"Pizza" by Tony Davis

During Christmas break of 2005, I decided that it would be fun to trying skiing. I hadn’t skied since I was about five years old, so lets just say that I felt a bit rusty. I learned quickly, not how to ski, but rather that skiing for the first time, since the age of five, has significantly more “cons” than “pros.” In fact, I still do not know how to ski. However, I do know how to do the “pizza” very well. I felt a little embarrassed because the 3-5 year olds are the only ones that still do the “pizza,” unless you’re from Texas. Luckily, I was not wearing overall snow pants, a sweatshirt, and a backwards hat, so I couldn’t be mistaken for a Texan. Not to brag, but I could probably out-“pizza” any 3-5 year old brave enough to challenge me.
I was awful.
Everyone around me had been skiing their whole life. Except for Peter, we all know how athletic he is, but at least he knows how to turn, and when it is time for lunch, he flys down the mountain. I spent these two days of skiing behind everyone, even Peter. My slow zigzagging down the mountain became very difficult because I felt pretty sure the rental place had given me the crappiest bindings they could find. Bastards. I probably could have found some string and tied some Boy Scout knots fastening my skis to my feet and it probably would have worked better than these bindings. If the inability to ski, throbbing hip-flexors, and shame of being passed by Peter didn’t make my day stressful enough, the bindings were there to make sure that I felt sufficiently pissed.
I began the day fully aware that crossing your tips led to negative results, but it seemed a bit ridiculous that every time my skis even came close to touching, I would discover the absence one. I would find myself struggling down this mountain when, all of a sudden, I would get the feeling that something was missing. I believe that someone with the intelligence of Peter’s chocolate cake could figure out that it is more difficult to ski on one ski than two. And since I sure as hell could not ski with two, the panicked arm flailing, followed by the digging-in of an edge, followed by discovering myself airborne, followed by abrupt, firm earth-to-face contact, followed by more earth-to-face contact with a tumble or two mixed in, followed by landing, sprawled in a position previously thought to be humanly impossible, was inevitable. Oh yeah, a few curse words appeared in there somewhere. Then, if I did not feel embarrassed enough after skidding down half the mountain on my face, or skiing like a 3 year old when I was 15, I then suffered the embarrassment of hiking back up this distance, with snow-caked, cock-eyed goggles and helmet, to find my other ski. That is, if the brake popped down and I did not have to instead hike roughly 200 yards downhill to find my goddam ski buried in the trees. Let me tell you, one of the worst feelings in the world is face-planting, injuring some part of your body in the process, and looking up to see your ski still trucking down the hill, having the potential to not stop until it gets to the very bottom of the hill where it hits Peter looking for the starburst he dropped in the snow. Especially knowing that you are going to have to hike the whole way. Luckily, that only happened once, but it occurred at the end of an extremely stressful first day. Lets just say I felt a bit flustered, and people laughing at me from the chairlift did not help much.
Although I spent most of my day involuntarily eating snow, hiking, and accidentally inverted, I did have a couple minutes of glory. First, I threw a “360” off of a jump on my first day. I gloated over this for a while because it was my first day and I already tried it, I almost landed it too. Second, I did the most insane thing I have probably ever done, and jumped off of a 15-17 foot cliff on my second day. That is pretty frickin’ high. You are probably wondering why I did this. I jumped off this cliff because I thought I would be pretty “B.A.” if I did. In addition, something inside me, I do not know what, told me to. Also, there was the desire to show my girlfriend, who was trying to talk me down as if I was suicidal, that I would not die. The final two reasons are that some random guy behind me yelled, “Air it up Tony!” and the fact that I did not actually realize how big the cliff was. It was peer pressure and the idea that I would be pretty badass. In reality, I was the only one that thought that it was badass, everyone else just thought I was a total idiot.
These two days of skiing ended up being quite fun and satisfying. Despite all of the falls, humiliation, and anger, I felt very happy with my decision to ski. Although there were more “cons” than “pros,” I felt like the pros were more significant, even if they only appeared that way to me. Why did I feel satisfied when I spent most of my day hiking or digging snow out of my goggles? Why when I endured so much pain and frustration did I feel happy? It felt good to take risks and decide to put your skis in the “French fry” position knowing that after you go off of the 5 foot cliff in front of you, you will have more speed than you know what to do with, most likely cross your tips, possibly try to recover and end up with only one ski in contact with the snow, and end up in a pretzel where you could probably kiss your own ass. There is just satisfaction in knowing that, no matter what, somebody will be laughing, whether it is everyone or just your friends. In the end, you will all be able to laugh about it. Knowing that you had no reservations, and tried everything you had hoped, is a rewarding feeling. Having the courage to do stupid things, and knowing that you didn’t hold back, leads to confidence and a sense of pride in what you have accomplished. Yes, even if you accomplish it by going down the mountain doing the “pizza” almost all of the way.