder if you will, in fact, be able to pull the thing off.

No worries. The master knows his trade. K2's Spyre 110 was the boot for me. Low-volume edition.

New boots. New skis. First day on skis in four years.

What could possibly go wrong?

I gently glided downhill to the chairlift. [Whew.] Would I remember how to do this? [Yes.]

I've spent so much time with ski instructors that it seems they are always with me. If only my performance would measure up to their expert coaching! But no matter, I made it downhill. And by the end of the day, I had the confidence to tackle a black diamond trail. (It wasn't pretty, but I got down. Without tumbling.)

Alta is my favorite place to ski. [No snowboarders.] Rock 'n Roll. Challenger. Rollercoaster. Corkscrew. Staring down the steep and narrow Extrovert, my bravado faded fast. [Repeat after me: You're a better skier than you think you are.] Definitely outside my comfort zone, and that's important.

“What's the plan today,” I'd ask my friends in the morning. “Ride up. Ski down.” I haven't heard the familiar words in years. All is right with the world.

Uncharacteristically, we even spent a day skiing together (they're much more skilled than I). They led me on a grand tour of Deer Valley, from Jordanelle to Orion, and back—over and under bridges, past lodges and chalets, and ... wait for it ... no snowboarders!

Sunshine, stillness, snow-covered peaks. Yes, I do remember how, and why, to ski.

March 4, 2011

From the Sierra

Is it really a penny slot machine if you can't insert an actual penny? I had a penny, I was willing to take a chance with it. Not one of those blinking machines accepted coins.

The casino hotel may have been just across the street (and, the state line) from the ski resort, but the ambiance was a world away. Stateline, Nevada is the closest I have been to Las Vegas.

Neon! Secondhand smoke. Flashing lights! A windowless basement restaurant bedecked with fake trees, fake rocks, fake babbling brooks, and real flat panel screens running a continuous game of keno (cards on every table). A TV set in every bathroom! A vast dinner buffet with exactly one vegetable offering: "steamed" broccoli and cauliflower (drenched in cheese sauce).

One of the challenges of skiing at Heavenly is to stay focused on the task at hand (sliding rapidly downhill on a pair of narrow waxed boards) and not become transfixed by the intense blue depths of Lake Tahoe in the distance.

Another challenge includes deciphering a terrain-challenged trail map (look for the upward arrows that point some of the trails downhill). Or taking a chance that a named trail not shown on the map is precisely the one you have been trying to find. Wait, I get it! You gamble on the slopes as well.

After day one, it was easier to identify the muscles that were not sore. [Hamstrings. Everything else hurt.] Suited and booted, I enjoyed day two without injury, despite being grazed by a careless snowboarder. Two days at Heavenly may comprise my entire ski season. I miss Alta.

March 5, 2010

Easiest Route

Along the ridge at the top of Squaw Valley's Emigrant chair lift, I pointed a couple of snowboarders in the right direction.
Yes, that really is the easiest route - just drop down around the rock.
With wide eyes, they sought clarification.
The BIG ROCK, or the little rock?
Keep in mind that easiest is a relative term, not to be confused with easy.

I had the great good fortune to spend the past two days exploring Squaw, with fresh snow on the slopes. I can only imagine that my talented (past) ski instructors would cringe if they saw me now, as I dredged up their valuable lessons from the dim recesses of my mind. No abrupt turns in powder returned with the jolt that landed my backside on the hill.

Having committed myself at the top of Red Dog face before realizing that I meant to drop in at a lower point, I found myself in a steep field of moderately-sized moguls.
I don't belong here.
There is no escape route.
There is only one way, and that is ... down.
Coaching words from long ago echoed in my head. You can do this. Relax. It wasn't pretty, but I stayed upright and was more exhilarated than relieved when I reached the bottom.

Squaw is different from other areas where I have skied, in that there are few trail markings (or named trails). A tram, a gondola, and many chairlifts are scattered around the mountain, and those are rated according to the general difficulty of the terrain they serve. Hop off at the top and point your skis downhill. Even the extreme skiers agree, though, that some bits are not skiable.

After spending most of today working on technique, I was happy to avoid following the crowd down "the road" to the base, choosing instead to ski the short pitches. Approaching a wide, relatively flat field, I recognized that I needed to take it at speed (or risk slowing to a complete stop). At the time, I focused on being relaxed, lest I catch an edge and wipe out; I knew I was moving pretty fast. In fact, I attained a new personal land-speed-record-on-skis: 38.6 mph.

February 23, 2010

Slippery Slope

Somehow, for the past several winters, my calendar has filled early with other distractions that have conspired to keep me off the ski slopes. I forgot the simple joys of gliding down the side of a mountain. Could it be that I also forgot how to glide down the side of a mountain?

Left to my own devices, I would have retreated to the comfort of a modest beginner trail for my first run. With some apprehension, I climbed into a gondola with my expert skier friends and headed for the top of the mountain. Luckily, my skills were no rustier than my skis, and I managed to carve and skid my way down the trail. It was not a pretty sight as I sped along, trying to remember how to ski while not losing sight of our little group in unfamiliar terrain at Snowbasin. The clouds rolled in, the light went flat, I lost my nerve and was more than ready to call it a day. I stuck it out for one more run and the sun peeked through to reassure me.

I was relieved to spend the next two days on my own, honing my skills on familiar ground at Alta. Every ride on the chairlift offers fresh faces and conversation. Locals, visitors from other states, French Canadians. A guy in his seventies who skis every day. A guy who proudly earned his free season pass this year (prerequisite: 80th birthday).

My most entertaining companions, though, didn't even acknowledge me. They were busy talking about a mutual friend - cyclist, skier, triathlete - who sounded most intriguing. The conversation turned to his car, a Porsche Carrera GT, which he had wrecked (circumstances, unclear).
Why would you want such a car? It does 80 mph in first gear. You might as well have a Formula 1 car, what can you do with it?
I smiled. The temptation to comment was strong. I resisted. They were oblivious to my presence.
It's like marrying a supermodel and then not being able to [deleted].
In the annals of memorable chairlift conversations, this one rises to the top.

After my first run on day three, I was ready for a challenge. I knew just where to find one.
Beyond this gate is some of the most difficult terrain at Alta ...
Max speed on days two and three: 33 mph. Some day I will return to Snowbasin and ski the women's downhill course (2002 Olympics). At less than half speed, if I really push it.