The Dilemma of a Man

I wish Dave could see me now. The Larry Bird of Perfect North Ski School watched his promising pupil fail time and again merely two weeks ago on the icy slush of Lawrenceburg, Indiana. As we parted ways, I could see it in his eyes… “Kid, you’re destined for a day on the training slopes at a top speed that would struggle to keep up with Verne Troyer carrying Terrance Cody over his shoulder down a sandy beach… You’re just not cut out for this. Stick to the grass, buddy, and the world will spin a little smoother.”

Dave, I agreed with you. I agreed with you in Indiana, and I agreed with you at the top of the lift in Breckenridge, Colorado. Then came a revolutionary revelation: Two weeks after beginning my quest for the 2014 Winter Games, on a hill far away, I learned how to turn left. The Rocky Mountains were mine to conquer.

With my newly discovered ability, I could now stop getting angry at 6 year-olds humming past me on the slopes. I could move on to seeing how close I could get, at my pedestrian speed, to the woods without actually visiting the ghost of Sonny Bono past. I can’t explain how relieving it was to no longer be a complete failure. I had moved on to being below average, and I was thrilled.
There was no green circle slope in Breckenridge that could contain me. Sure, there were a few that took me down a time or two, but Colorado had no idea how good I got in Indiana at getting up on skis.

Turning right and left, snowplowing straight ahead, I was practically unstoppable. Then my so-called friends led me to a new lift. Whether it be a skewed view of myself or not, I like to think I’m rather perceptive. Observing my surroundings, it became evident that there was no green circle waiting for me at the top of this ride….

Here I was faced with a classic dilemma: what is more important to a male, pride or a general concern for self-preservation?

You cannot have both. At some point in your life, you will be forced to choose. The great males in history have all faced this dilemma at some point in their lives.

• Kevin McAlister chose to man-up and embarrass the wet bandits [You could argue self-preservation here, but you’d be wrong. That little hero could have wimped out, called the cops, camped out in the Catholic church, or hopped on a Penske truck to New York, but he chose to go all Under Armor and protect his house. And the movie would have sucked if he didn’t.]
• John Lennon went the love-clouded self-preservation route and scurried off with Yoko. Sure, he avoided a few cold showers, but the world missed out on at least another decade of nonsensical lyrics.
• Jimi Heselden chose pride. He set out to prove to the world that his Segway creations could do more than putter along at 2 miles an hour. Forget Red Bull. Buy a Segway and fly.
• Long before Jared walked to Subway and Jillian Michaels conned her way into a career of yelling at people, Gandhi threw self-preservation to the wind, embracing hunger for a greater cause.
• Tiger Woods should have been sitting in his recliner, popping Vicodins during the 2008 US Open but he chose pride. He hobbled around, making the world feel like the 200 million dollar man was the victim. Pride got him a big trophy, a big check, and probably two or three additional STDs.
• Michael Scott roundhouse kicked pride in the stomach and pawned his golden ticket idea off on dedicated Dwight K. Shrute. Dwight, on the other hand, put Dunder Mifflin’s reputation on his broad, beet-stained shoulders and made humanity proud to know their way around a pair of nunchucks.
  

I’m no John Lennon. I shuffled up to take my spot on the chair lift to my impending vegetative state. We rode that lift, bodies scattered on the ground below, to a dizzying altitude at which there were people in planes using approved portable electronic devices that were not as close to the ozone as we were. As the lift rose higher and higher, a great sense of apathy came over me. No fear. No adrenaline. My time had come. It was time for me to make up for the Michael Scotts of the world. We passed the “Tips up” sign. The snowy ground evened out. The chair began to turn, empty, leaving me alone at the top with only my skis and my pride.

Then I fell.

Tumbled right off the chair. Popped a ski off. Spun my pole like a baton twirler at halftime.

I picked up my pole, my ski, and fumbled around for my confidence. It was all downhill from there. Only literally though, not metaphorically. Breckenridge blue diamond achieved. Dave was right there beside me the whole time. Metaphorically, of course.


Don’t get me wrong… I’m still not a good skier. But the secondary mantra for the weekend proved true [NOTE: the primary mantra was Firework by Katy Perry, but that one wasn’t really a demarcation point for success.] Practice makes not so sucky.