Whoever they are, they say it’s not about the destination, but the journey. Black13 experienced this first-hand somewhere between Oracle and Superior. Cowboys, cattle rope’n, guns, brews and near bar fights? More proof that you never know what you’re going to get when you’re alone in the Arizona desert. This place… this state is so fucking cool when it comes to off-road tours, oh man, it gets off the chain real quick. The BGR is conspiring similar idea…
Mom & Dad would sit upstairs and argue it seemed, almost everyday. Mom would often yell at us from the intercom as we whittled our day away below, hacking on bikes, playing, cleaning and organizing the house. The volatility was a strangely normal aspect of life for us. She’d get rev’d up by the second. Dad, never loosing his calm, collected demeanor would retort with evident, provocative smugness. His method of control perhaps. Mom, always the receiver, would get worked up so easily, pace a bit, whine emphatically, gloom over us occasionally, and ultimately return to her desk at a loss, only to continue trudging through her collection of emails and argumentative petitions to various advocacy groups about town. It was her world of control, where nobody could say otherwise. She integrated it well, with the old man’s authority over her life. In the interim of her online excesses, between call & response, the never ending grocery & chore-list was always there. She had it made & she knew it.
The rollers left on parcel post today. I never thought it would happen. They’d been with me forever, through the thick and thin of too many seasons, finally to sit dusted in the basement over the last two years. As it happened, Doug, an old friend from the valley who recently moved to Boston was in need of a way to make it through the winter without heavy medication or straight up suicide. Upon his email, I argued fervently that beer was the only way out. His demand however, was unwavering. After a moments thought, I said OK. They are now en route to a good home in need of a good training tool, far away from here. It was a mild right of passage and an appropriate passing of the baton. Doug’s been turning SS screws around AZ for years and I hope the spin the rollers bring him, will impart further success, and more importantly, a positive mood while he dwells in all that eastern crap. I however, will never ride going nowhere again.
For what I think is the 5th day in a row, I made it to the top of the mountain before dawn. It all has turned to bullet proof cords in the last few days. Bullet proof cords expose a tele’s errors without question, and I’m no where near good, spinning out, squirreling, flailing… and that’s in the good groomer snow. So, with substantial trepidation, the last couple of days have been baby steps of survival. A fairly unsightly situation. And each day after an ascent on skins of 2000 feet in less than a mile, I only get 4 minutes of down to try and improve. And it’s completely worth it. Ace & Gary showed me yesterday what it is to be a good tele skier. Ace, arms punching forward, crouched on staggered skis, hidden tiger, helmet, goggles, absolutely flying through wide drop knee turn after drop knee turn on top of skis that chattered loud atop corduroy-ice… “Please, slow the fuck down.” It was the closest thing I’ve ever seen to Speed Racer, without an engine. Those dude were on the gas.
Is it me, or is L.A. Anthony Michael Hall’s twin brother?
Tapped. Gone.
January 14th, 2009 at 11:30 am
Black13’s story was very, very cool.
On firm snow, keep the pressure on the rear ski pressure with your little pinky toe. It’ll help that ski hold its edge. And when in doubt, crunch ‘em out– get really low. Drag your knee on the snow if you have to. It hammers your quads, but it’s better than flailing. Too many guys, even strong, skilled guys, ski “telellels” these days. A telemark turn is a long radius turn.
January 14th, 2009 at 5:57 pm
So, the story of my mom wasn’t any good? Fuck.