The old man woke that morning, as he did most mornings, feeling the stiffness in his joints he has come to expect
each day. He had come to expect it, but still has difficulty accepting how his body felt. He walked slowly to the window,
looking out through the blinds. The sky offered just the barest hint of blue in the east, setting off the majestic peaks
of the Wasatch Mountains. No clouds in the sky, no sign of snow.
He sighed.
Soon the boys would wake, the boys of youth and vigor, the boys of wonder and excitement. The boys with boundless
energy and enthusiasm. For them, this Saturday morning would mean skiing.
The old man remembered what it
was like to be an eight year old boy, waking up on a Saturday morning, the anticipation of skiing with his father building
as he lay awake in his bed, waiting for the first light of day to become visible from his bedroom window. Pretending
to be asleep, waiting for his father to come in, gently shake him and say, "Ready to go skiing, buddy?" Padding
down to the kitchen, a quiet, hurried breakfast. Gathering the parkas and poles, boots and bindings, filling the trunk of
the '66 Mustang. The long ride south on I-81, listening to WSYR-AM, his dad's music; the sound of which even
today instantly takes him back to those drives. Dawn Patrol at Labrador Mountain. The red ticket, good from 8:00
AM to Noon. The T-Bar, the intimidation of Jacobie and Cutthroat, the toughest trails on the mountain. Hot Chocolate
in the lodge.
Father and son. Nothing finer.
The years have gone by, but the memories are still
fresh. Today the boy is the father, now with two boys of his own. Living in the heart of the rugged Rocky Mountains,
skiing snow that could not be imagined on the cold, icy slopes of Labrador. Two of the finest ski resorts in the world
are only 20 minutes from his driveway. How could he not share with his sons the memories his father gave him?
More than those memories , it was perhaps the gift of the Lifetime Sport the old man appreciated most. For he continued
to ski, high school, college, and nearly every winter thereafter. The concept of the Lifetime Sport he learned from
his dad. Football, baseball, basketball - sports for young men, professional athletes. Skiing, golf, tennis -
those are sports the average guy can take pleasure from for a lifetime.
The routine these days was different
his memories of old. His sons awake now, at the breakfast table with their mother, his wife. They have same excitement,
the same anticipation the old man had at their age. Loading the car, driving to the mountain, the familiar winter routine.
Different from his, yet somehow much the same.The same feeling - only the old man no longer felt it.
For the old man the joy of skiing was simply the satisfaction that came from passing on to his sons what had been given
to him. He no longer felt the excitement of the first chair, the crisp mountain air, the soft schuss his skis made in
the champagne powder snow. The siren song of the Black Diamond run no longer called his name. Perhaps it was because
of the injury two years ago – the torn ACL and MCL, the torn meniscus, the left knee torn up on a green run, of all
places. The long rehab, followed by the recurring pain and stiffness. These days he
was content to ski green and blue, to ski with his sons, to give them the time on the mountain they would need to decide for
themselves, one day, if they would choose to make skiing a lifetime sport. In fact, he realized, were the boys not wanting
to ski, he doubted if he would ski himself.
But the boys do want to ski, and he will not deny them, will not deny
himself the feeling his father must have had. So the old man would load up the car, put the skis on the roof rack, and
up the mountain they would go. A picture perfect ski day along the Wasatch, the jewel of the Rockies.
They arrive at the lodge early, the benefit of living so close to the canyon. A prime parking place is secured.
His wife and the boys carry gear into the lodge, have a sip of hot chocolate while they wait for the lifts to open.
It has become their habit to arrive early, enjoy some quiet time in the lodge prior to hitting the slopes. The old man
takes a stroll and notices a table in the lodge has been converted to a booth, taking registrations. Curious, he wanders
over to see what is happening. He sees the sign which reads "Utah Winter Games - Ski Race Today!"
The old man knows what this is about. The Utah Winter Games are amateur competitions in many winter sport disciplines.
Leading up to the 2002 Winter Olympics held in Salt Lake City, the Utah Winter Games were very popular, drawing amateur athletes
from states across the West. The games would receive extensive coverage on local television stations, and the newspaper
would routinely publish results in the Sunday Sports page. But as the Olympics came and went, enthusiasm for the Utah
Winter Games waned, and now the games are a mere shadow of their former luster and glory. This observation is evidenced
by the lack of interest from the other skiers in the lodge.
The old man's sons had followed
him as he went to the booth, and his oldest, Chris, asked him what was going on. "Ski races," he told Chris.
"Like you've seen on TV, where the skiers race down the mountain, going around the colored flags."
Tommy, the younger son, asked, "Will they do that here, Dad?"
The old man answered, "Yes,
but these races won't be on TV."
Chris, the more athletically inclined son, said "Could we be
in a ski race?"
The old man smiled. So much like Chris, wanting to participate, wanting to compete. Perhaps he remembered
what it felt like, so long ago, to have that drive and desire. Or perhaps he never did have that desire, and chooses
to remember his past the way he would have liked it to be?
He wasn't sure.
Chris broke him from his reverie, asking again, "Can I race, Dad?"
The old man thought for a moment.
Utah Games races were quite competitive back in their heyday. He knew, even in the younger age brackets,
there would be kids who had been racing all winter. They would show up in their slalom outfits, storm through
the gates and post times his sons couldn’t possibly match. While not wanting to deny his boys a chance
to participate, he did not want them to get blown out.
He looked around the lodge, saw
his wife back at the table. “Let’s to talk to Mom,” he said. “Maybe
we all can race.”
His sons were very excited. Running ahead of the old man, they raced toward their mom, saying.
“We’re going to be in a ski race! Can we? Can we please?”
The old man approached his wife, told her about the Utah Winter Games slalom ski race. The entry
fee was nominal. There was no reason they shouldn’t, other than perhaps dealing with the possibility
of disappointment if the boys did not do well. But an idea came to him as he had walked back from the registration
booth, and he whispered it to her. She smiled, and told the boys, “Sure! We’ll
all race. It will be fun.”
They walked back to the registration table and
signed up. All four of them. They were given numbered racing bibs – the sleek,
fabric racing bibs, not the flimsy paper one. Oh, the boys were so excited when they put them on, which
was diminished only slightly when they learned they could not keep them. Still, they were now officially
racers, and as they put on their skis and got in the lift line, they stood a bit taller. Not just skiers,
but Ski Racers.
On the first chair up the mountain the boys were asking questions about the race. What did
you do, exactly, in a ski race? Do we race each other? How long is it? Do
you get a trophy? The old man smiled as he answered the questions. You ski around colored
flags, he said. They stick up out of the snow and you go around them. You do not race
each other; you try to go around the flags and down the hill as fast as you can, and the ones who go the fastest are the winners.
The hill will look steep and long, but it will go by quickly. No, you don’t get a trophy like
you do in soccer. If you are one of the three fastest racers in your group, you will win a medal.
They skied over to the race hill, where the volunteers were setting up the course. To the side of the main course a
practice run had been set up. The old man and his family skied over to the practice run. The
old man said to his sons, “Watch how I do this. You will ski around the colored flags.
Follow the tracks around the flags. Go as fast as you can but don’t miss any of the flags,
or your run won’t count.”
He turned and started down the course.
He went more slowly than he would have, making sure to be deliberate in skiing around each gate. His
fear was that they boys would miss a gate and not have their time count. He reached the bottom of the course
and stopped, watching as his sons came down after him. Chris came first, skiing with confidence, coming
close to the gates and following, for the most part, the line of the course. Skies mostly parallel, not
much of a snowplow for him. Tommy came next, more slowly, a bit tentative. He came wide
around the gates, a big snowplow, going more slowly. The old man smiled as he realized Tommy had taken
his words to heart – he was not going to miss a gate.
At the bottom of the run the boys
asked how they did, and the old man was complimentary to both. They all turned up to watch as his wife
navigated the course with grace and elegance. She skied up to them, stopping smartly, spraying a bit of
snow. “This will be fun!”
They went down to the bottom of the hill to board
the lift again. The next time up the mountain they would be racing.
The old man carried a camera, a
small point-and shoot. For as long as he could remember, he had an interest in photography.
As a young man out of college he had been a television news cameraman, working in Montana and Nevada before taking
a job in Salt Lake City. Now an old man, working a desk job, he took pleasure in taking photos of his children.
As they exited the chairlift at the top the mountain he asked another skier to take a photo of the four of them wearing
their racing bibs. This was a photo he wanted the boys to have.
They skied over to the race course, joining the others who were waiting for the race to begin. Several
of the participants wore the slick, one-piece racing outfits and the aerodynamic helmets. A few even had
the contoured poles. The old man was not one to feel self-conscious, but he wondered if he had perhaps
underestimated the overall level of competitiveness the collective body of racers brought to the course. Not
that it mattered, really – his family was here and ready to compete. He just hoped his boys would
not be discouraged.
The course was set up with two courses, side-by-side. The red course was on the right, the
blue course on the left. The group of racers formed into two lines and assembled at the starting gates.
Two by two the racers entered the starting position, were counted down and launched themselves down the course.
The old man was behind Tommy, who was behind Chris. He told both boys, “Don’t
look at the other racer. You are not racing him. Just keep going between your gates,
follow the track, and don’t miss. What matters is getting to the bottom without missing a gate.”
The racer in front of Chris launched out of the gate and raced down the hill. Chris stepped into the starting
gate and set himself. He told Chris, “stay in control and follow the tracks. Have
fun!” He next spoke to his younger son. “The first drop will be steep,” he said.
“Watch Chris. Go slow of the top part and get to the first gate, after that you’ll be
fine.”
Chris was ready in the gate as the starter counted down from three. On ’GO!’
he was out of the chute and on the course. The old man watched as his oldest son made his turns, in control,
skiing well. He watched until Chris passed below the fall line and out of site. He turned
his attention to Tommy, helping him get set in the starting gate. “You’re going to be fine. Don’t
worry about going fast, just make sure not to miss a gate. I’ll see you at the bottom, Champ!” Tommy
stood ready as the starter counted down. On ‘GO’ he was out the gate in full snowplow, easing
around the first gate on down the course. The old man smiled as he saw his younger son ski with deliberation,
focusing on the course and not missing gates. Slow and steady.
Now there was no one in the gate in front of the old man. He stepped in, now very conscious
of the brace on his knee. It felt twice as heavy. Since they had registered for the
race that morning his plan all along was to simply ski the course, not to race for time. He was beyond
caring his performance, wanting only for his sons to have some fun. But now, standing in the gate, he felt
the competitive fire he thought was long ago extinguished begin to burn. The stared counted down again from three.
At ‘GO’ the old man burst from the gate, resolved to go hard. Old? Yes.
Dead? Not yet.
At this point in the race the course had become rutted and slick. His
skis chattered through each turn. In the back of his mind he knew he was one caught edge from another knee
operation.
With each turn he focused, putting pressure on the inside edge of his outside ski, digging in, shifting weight,
back and forth, finding the rhythm of the gates and the hill. A slight skip on the second –to-last
gate, a missed heartbeat, then recovery and finish. He crossed the line, glad to be upright.
He joined his sons, who were very excited to have run the course and finished. Together they
turned and watched Mom ski down the course. Elegant, in control, enjoying the moment, she ran the gates with skill and grace.
She crossed the line with a very nice time.
They skied back down to the lift to come back
for their second run. On the ride up the boys were very excited. “I made
every gate!” “I skied super fast!” “Was my time good?”
“Will I win?” The old man praised his sons for their effort and told them they would
have to wait and see how they would finish.
The second runs were much like
the first. The boys finished without missing any gates. The old man’s wife had
another solid run. The old man himself ran hard again and managed to stay on his skis. After they had all
completed their second run they went down to the lodge to have lunch.
After lunch they were preparing
to go back out for some fun runs when the old man noticed the race organizers has set up at their booth to compile the results.
He wandered over and asked when the results would be posted. “We’ll have them at 3:00
PM,” the organizer said. “But we won’t post them until after we hand out the medals.
We’ll do the medal ceremony in front of the lodge.”
“Ceremony?” the old
man asked.
“Yes, we have podiums, and we’ll call the winners up and present the medals. Be
sure to stick around for that.”
The old man walked back to his family and told them the news.
They would have to wait, he said, to find out if they had won. If they did, they will hear their
name called and they would get to stand on a podium in front of the lodge and get their medal.
The boys eyes got as large as pie plates. Stand on a podium? In front of the
lodge? Get a medal? WOW! “But only if you are one of the top three finishers,” the old man
said.
It was a long two hours, taking runs and watching the clock. After what seemed like an eternity,
3:00 PM finally arrived. They joined the other racers in front of the lodge. After an
opening address, it was time to award medals for the different age and gender classifications. The second
group called was Boys 6 and Under. The first name called, for the Silver Medal, was Tommy.
The joy on his face as he stepped onto the podium thrilled the old man. He was so happy for
his younger son, who toils in the shadow of his more naturally athletic older brother.
At the same time he was now concerned for Chris, who would be devastated if Tommy won a medal and he did not.
Finally the announcer called Boys 7-10. The first name called, for the Bronze Medal, was
Chris. The family was 2 for 2.
After several additional groups were called, the next group called was for Women between a certain range of
age. One name was called – and that name belonged to the Old Man’s wife, now the proud winner
of a gold medal. Doesn’t that smile say it all?
A couple of additional groups were called to receive their medals. The next group called
was the one the Old Man raced in. A name was called for the silver medal.
It wasn’t his.
One more name was called. It was called for the Gold Medal. The name called belonged
to the old man.
On the way down the mountain, everyone beaming from the hardware worn proudly around their necks, the old man
reflected on what he had whispered to his wife before they registered. “Not many people have signed up to race,”
he told her. “The lodge is nearly empty, the parking lot is only half full. With any luck, there
won’t be many kids racing in our kids age brackets. Who knows. maybe they get lucky and pick up a
medal.”
Yes, it worked out exactly that way. Two kids in Tommy’s group, he finished second.
Three kids in Chris’s age group, he finished third. No one in the old man’s wife’s
age group – she finished first. All three earned medals. No, they did more than
earn them, they won them. Fair and square. Would they have won if more people had entered?
Maybe, maybe not. But on this day, more people did not enter. The boys finished
the race, they won their medals.
As it turned out, the old man won his race as well. After
the medals were handed out he got a copy of the results. He looked at the times of his two runs.
They were nearly identical, the second run was 1/100th of a second faster than the first. The
best time posted by the silver medal winner in the old man’s group was 14/100ths of a second slower. That
is, literally, the blink of an eye.
If you’re reading this story and you happen to know my kids,
do me a favor and don’t tell them they won because the field was light. They don’t need to
know. And the truth is, they earned their hardware. They finished the course, they competed
against the field that was assembled that day. Their times stood up.
Maybe Chris or Tommy will go on
to compete in athletic events as they get older. Perhaps they will be successful, perhaps not.
But on this day they each earned something that can never be taken away from them. On this day,
they were medal winners in a sanctioned ski race. On this day, they were champions. So
to was their mother, though she is a champion every day, just by the nature of who she is.
And as for the old man, his reward
is the smile on his children’s’ faces.
Come to think of it, he is a champion as well.
