If you have access to the New York Times Magazine in today's (Sunday, March 4) paper - be sure to read the "Lives" essay on the last page, page 86. The title of the essay is Downhill From Here, with the subtitle Taking on the slippery slope of middle age by assuming an aggressive stance and pushing your body forward. The author Sara Davidson is definitely a SkiDiva, whether on the forum yet or not. Her story will resonate with many of our fabulous divas who took up skiing - and racing (gotta love the what the hell attitude) - in their 50s. Very inspiring and makes me want to get up a mountain NOW.
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NYT essay on skiing
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Thanks for the heads up SkiBaby! Here's the article:
Lives
Downhill From Here
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By SARA DAVIDSON
Published: March 4, 2007
When I moved to Colorado a few years ago in my late 50s, I was divorced and involuntarily retired — from my work in TV and from my duties as a parent. After 24 years, the jobs dried up, and my two kids were away in college. Whenever I called them, they were I.M.-ing their friends, doing homework or watching a movie. They seemed irritated by whatever I did or said, including “Good morning.” When I had dinner with my son, a computer-science major who is on the snowboard team and flies a plane, he would arrive late and leave quickly. Teaching a college class one day a week, I was at loose ends the rest of the time. Should I volunteer? Read the classics? Call up friends of friends?
Illustration by Bob Hambly
Submissions for Lives may be sent to [email protected]. The magazine cannot return or respond to unsolicited manuscripts.
I finally decided to sign up for the masters’ race team at my local ski area because of the conviction that when it’s a damp, drizzly November in the soul, the best tonic is to learn a new skill. (“Master” is the politically correct word for “older.”) Although I’d skied since my teens, I’d never raced, so on the first day of training, I discovered that everything I knew and all the gear I owned were wrong. I was wearing a teal one-piece Jean-Claude Killy suit I’d bought on sale in Aspen, but the team members present — 10 men and one woman who ranged from 38 to 80 — called it “a green body bag.” They wore skin-tight racing suits with loud spider-web patterns, just as Olympic racers do — except the masters tend to have masters’ bodies. They told me my boots were inadequate and my skis were hopeless. The lone woman, Marcy, who a few months later would fall on the snow and break her pelvis, offered to give me her old helmet.
There was no problem keeping up with the team when we skied down the mountain, but when we entered the slalom course, I started skidding and slowing. For years I’d been trying to stand up tall and be graceful, but the racers assumed an aggressive crouch, pushing hard to get their skis on edge and their bodies forward. We watched a video of Bode Miller, and his skis were almost vertical, cutting like knives across the snow. I had no idea how to do that.
Marcy and her husband, Bob, were the only racers who talked to me during the first weeks. Most of the men competed when they were younger and treated me like a tag-along they wanted to ditch. But I loved the slalom training: it was a blessed relief from thinking. For three hours, all I focused on was: weight on left, weight on right, here’s the next turn and get forward, forward! I didn’t feel I was making much progress, but by the end of the season, my coaches told me I was ready for a race.
On race day, I put on a bib with the number 69 and started to get anxious. You’re not allowed to take a practice run to check out the gates; you get one shot. I skied down the course more cautiously than I’d hoped, and the announcer said: “Sara Davidson from our Masters Race Team. Good time, Sara!” What was he talking about? I clocked the slowest time of all my teammates, but at the awards ceremony they handed me a gold medal. I came in first in my age group (56 to 65) because I was the only woman in it. This qualified me to ski in the finals, and I drove to Keystone, Colo., for the event. When they called my class, there were a dozen women in my group, and I came in last. But my coaches said, “Next season, you’ve got a shot at making the podium.”
Three years have passed, and I have not made the podium, but every day that I train, flying downhill on freshly packed snow never fails to boost my mood. And there are other benefits. After my first season I took my two kids and a few of their friends to Vail. I taught my son to ski when he was 5, holding him between my legs as we coasted down the bunny slope. By 12 he didn’t want to ski with me anymore. He’d stand at the bottom of the lift looking frustrated. “What took you so long?!”
At Vail, he strapped on a snowboard, and on the first run I beat him down to the chairlift. Because I’d been the worst on my team and could never close the gap, I’d assumed I was not improving much.
“Have you noticed anything different about my skiing?” I asked.
He nodded and said under his breath, “Remarkable.”
That night, my son announced he was going to ski the next day because skis were faster than boards, implying there was no way in hell I would beat him.
The next morning my son and I, both on skis, started at one end of the resort and worked our way up and down three mountains to the other end of Vail without stopping except to have lunch. I did not beat him, but he had to work hard to stay in front. When he drove our group home that night, he was still pumped, cheeks flushed. “I hate to admit it,” he told the other kids, “but I really enjoyed skiing with Mom.”
Sara Davidson is the author of “Leap! What Will We Do With the Rest of Our Lives?”
Next Article in Magazine (17 of 19) »
Lives
Downhill From Here
Sign In to E-Mail or Save This
Share
By SARA DAVIDSON
Published: March 4, 2007
When I moved to Colorado a few years ago in my late 50s, I was divorced and involuntarily retired — from my work in TV and from my duties as a parent. After 24 years, the jobs dried up, and my two kids were away in college. Whenever I called them, they were I.M.-ing their friends, doing homework or watching a movie. They seemed irritated by whatever I did or said, including “Good morning.” When I had dinner with my son, a computer-science major who is on the snowboard team and flies a plane, he would arrive late and leave quickly. Teaching a college class one day a week, I was at loose ends the rest of the time. Should I volunteer? Read the classics? Call up friends of friends?
Illustration by Bob Hambly
Submissions for Lives may be sent to [email protected]. The magazine cannot return or respond to unsolicited manuscripts.
I finally decided to sign up for the masters’ race team at my local ski area because of the conviction that when it’s a damp, drizzly November in the soul, the best tonic is to learn a new skill. (“Master” is the politically correct word for “older.”) Although I’d skied since my teens, I’d never raced, so on the first day of training, I discovered that everything I knew and all the gear I owned were wrong. I was wearing a teal one-piece Jean-Claude Killy suit I’d bought on sale in Aspen, but the team members present — 10 men and one woman who ranged from 38 to 80 — called it “a green body bag.” They wore skin-tight racing suits with loud spider-web patterns, just as Olympic racers do — except the masters tend to have masters’ bodies. They told me my boots were inadequate and my skis were hopeless. The lone woman, Marcy, who a few months later would fall on the snow and break her pelvis, offered to give me her old helmet.
There was no problem keeping up with the team when we skied down the mountain, but when we entered the slalom course, I started skidding and slowing. For years I’d been trying to stand up tall and be graceful, but the racers assumed an aggressive crouch, pushing hard to get their skis on edge and their bodies forward. We watched a video of Bode Miller, and his skis were almost vertical, cutting like knives across the snow. I had no idea how to do that.
Marcy and her husband, Bob, were the only racers who talked to me during the first weeks. Most of the men competed when they were younger and treated me like a tag-along they wanted to ditch. But I loved the slalom training: it was a blessed relief from thinking. For three hours, all I focused on was: weight on left, weight on right, here’s the next turn and get forward, forward! I didn’t feel I was making much progress, but by the end of the season, my coaches told me I was ready for a race.
On race day, I put on a bib with the number 69 and started to get anxious. You’re not allowed to take a practice run to check out the gates; you get one shot. I skied down the course more cautiously than I’d hoped, and the announcer said: “Sara Davidson from our Masters Race Team. Good time, Sara!” What was he talking about? I clocked the slowest time of all my teammates, but at the awards ceremony they handed me a gold medal. I came in first in my age group (56 to 65) because I was the only woman in it. This qualified me to ski in the finals, and I drove to Keystone, Colo., for the event. When they called my class, there were a dozen women in my group, and I came in last. But my coaches said, “Next season, you’ve got a shot at making the podium.”
Three years have passed, and I have not made the podium, but every day that I train, flying downhill on freshly packed snow never fails to boost my mood. And there are other benefits. After my first season I took my two kids and a few of their friends to Vail. I taught my son to ski when he was 5, holding him between my legs as we coasted down the bunny slope. By 12 he didn’t want to ski with me anymore. He’d stand at the bottom of the lift looking frustrated. “What took you so long?!”
At Vail, he strapped on a snowboard, and on the first run I beat him down to the chairlift. Because I’d been the worst on my team and could never close the gap, I’d assumed I was not improving much.
“Have you noticed anything different about my skiing?” I asked.
He nodded and said under his breath, “Remarkable.”
That night, my son announced he was going to ski the next day because skis were faster than boards, implying there was no way in hell I would beat him.
The next morning my son and I, both on skis, started at one end of the resort and worked our way up and down three mountains to the other end of Vail without stopping except to have lunch. I did not beat him, but he had to work hard to stay in front. When he drove our group home that night, he was still pumped, cheeks flushed. “I hate to admit it,” he told the other kids, “but I really enjoyed skiing with Mom.”
Sara Davidson is the author of “Leap! What Will We Do With the Rest of Our Lives?”
Next Article in Magazine (17 of 19) »
