I’m exhausted. Skiing was a blast, enough to make me want to make another trip in a few weeks. I’m not rich, though, so we’ll see.
The record is now 2-1, in my favor. After suffering with the stigma of defeat and the hands of my best friend for two years, the record has been righted, and decisively so. There was no way he could catch me; even his meager excuses fell flat once he witness my blistering speed and poise rocketing down the almightly Tyro (name of the slope).
In all honesty, though, if there was one thing going through my head constantly as I rounded the last bend doing at least 50 mph, it was “I am gonna die.” My outer ski, the one you push on to turn when you’re in a crouching position, was vibrating wildly, and I knew it would catch a snowbank or something and I would perform an impromptu aerial demostration. God protects us even in our adrenaline-fueled stupidity, though, and both Aaron and I came out unscathed from our two races down the Tyro. I think the second time (where I barreled down the slope with nary a hint of braking) was the fastest I had ever been on skis before. It’s a nice sport in the sense that it’s multifaceted; in other words, there’s more than one ideal to strive for. If you don’t feel like speeding down the hill, you can just carve benign swaths across the breadth of the slope, keeping your skis together and parallel like a pro. It all depends what you’re going for. I get a measure of satisfaction either way.
In more mundane news, I didn’t get too sunburnt (just my lips), and the car ride was enjoyable except for the part on the way back when Aaron took off his socks. Good grief.