…that way the hell up here in the middle of nowhere, they couldn’t possibly care less that this is the middle of nowhere.
That is all.
That is all.
21/02: Well, it's about time
So after a truly insanely dry, nearly entirely snowless month and three quarters of riding on increasingly packed and icy hills, I see in the forecast there’s mebbe up to half a metre of snow coming over the next week or so…
(Stares at incoming storm system accusingly, with hands folded over chest, in attitude of irritated spouse waiting up late to ask: ‘And where have you been?’)
(Stares at incoming storm system accusingly, with hands folded over chest, in attitude of irritated spouse waiting up late to ask: ‘And where have you been?’)
Followup to previous: I’ve been working more on landing simple aerials.
I eventually spent several more hours on the kickers at Fortune, working on those, making sure the first two I landed weren’t just some fluke. And they apparently weren’t—I was landing some three out of four by the end of that, with the falls generally nothing terrible—usually, I seem to teeter too far toeward, if anything, and sometimes I can salvage it just with a quick push off from a hand, thus avoiding greater drama. There’s still a lot to tune, there, tho’, obviously—how much speed I want, thus how much air I’ll get, these are all things I haven’t yet quite got the feel of as reliably as I’d like.
And that’s all important. Among the reasons: it’s actually the short landings that are hardest on the body. Hit a high kicker like that too slowly, and you’re likely to land in the flat right behind it instead of on the downslope beyond—which is hard on the legs. I’ve some minor pull of some kind in and around the inside of my left hip socket, now—nothing stopping me from riding, but it is still a bit raw a good day and change after I did it. Happened on one of those hard, flat landings. The only injury I’ve sustained yet doing this.
Meanwhile, today, I was up at Mont Ste-Marie with my lovely wife and the little guy. And in my non-child-escorting periods, I got into the park, there, too.
Ste-Marie’s aerial features are a lot less lethal than are Fortune’s—these sorta tiny kickers mounted into the tops of huge hip jumps—so you do get some serious height if you want it, but then the landing is pretty much right under you. They look impressive—adding it all up, the first set of ramps is better than six feet in height—but they’re incredibly more forgiving than the kickers I’ve been working on until now.
So it was a good ego boost—you go flying up these crazy-looking curved ramps, but then the landing is an absolute cinch. By the end of the day, I was landing them consistently.
As for the little guy, he’s doing great. His mother took him on his first double black today—Ste Marie’s Toronade—and he handled this gracefully, apparently. He’s been doing blacks pretty regularly, now—a subject of some amusement for and admiration from others on the hill. I happened to be riding up over Carole Anne—a black that goes under the lift—while he was coming down with this mother, and the comments from those riding with me were generally of the ‘Man—that little guy’s amazing’ variety—and yes, that was unprompted—I hadn’t yet told them they were riding up next to his father.
Impressive. He and his sister, both, for that matter.
I eventually spent several more hours on the kickers at Fortune, working on those, making sure the first two I landed weren’t just some fluke. And they apparently weren’t—I was landing some three out of four by the end of that, with the falls generally nothing terrible—usually, I seem to teeter too far toeward, if anything, and sometimes I can salvage it just with a quick push off from a hand, thus avoiding greater drama. There’s still a lot to tune, there, tho’, obviously—how much speed I want, thus how much air I’ll get, these are all things I haven’t yet quite got the feel of as reliably as I’d like.
And that’s all important. Among the reasons: it’s actually the short landings that are hardest on the body. Hit a high kicker like that too slowly, and you’re likely to land in the flat right behind it instead of on the downslope beyond—which is hard on the legs. I’ve some minor pull of some kind in and around the inside of my left hip socket, now—nothing stopping me from riding, but it is still a bit raw a good day and change after I did it. Happened on one of those hard, flat landings. The only injury I’ve sustained yet doing this.
Meanwhile, today, I was up at Mont Ste-Marie with my lovely wife and the little guy. And in my non-child-escorting periods, I got into the park, there, too.
Ste-Marie’s aerial features are a lot less lethal than are Fortune’s—these sorta tiny kickers mounted into the tops of huge hip jumps—so you do get some serious height if you want it, but then the landing is pretty much right under you. They look impressive—adding it all up, the first set of ramps is better than six feet in height—but they’re incredibly more forgiving than the kickers I’ve been working on until now.
So it was a good ego boost—you go flying up these crazy-looking curved ramps, but then the landing is an absolute cinch. By the end of the day, I was landing them consistently.
As for the little guy, he’s doing great. His mother took him on his first double black today—Ste Marie’s Toronade—and he handled this gracefully, apparently. He’s been doing blacks pretty regularly, now—a subject of some amusement for and admiration from others on the hill. I happened to be riding up over Carole Anne—a black that goes under the lift—while he was coming down with this mother, and the comments from those riding with me were generally of the ‘Man—that little guy’s amazing’ variety—and yes, that was unprompted—I hadn’t yet told them they were riding up next to his father.
Impressive. He and his sister, both, for that matter.
17/02: Yeah, baby!
I’d just like to announce that this evening, ‘round ten to ten, on the last run of a long, hard, incremental process in which many rather less impressive things happened, I landed not one but two jumps off two three or four foot snowpark kickers in a row.
Yes, I’m bragging. But seriously, this took some doing…
Like a whole evening of doing. Several runs zipping past them, sizing ‘em up, just doing little hops, getting used to the feel of landing the thing flat, which is what you have to do, with the bigger jumps (landing on edge, that I can do, have for quite some time)…
Then hitting ‘em sorta diagonally, jumping off the sides, so I was getting the feel of it, getting a sense of the speed I’d need, but not quite having to cope with the whole height of ‘em…
Then, finally, taking that plunge, and going right over the tops of ‘em…
Which, for several runs, wasn’t working out so well. I found a few interesting ways of not landing. Like not having quite enough speed to land flat. Like having enough, but then not having the nerve, freaking out, trying for edge landings (bad idea)… Then having the nerve, and just not managing to stay up anyway…
This part was… umm… entertaining. Apparently. See, I’d only decided it was time I took this plunge in part because the damned things were just right there, taunting me. These two big kickers they’d set up in a new park they’d put next to this main street green run right above the lodge at Fortune… So they’re in full view of the lift, going up and over to where I more usually ride…
So as I was learning how not to land them, even over my headphones, I could hear the reactions of those watching this performance from the lift… Reactions mostly… umm… sympathetic. I think… Apart from entertained.
And then it was last run, last shot I’ve got at it. And the run before that, I’d almost landed the first, just spun out onto my heel edge, somehow…
And I landed that sucker. Fucking great feeling, after all that fumbling toward it. I’m like two turns past landing it before it hits me: hey, that was it. I did it.
The second, okay, less graceful. I was so startled by actually pulling it off, I’d forgotten to keep my speed up, barely had enough for the second kicker, teetered toward the toe, had to put a hand down to punch myself back upright…
But I’m counting that. Damn straight.
So, shorter: yeah, baby. Yes, my airframe’s long, heavy, and all of 40 years old. But it can still fly, apparently.
Yes, I’m bragging. But seriously, this took some doing…
Like a whole evening of doing. Several runs zipping past them, sizing ‘em up, just doing little hops, getting used to the feel of landing the thing flat, which is what you have to do, with the bigger jumps (landing on edge, that I can do, have for quite some time)…
Then hitting ‘em sorta diagonally, jumping off the sides, so I was getting the feel of it, getting a sense of the speed I’d need, but not quite having to cope with the whole height of ‘em…
Then, finally, taking that plunge, and going right over the tops of ‘em…
Which, for several runs, wasn’t working out so well. I found a few interesting ways of not landing. Like not having quite enough speed to land flat. Like having enough, but then not having the nerve, freaking out, trying for edge landings (bad idea)… Then having the nerve, and just not managing to stay up anyway…
This part was… umm… entertaining. Apparently. See, I’d only decided it was time I took this plunge in part because the damned things were just right there, taunting me. These two big kickers they’d set up in a new park they’d put next to this main street green run right above the lodge at Fortune… So they’re in full view of the lift, going up and over to where I more usually ride…
So as I was learning how not to land them, even over my headphones, I could hear the reactions of those watching this performance from the lift… Reactions mostly… umm… sympathetic. I think… Apart from entertained.
And then it was last run, last shot I’ve got at it. And the run before that, I’d almost landed the first, just spun out onto my heel edge, somehow…
And I landed that sucker. Fucking great feeling, after all that fumbling toward it. I’m like two turns past landing it before it hits me: hey, that was it. I did it.
The second, okay, less graceful. I was so startled by actually pulling it off, I’d forgotten to keep my speed up, barely had enough for the second kicker, teetered toward the toe, had to put a hand down to punch myself back upright…
But I’m counting that. Damn straight.
So, shorter: yeah, baby. Yes, my airframe’s long, heavy, and all of 40 years old. But it can still fly, apparently.
16/02: Oddly enough
… I keep hearing there’ve been these truly great performances in snowboard cross, and I really should see them. But I haven’t.
Thing is, I’ve hardly seen any of the Olympics. Been too busy actually doing winter sports, y’know? In fact, the only actual Olympic event I’ve so far seen any part of was some of the ski jump. And that was while having dinner, Saturday. Just before going back out to ride again (after the kids, who I’d been accompanying around the hill that day until then, had headed back home, giving me a few minutes to pour back a beer and then get back out onto some more difficult stuff).
Speaking of the kids, the little guy is fast becoming as fanatic as his parents. We spent two days at Mont Ste-Marie this weekend—the second when he insisted yes, the Sunday we’d spent there hadn’t worn him out, and this was really what he wanted to do with the Monday we had off, too…
It’s an hour and fifteen minutes or so, driving up there. Like any five year old, toward the end of that, it’s all ‘Are we there yet?’…
But open the car door, and nothing is gonna keep him off the lift. You need lunch kid? Nope. Bathroom break? Nope. He wants his boots put on pronto, puts his skis on himself, and off we go, onto the one actually largeish hill in the Gatineaus, at 380 metres of vertical.
Dunno where he gets that.
(/Oh, the one other thing I do know about the Olympics: I found this sorta funny. Yes, this probably makes a horrible person or something.)
Thing is, I’ve hardly seen any of the Olympics. Been too busy actually doing winter sports, y’know? In fact, the only actual Olympic event I’ve so far seen any part of was some of the ski jump. And that was while having dinner, Saturday. Just before going back out to ride again (after the kids, who I’d been accompanying around the hill that day until then, had headed back home, giving me a few minutes to pour back a beer and then get back out onto some more difficult stuff).
Speaking of the kids, the little guy is fast becoming as fanatic as his parents. We spent two days at Mont Ste-Marie this weekend—the second when he insisted yes, the Sunday we’d spent there hadn’t worn him out, and this was really what he wanted to do with the Monday we had off, too…
It’s an hour and fifteen minutes or so, driving up there. Like any five year old, toward the end of that, it’s all ‘Are we there yet?’…
But open the car door, and nothing is gonna keep him off the lift. You need lunch kid? Nope. Bathroom break? Nope. He wants his boots put on pronto, puts his skis on himself, and off we go, onto the one actually largeish hill in the Gatineaus, at 380 metres of vertical.
Dunno where he gets that.
(/Oh, the one other thing I do know about the Olympics: I found this sorta funny. Yes, this probably makes a horrible person or something.)
01/02: Personal space issues
So the Whistler thing ended… okay.
First, the funny bit: it’s the last day, around noon. I’m zipping along this quasi-trail through a gladed run, come around a tree, suddenly find myself being dumped unceremoniously into this bank covered in powder. There was this little kicker, first, and then nowhere to go but into it.
Harmless enough. I dig out a bit, try to get myself down the ravine from the trail a bit—‘cos that’s what it was—bottom of a creek thing, but no water visible underneath…
It’s difficult digging out of that much powder. And while I’m there, working on unsnarling myself from bindings and piles of powder, I hear someone saying ‘what the…’, look up, and some guy on a pair of massive powder skis has just landed exactly where I had, exactly the same way.
We chuckle, he climbs up the side to a groomer, heads off…
I get one foot out. I hear someone yelling ‘Oh shit…’
And look up to see a young woman on a board, who’s just made it three in a row.
This time, I actually laugh. Have to explain this to her. She laughs too. Whoever first went that way, set up that track had no idea how much trouble they’d caused.
Anyway, onto the annoying bit: I dig out, decide to follow the ravine downward, ‘cos there is this narrow trail there…
And it’s hairy. Ski patrol has marked off these sinkholes some three metres deep, going down to the water at the bottom. Scary. Don’t want to fall in those. It’s a warm day, and the water doesn’t look deep, but I’m betting you’d still be a mite uncomfortable by the time anyone could dig you out.
Anyway. Falls ensue, tho’ none into sinkholes, mercifully. Combination of nerves and close quarters. And at the bottom, I discover I’ve torn a cable on one of my Flows.
This is inconvenient. A Flow with a torn cable doesn’t close. And I’m at the bottom of the Symphony bowl, which means I’ve got at least two groomers and two traverses to go before I can just download on the gondola.
I make do. Fish some carabiners out of pockets, manage to wrap ‘em around the binding well enough to keep it sorta half closed, so at least it’s not dragging on the trail. I’ve got control, sorta… But have to take it easy with that foot, obviously…
But there’s this thing I’ve noticed about the skiiers at Whistler. Personal space issues. As in: they don’t give you as much of it as I’m used to. Way too often, they’re uncomfortably close to me, on the descent. Like that huffy older woman who zipped over my tail some days back, they do seem a bit cavalier to me about the possibilities for collisions…
I figure maybe it’s the environment. As in: on the East coast, there’s ice, it’s dangerous, everyone’s a bit more paranoid, a bit more cautious. Here, everyone’s a little less worried…
To my point: on the first traverse, I’m wobbling along, going easy on that none-too-tight binding, and this skiier just smacks the tail end of my board as its coming around on a carve, him going past, awfully fast, awfully close.
He wipes out. Not badly, picks himself up, apologizes, moves on, me with eyebrows raised, dark thoughts lingering about suicidal westerners with, in my ever so humble opinion, an insufficient appreciation of (a) how big a board a big guy might be riding, and (b) just what that many Newtons can do to your joints if you land wrong.
And back at the condo, I discover this nasty nick in the tail of the board where he’d hit it, a piece of the top surface torn off…
Cosmetic, mostly, I’d bet, and repairs lined up, and the cable’s already fixed…
But geez. It’s annoying, all the same.
So c’mon, people. Can we have a little less of that kind of silly, please?
Anyway. Otherwise, all was fun.
First, the funny bit: it’s the last day, around noon. I’m zipping along this quasi-trail through a gladed run, come around a tree, suddenly find myself being dumped unceremoniously into this bank covered in powder. There was this little kicker, first, and then nowhere to go but into it.
Harmless enough. I dig out a bit, try to get myself down the ravine from the trail a bit—‘cos that’s what it was—bottom of a creek thing, but no water visible underneath…
It’s difficult digging out of that much powder. And while I’m there, working on unsnarling myself from bindings and piles of powder, I hear someone saying ‘what the…’, look up, and some guy on a pair of massive powder skis has just landed exactly where I had, exactly the same way.
We chuckle, he climbs up the side to a groomer, heads off…
I get one foot out. I hear someone yelling ‘Oh shit…’
And look up to see a young woman on a board, who’s just made it three in a row.
This time, I actually laugh. Have to explain this to her. She laughs too. Whoever first went that way, set up that track had no idea how much trouble they’d caused.
Anyway, onto the annoying bit: I dig out, decide to follow the ravine downward, ‘cos there is this narrow trail there…
And it’s hairy. Ski patrol has marked off these sinkholes some three metres deep, going down to the water at the bottom. Scary. Don’t want to fall in those. It’s a warm day, and the water doesn’t look deep, but I’m betting you’d still be a mite uncomfortable by the time anyone could dig you out.
Anyway. Falls ensue, tho’ none into sinkholes, mercifully. Combination of nerves and close quarters. And at the bottom, I discover I’ve torn a cable on one of my Flows.
This is inconvenient. A Flow with a torn cable doesn’t close. And I’m at the bottom of the Symphony bowl, which means I’ve got at least two groomers and two traverses to go before I can just download on the gondola.
I make do. Fish some carabiners out of pockets, manage to wrap ‘em around the binding well enough to keep it sorta half closed, so at least it’s not dragging on the trail. I’ve got control, sorta… But have to take it easy with that foot, obviously…
But there’s this thing I’ve noticed about the skiiers at Whistler. Personal space issues. As in: they don’t give you as much of it as I’m used to. Way too often, they’re uncomfortably close to me, on the descent. Like that huffy older woman who zipped over my tail some days back, they do seem a bit cavalier to me about the possibilities for collisions…
I figure maybe it’s the environment. As in: on the East coast, there’s ice, it’s dangerous, everyone’s a bit more paranoid, a bit more cautious. Here, everyone’s a little less worried…
To my point: on the first traverse, I’m wobbling along, going easy on that none-too-tight binding, and this skiier just smacks the tail end of my board as its coming around on a carve, him going past, awfully fast, awfully close.
He wipes out. Not badly, picks himself up, apologizes, moves on, me with eyebrows raised, dark thoughts lingering about suicidal westerners with, in my ever so humble opinion, an insufficient appreciation of (a) how big a board a big guy might be riding, and (b) just what that many Newtons can do to your joints if you land wrong.
And back at the condo, I discover this nasty nick in the tail of the board where he’d hit it, a piece of the top surface torn off…
Cosmetic, mostly, I’d bet, and repairs lined up, and the cable’s already fixed…
But geez. It’s annoying, all the same.
So c’mon, people. Can we have a little less of that kind of silly, please?
Anyway. Otherwise, all was fun.
