Humbled On A Mountain
A Story Of Teeth Kept and Bruises Acquired
For some, the motion of running your tongue over your teeth to check for chips and losses is a routine procedure. Perhaps not every day, but common enough if they have, say, a drinking problem, or an adrenaline addiction. As I outgrew my taste for adrenaline when I was eight, and have not yet grown into a drinking problem, I can count the number of days I’ve been genuinely concerned I lost some teeth on the two thumbs up I gave following my most recent impact (and subsequent teeth check), to signal that my bones were, as far as I could tell, still in place.
The incident counted by the first thumb happened last summer, when I committed the classic Portland rookie biker mistake - catching my wheel in the TriMet tracks.
I have no recollection of the moment described in the above bumpersticker - the moment between bike and ground. One instant I was upright, carefully riding the eight inches of road between the curb and the tracks, and the next instant my jaw was hitting cement. My teeth didn’t sit right for about a day due to some swelling, but nothing was broken. That, in combination with the hematoma on my right hip that I forced all my friends to feel, is enough to make my hands clammy every time I so much as think about getting back in the saddle.
The second thumb, counting my most recent impact (or set of impacts), occurred on Monday, when I took part in nothing short of a Pacific Northwest miracle: three people who know each other from work say “we should do this thing together”, and then they actually do.
The thing in question was skiing, which I was very bold to agree to, seeing as I ski on average once a year (exclusively greens). My main motivation for following through with this field trip was one co-worker’s promise that she’d give me a snowboarding lesson in the second half of the day. I’ve always maintained that I would prefer snowboarding to skiing had I been exposed to both as a kid - a suspicion that was validated by a stranger I met the previous weekend on my annual Ski Day With Dad, who told me I have “snowboarding energy” - so I was eager to prove myself right.
At 8 a.m. sharp, Robin - a photographer I work with regularly and greatly admire - loaded up his alpine touring skis; Birte - a distinctively German prop stylist and all around badass - loaded up her snowboard as well as the one she brought for me; and I - just happy to be there - loaded up my sister’s size 9 boots (I’m a strong 7.5) and the 4ft skis I literally learned on.
The first half of the day was about as embarrassing as you’d expect, given the context. I ate shit down our first run (an icy and ambiguous blue → green situation) and Robin kindly retrieved my poles. Motivated by a predictable loss of feeling in my legs, I quickly split from the group and shelled out for properly fitting rental gear. I opted for the greens each run after, and took another break from the gang to chug a $7 beer before meeting back with Birte for my snowboarding lesson.
Since my humbling first run, I’d been looking forward to this lesson as a kind of reprieve. The warm image of me strapping in on flat ground and learning how to lean forward, then backward, before gently gliding down the baby hill and feeling accomplished for the day, shone invitingly before my eyes with each jarring uptake from another lift.
This is not what Birte had in mind.
Within thirty seconds of ratcheting me into my bindings for the first time, Birte instructed me to tip my wobbly self toward the nearest lift, which I remembered from earlier as the lift that carried me to that first run, where I lost half my gear falling down the mountain. My elation at the comfy snowboarding boots was all but forgotten. Holding myself up on the one leg still free and in its element (on solid ground), I came as close to begging as I felt comfortable subjecting a coworker to.
“Are you SURE you don’t want to go over the basics on a bunny hill first?”
[no]
“Ok what about any green?”
[no]
This run took us - and this is not an exaggeration at all, in fact it is likely an underestimate - an entire hour. The first two minutes of which I spent falling, and then crawling out of the way of the still oncoming lift. At the precipice of a steep drop-in to what I can only describe as true Blue territory, Birte strapped my remaining foot in, and I said goodbye to any delusion that this would be easier than the previous half of my day. It took me ten minutes to figure out how to stand up, which was followed by five feet of downward progress before I fell promptly back on my ass. It would be a whole hill and a good twenty minutes later before I started falling like I meant it - on my face.
I’d like to say I performed the teeth check, in earnest, ten times that run, but in the interest of honesty, it was for sure at least four.
A few times, I’d land in a place that wouldn’t allow me to simply stand back up and keep sliding, for if I did, gravity would carry me into a tree, or down an even steeper run. These instances felt much like a video game, where when you die you have to start over at the most recent checkpoint, but more frustrating and pathetic because instead of cutting to black and then waking up ready to go, I’d have to either butt-scoot or crawl on my hands and knees back up the mountain to the correct angle of slope.
As I dragged my stupid legs through the snow and toward the always smiling Birte, I forced myself to ignore my aching body and tired lungs and swallow what I so badly wanted to say, “Please, please, oh my god. Can I fake a broken leg and get ski patrol to snowmobile me down? I know that’s probably expensive, so can you figure out a way to carry me? Please can I just slide down on my back? Can you leave me here in this very spot and forget I ever rode up here with you?”, because in that particular position, on my hands and knees, looking up at the ever patient Birte, that would have been groveling. And I could not sink that low, especially when I knew, peering through smiling Birte’s goggles to her steady, twinkling eyes, that it would not work.
Despite the repeated head trauma, I got better at standing up. Once I could do that, it was just a matter of turning, which I nailed for the first time at the base of that run. By the end of our second go (just the bunny hill this time), I could string my turns together. (I’d like to say it was ten turns all back to back, but in the interest of honesty, it was at least four.)
At the end of it all, my pride had been bruised almost as severely as my backside, but the sound of Birte’s victorious “YES” as she looked up at me completing my turns was all I needed to feel as if I’d won the day.
I’ve been feeling a little defeated recently, just all over the board, so as corny as it is, the painfully physical metaphor of having to peel myself off the mountain and stand back up over and over and over again (like past the point where it was comical and past the point where it was sad and verging on the point where it was kind of inspiring), was a reminder well timed. As I had to keep repeating to myself that day, there’s only one way down the mountain, and that’s by trying. And when you reach the bottom, whether on two legs or on your back in a stretcher, with your front teeth or without, dignity in tact or thrown out the window, you just might decide to go again.
Happy Saturday from me and the bruise I found between my butt-cheeks on Tuesday,
Jordan
Sorry to admit this made me laugh quite a few times. I adore your writing daughter. Hope the butt cheek bruise is on the mend.