Winter Sports: A Musical Review

There’s just something about winter sports… 

something so… 

so attractive about the idea of passing them up altogether in favor of a good book, a hot drink and a chair by the wood stove.  The winter here is at least 5 months long though, and my butt can’t take quite that much gelatinous inactivity, so I’ve developed a short list of favorites.  The truth is, while I almost always hesitate to go through the effort of suiting up and hitting the tundra, I can’t remember once that I regretted it when returning home. 

In honor of the colder pastimes, I’ve assembled a companion to my earlier list of sports, again accompanied by musical artists to help me communicate the nature of my relationship with each activity.

Alpine Skiing – Coldplay in Concert

Like my days as an alpine skier, Coldplay peaked back when Lance Armstrong was still a hero.  Like seeing Coldplay in concert, alpine skiing is prohibitively expensive to the point of nearly being unavailable altogether.  Like the simple, sustained and repetitious tones of Coldplay’s work, skiing has a beautifully natural, almost rythmic, aspect in its undulations.  You can’t help but swing your hips a little.  Like followers of Coldplay, my interest in skiing is pretty mainstream.  I almost always maintain contact with the ground, only seldom dip into real powder (lets face it I live in the Northeast), and approach trees or bumps with the grace of heifer on ice.

XC Skiing – Foy Vance

I wish I could say that I was a skate skier, flying down manicured pathways at 15 miles per hour, but manicuring isn’t something that’s applied to the woods where I live.  Come to think of it it’s not a term that's applied to almost anything around here (blogger sniffs his armpit then returns to his keyboard).  My XC experiences are more plodding ventures.  I emerge from my basement, unashamed of my pace or my wobbly countenance as I pick my way through the snow immersed in a world of frozen beauty (sometimes literally).  Foy Vance is an Irish singer-songwriter with an uplifting style that won’t impress your hipster friends, but plays well on your heartstrings.  Its mostly slow and simple, which matches my pace and experience level on XC skis, but also brings to mind the sonic elements of life outside in the winter.  If you stand still, and listen hard, at first you hear nothing – the snow insulates most sounds into nothingness – but as your ears adjust to the silence, you can begin to hear the snowflakes fall.  This is not some poetic imagery.  You can actually hear them hit the ground.  If you haven’t tried this, put down your iPad and go listen to the snow.  No seriously leave right now.

Snowshoeing – Gregory Alan Isakov

Snowshoeing is like XC skiing, but EVEN SLOWER.  Gregory Allen Isakov could look Sarah Mclachlin in the eye and tell her to settle down.  He’s worth the time.  So’s snowshoeing…  like…  if you have no other options.

Snowmobiling – Elton John

You have to admit though, its gorgeous out there.

Snowmobiling is my great act of hypocrisy.  Before the smell of 2-stroke oil gives me up I might as well admit it.  Riding my SkiDoo is my guilty pleasure.  In the warmth of summer, from the high-horse of my bike saddle, its so easy to poke fun at the overweight 4-Wheel riders who tear up the trails.  Only months later though, here I am, and the greatest effort of my day is nothing more than ripping on the pull-start of my noise machine.  What can I say?  It’s fun, and the winter is long.  No one says they love Elton John when someone asks them about music.  We all wrack our brains in that instant to think of the most indie band we can for fear of sounding “mainstream.”  Lets be honest though.  We all love us some “Tiny Dancer” when no one’s looking. 

Summer Sports – Eminem 

Eminem recalls a different time in my life.  It's a time that's gone, and not one that I really want back any time soon.  The experience of firing up the old subwoofer and listening to Eminem until it makes me blush reminds me of my many attempts to force summer sports into all four seasons.  I regret it almost as soon as I’ve started.  Have you ever gone mountain biking in the dark on 3 inches of fresh snow?  I have.  It was just as fun as it sounds.  Have you ever pushed a kayak across ½ a mile of thin, crackling ice?  I have.  It’s like walking, only colder, and with the threat of a frosty death.  Even running is harder in winter.  The pain from cold air in your esophagus, the Yaktrax digging into the bottoms of your feet…  Winter’s not for wimps. 

All the same, winter is about contrast, and contrast is the palate with which life brushes in our otherwise canvas selves.  Winter makes spring spectacular.  The wood stove pulls us close because cold feet want warming.  Elton John is fun because normal is boring.   As you choose your own pastimes, may winter be the frost on your pumpkin, and the wasabi on your tuna. 

Eastern Mountain Parenting

I’m special.  I know this because Elmo’s been diligently telling me so for 30 years now.  I also know this because I own a drytop and a throwbag.

That seems to be the story of my generation:  “Being different is being great.”  I find myself, along with most of the outdoor community, taking this idea to a new, almost competitive level. 

Outdoor people are special because they go places and do things most people never will.  Like some kind of secret society though, there are circles within circles.

Protecting the Moneymaker

Climbers are more elite than cyclists because anyone can ride a bike, but only a smaller group can use a carabineer for something other than holding keys.  Paddlers feel more special still, because even fewer people are willing to try a sport where your face needs its own roll bar.  The Holy Grail?  The Most-High-Grand-Masters of the outdoor community?  Ice climbers.  They actually use those badass looking axes that every outdoor store displays for street cred but almost never sells.  How many ice climbers do you know? 

Yeah.  They’re special.

So why do we want to be part of the smallest circle?  When I got into paddling, I found myself immediately wanting to buy paddling t-shirts and put kayaking stickers on my water bottle.  I wanted the world to know that I could do something they couldn’t. 

Are we so insecure that we need to show off each new skill?  Does this come from a basic dislike of the rest of humanity?  “I’m not like you” seems to be the message we’re all eager to send. 

We want to find an identity with the most elite tribe that will let us in the door. 

Identity.

…

Sounds pretty important. 

Like, maybe…       too important to be bound up in our toys and hobbies. 

This is on my mind because a lot is changing for me right now.  I’ve always pictured myself as someone who would hold onto their active outdoor lifestyle no matter where I lived, how my body aged, or what ominous sounds my knees made when I went to tie my shoes.

But something’s happening that’s making me feel simultaneously very ordinary, and very important.

In 4 months, I will no longer be a kayaker, a cyclist, a climber, or a camp director.  I’ll be a father.  Oh, I’ll still paddle and ride.  But next to holding my boy?  Those things will be insignificant.  They’ll be toys… hobbies.  Identity?  No.

To be honest, I never thought of it this way until it became my reality.  I knew relationships and family were more important than skills and toys.  I think we all know that.  But subconsciously I feared losing my edge if I became a Dad.  Dads don’t tear through singletrack on their bike.  They overeat at family gatherings and fall asleep on the couch.  Would I get out at all, or would I become a prisoner, locked indoors by the needs of my child?

Now that it’s here though, the whole question seems ridiculous.  Who cares?  Paddling class 4 rapids is pretty cool but blowing bubbles with a giggling toddler might mean more somehow. 

The focus shifted when I wasn’t looking.

Not everyone has the blessing of children, but it’s not exactly an elite group.  There’s nothing unique about fathering a child.  Heck, lets face it, people do it by accident a lot more often than we’d like to admit. 

Fathers, mothers, grandparents, friends:  These are not exclusive groups.  But they are identities.  These are clubs without t-shirts or bumper stickers.  That alone might say it all.

Maybe these people aren’t special, or different.  But sharing life is being great too.  It’s not always what makes us unique that defines us.  We’re all in this together, and the things we share just might be the most important, most meaningful things we’ll ever do. 

The Crash

Survey the scene.

Airway.

Breathing.

Circulation.

Excessive blood loss?  No.

Major deformities or tender abdomen?  No.

Surely, there’s head or spine trauma.  But again, no.

Even as my disoriented brain ran through the checklist, I stared blankly at a stand of white birches sitting about 2 inches from my driver side window. 

Everywhere I looked there was snow and tree limbs. 

Through the falling flakes, I could make out freshly churned up snow leading vaguely in the direction of the road.

I was facing the wrong direction – looking back toward the Canadian border, which I had just passed through on my way home.

As more of my senses came back to me, I realized there was liquid pouring from my brow. 

Blood?  No.  Unless my poor health habits had finally turned my blood to Coca-Cola, it was just my drink.  A vacant cup holder confirmed my suspicion. 

The twisted engine of my SUV sounded like a craigslist lawnmower, but it was still running – still pushing warm air into my battered vehicle.

I ran my hands over my feet, my legs, my torso, and finally each arm and my head.  How could I not be hurt? 

I repeated the process just to be sure. 

Smoke was rising in the glow of the headlights in front of me.  It was -15 degrees outside.  Did I dare turn off the engine, my only heat source?  Not yet. 

Gear Review: Rab Microlight Jacket

I’m too old to be trendy.  

My thinning hair taught me that a long time ago.  Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but notice how cool all those small-baffle down jackets I’ve been seeing on my friends look.

 

"No," I told myself, I can just layer up under my fleece. 

"No again," I can just allow my blubber layer to grow thicker.

I stood strong for over a year, but then M picked one up and I took the time to try one on.  I was hooked.  They’re so… squishy…so…toasty.  After all, I live in northern Maine.  If I’m going to overspend on anything it should be either blaze orange suspenders or winter jackets. 

Having chosen the latter, my search began.

As always, I was completely unwilling to pay anywhere near full price.  Likewise, I knew I needed to be careful because even with the small baffling of today’s uber-technical down jackets, they can easily make my 5’8” frame look like a stack of tires or an overcooked artisan bread. 

Sometimes It's Perfect

The noise in this coffee shop has risen to the place where you can no longer distinguish individual sounds, but instead the clanking of cups and desperate attempts at communication around me have melded into to a confused white-noise sound.  Not white like fine china.  White like the swirling of aerated water at the base of an Atlantic breaker. 

But here, on the road, one thousand miles from home, I’m remembering a time this fall when it was perfect.

M and I are sweaty, and yet we’re layering on fleeces because the desert sun has just dipped below the horizon and the shadows it has left behind are already raising goose-bumps on our arms.  We’ve hiked all day through sandy washes and now we’ve placed our lonely tent in a canyon surrounded by imposing Navajo sandstone towers that look like immense stacks of red and cream-colored pancakes.

As we settle in for a quiet night of sweet boredom, we find the perfect rock.  It is huge and flat as a board.  Its sandstone surface faces west and leans back at a 45-degree angle reminiscent of one of those adjustable beds for retirees. 

Living Long Enough to Become the Villain -- Then Overstaying That Welcome Too.

Even out here in the land of red flannel hats, two-stroke engines, and perfect starlit skies, occasionally the influence of popular culture reaches us.  It penetrates the miles of forest like a drop of ink in a mountain stream; shocking in its initial contrast, but eventually washing into oblivion. 

Our most recent drop of ink has been The Hunger Games, and yes, I recognize that that fad came and went last year in the rest of the world, but try to think of my world as one of those cool $2 theaters where they play the movies 6 months late so college students can afford them.

In The Hunger Games, the character Peeta Mellark turns a corner, both in the eyes of Katniss Eberdeen, and in the eyes of the viewer, when he insightfully comments that he hopes the games, “Won’t change him.”  Under the duress of impending doom, would his morals flex?  Break?  Disappear altogether? 

The answer, of course, is “no.” 

Peeta is a noble fantasy character and his role is to fit the needs of the story he inhabits – he is adequately just, kind, and needy at every point in the movie. 

Unfortunately, I am not a fantasy character and my nobility is not a fixed trait.  Lets face it.  “adequacy” might still be something to shoot for as far as my own personal journey goes.  But in the face of my own challenge – the long, continually frustrating existence of summer at a camp insistent on breaking down, burning up, falling apart and/or stalling out – I sometimes fear the changes it may cause in my character.  Will I remain patient?  Will I hold my head up high, always working hard and never letting down the staff members that look to me for leadership?  Will I find a way to shower and shave at least once a week?

The answer to all of these things turned out to be “no.” 

Finding The Fountain

I hadn’t felt anything like this in years.  

I stood on the dock, feeling small and exposed.  I wore only a pair of swim trunks as I squinted at the dark water without my glasses.  It was 6:30 AM, and only 10 minutes ago, I was warm and insulated from the world by a down comforter.  The ignorance imposed by my heavy eyelids was bliss. 

Now I was shivering, standing in a slight breeze, trying to act like a leader by joining our lifeguards on their morning distance swim. 

I hate the water.  Always have.

One by one, the lifeguards dropped into the water and began wriggling their way toward another dock; a quarter of a mile away, still screened by the morning mist.

Now it was my turn.  I held my arms folded tightly across my chest.  Did I mention that I hate the water?  I plunged in, clawing at the air as I did, hoping to find some invisible ladder that might lead me back to bed.