Monday, March 27, 2006

To Ski or Not to Ski

It's a beautiful day in Colorado today, with blue blue skies, breezy breezes, bright sunshine, and the mountains coming out of their cloudy slumber. Too bad I didn't get the chance to spend time in their midst this weekend.

I almost did. In a brilliant display of doing as the Romans do, I have developed a keen interest in skiing. Last weekend I went to Eldora, which is, at 45 minutes away, the closest ski resort to Boulder. It's just a short ride up the Canyon, a few miles outside of the funky little community of Nederland. And as evidenced by moi, it is a great place to go skiing for the first time in 12 years.

I went with Steven [names changed to protect the innocent], the writer/slash/photographer/slash/statistician who sits in the office next to me. I have a fine history of befriending those who sit in the offices next to me. G.Bro, for example, was my next-door-neighbor at the job before last. Bwitter occupied the cubicle next to me way back at my first job in NYC. And up until a few months ago, I sat sandwiched between MEO and ZZ, two beloveds o' mine. So when Steven asked me if I wanted to go skiing with him and Pizza Crayons,* another colleague, I took it as a sign from the gods that the time had come for me to get my snow-legs back.

And get them back I did! My affinity for the Green (i.e. easy) slopes notwithstanding, I did a pretty durn good job. I didn't fall; I entered into no quarrels with the fauna; I didn't even hurt that much the next day.

So when it became clear that Mom & Dad weren't going to be able to make it to see me this weekend, I made plans with Steven and Pizza C. to hit old Eldora again.

Alas, the weather was not on our side. Halfway up the mountain we had zero visibility, thanks to blowing snow. The Subaru and I executed a death-defying three-point-turn on a tiny cliffside road above a frozen lake (okay, it was a bad idea), and we came back down to sunny (if windy) Boulder. Steven and I stopped to change out of our ski clothes, and hit the Dakota Ridge Trail for a nice little hike instead. Quite pleased with our cardio-rific selves, we then proceeded to reverse any good the hike had done us by scarfing a greasy burger (for me) and a greasy reuben (for him) at the West End Tavern.

*her real nickname in kindergarten


Anonymous Rosabarba said...

What, bored with your blog already (again)?

9:46 PM  

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