I spent twelve years of my life ski racing, perfecting every piece of technique, turn and ankle roll and learning that making those swooping turns feels more like flying than bombing down the hill as fast as I could ever did. Those sweeping moments from side to side while the air travels past you, cool, refreshing, humming. Taking the time as you make your way to the bottom, the movements now automatic as you enjoy the moment, or clear your head of any inhibitions in life or otherwise. The bonds I made while on chair lifts, ranging from interactions to friends to getting acquainted with someone new who shared your same passion. The power that I felt as I knocked down a gate that was on my way to the finish line or carved into the ice with all the strength I had during the pitch. The determination I felt for next time after I learned I didn't make it down fast enough.
This weekend, I returned back to slopes again, taking a break from ski racing as I have for the past two years to recreationally ski every terrain on the mountain. I have a new found love of skiing freely, still in control but making my own turns instead of those that the poles on a race course determine for me. It's something that I have recently learned to treasure, an adventure i'm revisiting from my childhood years. But at the end of the day, my mind always wanders back to those years when I lived on the mountain all winter. After all, only racers can truly understand why we would wake up early in the morning in below freezing weather to take two full runs in a spandex suit as fast as we can, and enjoy every minute of it.
