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3.3.05 Bird Skis Out of Cage

I went skiing yesterday for the first time in a couple years. Maria's son had ski club after school, so Maria, Scott, and I decided to join the fun.

The irony of skiing is that you really hate being cold. Night skiing is especially wicked that way. The radiant heat from whatever sun there might be is gone. The wind picks up. I had only gone night skiing a couple times before and they were both teeth-chattering experiences.

Maria was expressing the same misgivings but seemed just as happy with the prospect of sitting in the ski lodge with a glass of wine.

And it was a blustery evening -- with remnants of the snowstorm blowing through. Maria and Scott puttered around renting equipment. It seemed like forever before we trudged out to the ski lift. I wasn't sure I even remembered how my boots fit into the ski bindings or how to get off the ski lift without falling over.

But, suddenly, on the slopes, I was a bird out of her cage. The cold air was bracing. After the first run my legs remembered what they were supposed to do and I flew.

The slopes were covered with heavy fresh snow, the kind that feels like you're skiing on mashed potatoes, but I muscled my way through, loving the turning, the sliding, the speed.

Maybe I've been indoors at my computer too long. Even a happy cage-bird needs to flap her wings now and then.




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