David Hits the Slopes

I am not always a graceful man. Don't get me wrong, adoring faithful: your mental image of me gallantly strolling along these callous streets with the swagger of some rap star/cowboy Megazord and the savoir faire of a person who knows what savoir faire means aren't entirely inaccurate. It's just that occasionally, like one occasion in the supermarket about 3 days ago, I might happen to confuse the hand holding the shower gel with the hand holding the fruit and stab myself square in the eyeball with a banana. We can't be on all the time. 

"I'm an animal: half man, half mammal." Remember that gem, Cowboy Jay-Z?

However, while in Austria I've resolved to put those momentary lapses in grace aside and learn me how to ski. Everyone in Austria skis. It's just a necessary part of life for these people. Half of them slalomed down the birth canal, and the other half have never looked their fathers in the eye. Once my students hear that I've never skied, they all stare at me with wonder and bemusement and vague suspicion, mouths agape, distraught as to how I could have reached this ripe old age while never once strapping metal slats to my feet two kilometers above sea level and checking to see if someone had left the gravity on. When one is in the Alps, one skis. When in Rome, and all that. 

Elephants, Hannibal? It's like you're not even trying. No wonder the Romans didn't like you much.

Luckily, about a month and a half ago, Klagenfurt's fairgrounds hosted a winter sport flea market, so I already found myself in possession of some second-hand skis, poles, boots, and skiing attire consisting of no less than 5 color tones but heavily stressing the purples and turquoise. All of this equipment only set me back around €40, truly a small price to pay to declare such a strong fashion statement. Andy and Amanda also purchased some skis and skiwear. Andy grabbed a silver-gray onesie with alternating yellow and red squares across the shoulders suitable for the amount of space travel he planned to embark upon, while Amanda picked out an oversized matching neon green-and-purple jacket and pants set to smuggle out any musically talented family of political dissenters she might come across. You gotta look good to ski good, kids. 

After languishing in a corner in my room for six weeks, my skis were finally called into action when Pip (slave name Philippa) asked via the Facebooks if anyone would be down for skiing on Friday, January 11th. Immediately, Andy, Amanda, and I responded that we were, indeed, down. Even though I inexplicably hadn't yet bought a hat and gloves to match my outfit, it was high time to see what all this skiing fuss was about. 

Friday morning, I meet Andy and Amanda at the train station at around 10:40 AM. I notice that, while I've worn street clothes and packed my skisuit in my backpack, they've gone ahead and worn theirs to the station. All at once, the true error of my ways became starkly evident: I was the asshole wearing shoes on the beach. I was a goddamn shoobie. Tragically, my shoobie-ship would only increase throughout the day. 

I don't know how it's come to this, Otto Rocket.

We went to the grocery store in the station, bought some food for lunch, and hopped on the train to Villach. After getting in at just past 11:30 AM, a bus would take us to Annenheim, and from there we could get our ski passes for the Gerlitzen. Unfortunately, because planning ahead is for losers, we find out at the bus station in Villach that the bus to Annenheim doesn't come for an hour and a half. We take advantage of this break to eat lunch and grab some noon-time beers from a nearby cafe. While sipping said beers, the three of us realize that if we truly want to ski like champions, it isn't enough merely to look like we just waltzed out of 1986; we had to literally waltz out of 1986. 

Since only Andy's onesie was capable of actual time travel, we were compelled to take on new personas. Amanda, Andy, and I became Tiffany, Blaine, and Brent, respectively. Blaine would challenge any movie's protagonist that happened to cross his path to a race down "The Black Mamba," a slope so named because of a creative wordplay incorporating its level of difficulty, shape, and mortality rate, while Brent would shout less-than-original insults at the unsuspecting film character and high-five Blaine with douche-tastic regularity. After a montage emphasizing the protagonist's dedication and Blaine's arrogance, Blaine would suffer an inevitable though still shocking defeat. Thereupon Tiffany would leave him and run ecstatically into the winner's passionate embrace. Fade to black, bitches; we were gonna be the greatest skiers to ever conquer the Gerlitzen.

When we eventually reach the mountain, Blaine and I have to go get our flea market skis adjusted to fit our boots. In an unusual turn of events, Andy bought the defective skis and mine worked perfectly fine. Looking back on it, it appears that when Andy helped me pick out my skis, the Fates became confused as to who purchased which pair of skis, forcing them to take a 50-50 shot on which pair to destroy for their twisted pleasure. Sadly, Andy's skis paid the price for whatever karmic evil I did to deserve the constant ass-kicking which I've been getting a steady diet of since I've entered this God-forsaken land. 

The only thing in Klagenfurt open 24/7. 

For this hardship, Blaine, Brent is truly sorry.  

After Blaine rents himself a pair of skis, we meet up with Pip, and I find the nearest bathroom to change out of my shoobie costume. I exit the bathroom a brand new Brent, a Brent in skis and not shoes, a Brent who could hold his head up high until he realized that he left his ski pass in the wool coat which was now tucked snugly into his backpack. I dig it out while a nice little line of non-shoobies forms behind me, judging my every shoobish move. Suddenly, I notice I'm stranded, abandoned by Pip, Blaine, and Tiff. I would have to brave the first ski lift of my life alone. 

I climb in and hold on for dear life, thoughts bouncing between wondering how the woman in front of me had managed to snag a chair with foot rests to put her skis on and wrapping my mind around how so few people had died from falling from these unrestrained death traps. At the end of the lift, I see the woman in front of me raise a metal bar above her head. I look up. Guess that answers both of those questions. 

Soon, however, the ride was over for me. Upon getting out of the lift, my keen observational skills duly note that, despite not knowing how to ski, I have been thrust into skiing against my will. My keen observational skills soon also notice that I haven't the vaguest idea as to how to stop this unintentional skiing. Quickly approaching Blaine, who has somehow managed to hit the brakes on his skis, I panic and essentially just kind of sit down on my ass. Boom: stopped. 

I stand back up, and Pip points me and Tiffany, who had only skied once as a 14-year-old, to the easiest slope on the mountain. I attempt to mosey my skis on over to the entrance gate, and proceed to get nowhere. Every time I move a ski forward, it goes right back to where it had been before once I have to shift my weight to the other ski. I start sliding backwards. People are beginning to stare at the incompetent moron moonwalking in their midst. Tiff is already almost at the entrance to the slope. I shout at Blaine and Pip for guidance, but they're already long gone down the mountainside. It feels like quicksand: the more I struggle, the deeper I sink. I have to have been here for almost ten minutes. I am going to die here. 

"Fight against the sadness," indeed.

My only other option being a slow death on a mountainside, I take off my skis, pick them up, and just walk to the damn entrance. My figurative shoobie-ship has become literal. These were low times for Brent. Since those fateful shoe-borne steps, he's tied his pastel-colored sweater sleeves a little more tightly around his neck and his windmill high-fives have been a little less righteous. His Duran Duran albums seem to hold within them deeper meanings and greater truths. Wiser, yes, but at what cost?

I get behind Tiffany in the line for the beginners' slope, grab the rope tow when it comes around, put it between my legs when Blaine yells at me from afar to do that, and let it pull me to the top of the slope. I let go of the rope, and quickly remember that stopping my skis is not in my repertoire. Like the long march of Death, I slowly yet unavoidably float out across the top of the slope, stabbing my poles into the mountainside to no avail, until I slip over the edge of the trail and, once more, onto my ass. 

Recap Ratio:
Times Brent's Skis Have Moved : Times Brent's Been on His Ass = 2 : 2

This little episode ushers in a pretty comic 5 minute period wherein I find myself unable to climb out of the ditch in which I'm standing, with Blaine attempting to give me advice on climbing uphill sideways which I prove absolutely incapable of following. Eventually, I once again have to settle for rage quitting and taking my skis off before I can extricate myself from the situation. 

Once unditched, I emerge at the top of a slope, ready to hit the ski button and tear the Gerlitzen apart. I stick my poles into the ground and push off. For the first time in my life, I'm skiing.

And boy, am I skiing. I kind of curve to the left. I kind of curve back to the right. I go straight. I keep going straight. I'm zooming right along, and holy fuck why hasn't anyone told me how to stop this death machine yet. I'm out of control. Something has gone terribly wrong. I bail, but survive due to the miracle that is my ass. 

While one must look good to ski good, one must apparently also ski good to ski good.

Not one to give up so easily on a beginners' slope, I get right back on the horse, go back to the top of the hill, and Pip and I run some braking drills. My third time through I manage to maintain control of the skis during the run, and pizza the living Christ out of them at the bottom until they've submitted to my will. The heavens rejoice in my achievement, and I raise my arms to the skies in triumph. It's time for the big boy slope. I take three steps following Blaine and somehow fall down. Doesn't count, the heavens didn't see it.

Recap Ratio:
Times Brent's Skis Have Moved : Times Brent's Been on His Ass = 6 : 5

Despite my less-than-exemplary record on the beginners' slope, Blaine maintains that the only real way to learn how to ski is by going down something with a decent gradient to it. We mosey on over to a more advanced slope, and Blaine takes off, followed by Tiff. Pip tells me to try and cut back and forth across the mountainside, so I figure I should listen to her. Perhaps now is a good time to mention that it hasn't snowed in more than a month and that the mountain is covered in a solid sheet of ice.

I zoom off. I curve a little left. I curve a little right. I curve a little left, and then a little right again. I'm feeling good. I do that cool thing that I've seen skiers in the Olympics do when they put their poles underneath their arms to minimize wind resistance. 

That's the ticket. Out of my way, wind.

That was an objectively stupid thing to do, but pretty in-character for Brent. I soon notice 4 things:

1. I'm going way too fast for my own good.
2. I have no means by which to rectify Fact #1.
3. There's a whole lot of mountain left, and I'm only gonna be getting faster.
4. I either have to bail, or die at the bottom of the second easiest slope on the mountain.

So I resolve to crash, and my God was it violent. I hit a solid 3 or 4 complete rotations, my skis fly off, my poles are strewn about, and Pip has to come behind me and help me retrieve all my various accoutrements. This exact process happens 2 more times on that slope, until I finally stumble my way to the bottom. The experience was a little jarring, to say the least. 

Recap Ratio: 

Times Brent's Skis Have Moved : Times Brent's Been on His Ass = 9 : 8

For some reason, after that inspiring display of natural skiing talent, Blaine and Pip decide that Tiff and I should try our hands at descending from the top of the Gerlitzen. We ride up the lift to the summit, and then Tiff and I make the fatal mistake of looking down the mountain. We tell them they can go on without us. 

Before her descent, Pip warns us that we have 40 minutes to get down to the bottom of the mountain before the ski lifts close. We were about to go down and practice on the beginners' slope again, but then, apparently forgetting the overall shape of mountains, I notice that one of the slopes leaving from the top of the mountain doesn't seem very steep. I mosey my way down a little and survive, so I tell Tiff to come join me. She obliges, and we slowly wend our way down the mountainside. 

I get to where the slope turns a little steeper, stop via some miracle of the Lord's doing, and turn around to see Tiffany getting back up after a crash. I wait for her to catch up to me, and then we figure we might as well see how far down we can go.  

Check out that form.

I keep going until that old familiar feeling of losing control of the skis comes upon me, and then, rather than immediately bailing, I try to turn out of it, which only succeeds in getting my skis crossing themselves like a priest and tossing me a couple yards down the mountain. I look up to check Tiffany's progress, and she's bailed after somehow putting herself in a situation where her only other option was crashing into some netting.

We gather up our things once again and make the noble attempt to continue our descent. After getting to a point where the slope becomes just stupidly too steep for the fifth ski run of my life, I crash again. Tiffany soon follows, and I work my way over to her. We discuss our situation.

In over our heads and down on our asses.

We've managed to stick ourselves into a pretty rough predicament where we're too far down the slope to go back up and the rest of the trail is far too difficult for skiers of our caliber. I decide to walk until I can get to a part of the slope I think I can ski, and Tiffany resolves to butt-ski her way down. Thousands of skiers pass, each whispering clearly in my general direction: "Shoobie."

We work our way down the mountain, with me making another failed attempt at skiing, until we finally get to what we thought was the end of the slope but is really just where the slope gets steep enough for a team of douchebag children to rub their skiing abilities in our faces and practice slalom runs. During this part of the journey, I join Amanda in butt-skiing, which actually turns out to be extremely practical.
Fun fact for the kids at home: Friction on the ass apparently reverses the polarity of one's general pelvic area, causing the right testicle to become magnetically attracted to the bellybutton. 

Recap Ratio:
Times Brent's Skis Have Moved : Times Brent's Been on His Ass = 13 : 11

The sun has started going down. We're cold, wet, tired. But the ski lift has entered into sight. The kids finish skiing, and one of their fathers takes Tiff down the rest of the mountain on his snowmobile while I walk the rest of the way. At the bottom, we talk to these magical skiing children, and they actually aren't douchebags at all, much to my disappointment. They're just goofy kids who ski every day and were amazed to meet some Americans. Also, one of their mothers brought a fluffy-ass dog. Pricks. 

Since the ski lift we've arrived at actually won't take us where we need to go, the father with the snowmobile takes us back up to the summit, with me riding in the backseat and Tiffany riding in the basket on the front like a freezing E.T.

Although I guess he does look a little chilly here.

When we get back to the top of the mountain, we walk over to a ski lift and try to hop on it. Naturally, because I'm involved in the story, the door has been locked a mere seconds earlier. We look across at another ski lift and watch as the operator shuts it off and leaves his booth. We run over to him and beg him to turn it back on, but apparently that isn't under his jurisdiction, so he takes us over to the administrative cabin to see what he can do for us. He comes back out and tells us to wait where we are until 5 PM. That's 20 minutes from now, but still better than nothing. 

So there we are, Brent and Tiff, standing on the top of an Alp as the sun goes down and the world turns dark, contemplating building an igloo for our survival. A little after 5, we see the headlights of a magnificently large vehicle roll up, and the angel descended in earthly form as the driver of this divine chariot tells us to hop in. 

The driver takes us on his evening round down the mountain in this vehicle, which I had hoped would be called a "snowzoni" or a "zamsnowni," but seems to be actually dubbed a "snowcat" or "trail groomer."

Would never have guessed he was a Decepticon. You really can't trust anything these days.

It takes us as far as it can, which is the bottom of the ski lift that takes you to the beginner's slope, so we still have another gondola to take to get to the bottom of the mountain.

We try to enter the doors for that one, but they're shockingly locked too. The people who operate it are still there, so we have to go to them and beg for their kindness and mercy. Not having much of either kindness or mercy to spare, one of them decides that being an absolute cockbag to us is the best solution to everyone's problems. He tells us we can't go down the lift because it closed at 5 PM. Seeing as we're 20 minutes late, it's already been shut off. We ask him if we're supposed to just walk down the mountain; he informs us that that isn't a possibility because it will take 4 hours. We seem to have reached an impasse. 

Eventually, however, the guys decide to let us in and turn the lift back on, at great cost and sacrifice to themselves. Oh, wait, no it wasn't; they had to ride it down too. Something about getting home, I think I heard. The dialect's a little rough on the ears. 

Anyways, following this exchange that consisted mostly of a man showing off his powers of mind-reading by saying the exact words we wanted to hear least at any given moment, Tiff and I climb into our gondola, take it down, and meet Blaine and Pip in the bar at the base of the mountain. Scarred and scared, we had, if nothing else, survived. 

Some life lessons taken from the day's events:
Things that are hard to do on skis:

• Stand
• Walk
• Ski
• Remain healthy

Things that are easy to do on skis:

• Fall violently