The Burn

I downhill-skied for most of my life. I began when I was eleven, with wooden skies, cable bindings, "boots," and poles. Ski wear was jeans with longjohns underneath, a wool sweater and a jacket. A pair of goggles, gloves or mittens, and a hat rounded out the ensemble. Helmet? Puh-leeze. Skis changed - Metal! Fiberglass! Composite! Longer! Shorter! Parabolic! Clothes changed - Polypro! Ski Pants! Gore-tex! Goggles changed to the point that they sometimes actually didn't fog or ice up. And on I skied over the decades, on the ice, rocks and occasional powder of the northeast, on the deep, vast pillows of snow out west. And when it was time, I taught my three sons to downhill ski. Tiny little boots, and short little skis, and lots of clothing and helmets and goggles, all of it outgrown each year and handed down to a younger brother. And finally, as soon as he could formulate an argument, each of my sons said goodbye forever to skiing and began snowboarding.
So that is how it came to be that, three years ago, facing especially crummy conditions which left few of the difficult slopes open or worth skiing on, I decided to try snowboarding. I had taken one lesson several years before, and what I remembered most of that lesson was that one falls down a lot when learning to snowboard. True to my recollection, when I started out, I fell down. A lot. Hard. I fell on my back, my front, my knees, my arms, my head. It hurt. But I kept at it, watching others, trying to find the key that would let me move from pathetic novice to intermediate, a move that can happen literally in an instant in snowboarding. And it did. Something clicked, my body got it, and there I was.
Which is how, three years later, I am able to go with my sons and enjoy their company as we snowboard down whatever the mountain we're on can throw at us. And the burn comes in your thighs, after you have raced down a double black diamond without stopping, and your calves ache and your thighs are on fire and your breath is coming in gasps. It's great.