Giant Dreams, Midget Abilities

When you really think about it, skiing is insane. Who thought it would be a good idea to loose hundreds of unlicensed people with large, blunt objects strapped to their feet on the side of a snowy mountain? But not before crawling into an open, free-swinging chair attached to a thick wire pulling them up a mountain over perilous drop offs, asking them to jump off at the top, being sure to get out of the way fast enough so they are not knocked unconscious by the next quickly approaching chair filled with people holding two sharp sticks.

Yet, to me, skiing is one of the coolest things a person can do. There is nothing more slick than an experienced skier flying down the narrow face of a mountain at neck-breaking speed, the powder from their graceful slalom being thrown into the air as they cascade down a surface so steep, I would not venture to scoot down on my rear-end during the summer season with a rope around my waist.

For my skiing class last year, I took a shameful number of skiing lessons. At first, I threw myself haphazardly into the task of learning to ski. I was the first person in the class to make some awesome moves; to throw powder on the instructor with my stops. I was fearless. I was also the first person to fall down, and by the end of that first day, I was also the first person to almost snap their leg off from the knee down. Suffice it to say, for the last 3 days I was overly cautious due, in part, to the fact that I could scarcely move my knee.

Thanks to all those lessons, I have all the technique and potential in the world. I am so good at sharp turns and controlling my movements, I wager I could outmaneuver more than a few Olympic skiers. However, unlike my first day of skiing, fear now hampers my reveries of skiing glory. Even on the shallowest slopes, I am haunted by visions of painful and elaborate physical destruction.

Many otherwise subdued and rational people throw all caution to the wind as they hurl themselves down the side of a mountain, claiming to love the wind on their faces and the thrill of it all. I say they’re crazy. The only thing I can see are all the small children and beginning snowboarders in front of me. If I were to pick up speed, I would most likely barrel over one at least of them, resulting in their unfortunate demise and a lengthy hospital stay for me. Or, in a last-ditch effort to avoid them, I would shoot off the side of the mountain, straight through the flimsy plastic “fence,” and after a brief descent, crash through the tops of the trees in a shower of sparks, yelps, and pleas for mercy. And, assuming I ever garnered the nerve to go fast enough to feel the wind on my face, I am pretty sure it would just chafe me.

I went skiing at Yong Pyeong on Monday. They are vying to host the winter Olympics in 2014, and it’s a pretty great place. If any members of the Olympic Steering Committee are reading this, let me sway your vote. However, if you are looking for rustic skiing, steer clear of this place. I skied down several runs within earshot of operatic-techno music that was pumping through their sound system - which provided me with a false sense of bravado and audacity. On some runs, you are assaulted by gigantic screens playing ridiculous commercials.

The weather was absolutely gorgeous and I had good company. By the end of the day, I had made several friends on the lift, skied with some of them, and taken pictures with all of them. (Koreans are quick to pull out the cameras.)

Despite all that I know, fear, and don’t like about skiing, I still want to go again.

Thousands and thousands of drying squid