That familiar feeling.

It's equal parts weariness and anxiety.  Weariness because I'm falling behind at the firm and I can see the late nights and weekends -- at my desk -- in my future.  Anxiety because it's snowing.  Where am I going to ski?  Who is available for partners?  Should we spin tram laps or hike something loooong?  A lot of new snow, but not much wind, so . . .  And so on, and so on. 

The anxiety is a nice problem to have.  The weariness, on the other hand . . .

From a recent trip to Deseret Peak.  More to follow . . .

I aspire to 1993.

Part of my obsession with skiing is the constant reassessment of my "goals in skiing."  Perfecting a GS turn, taking air at speed, skiing the Alps  . . . skiing the Alps well.  All of these are among The Goals. 

But most of all, I aspire to ski as well as the stunt skiers in Aspen Extreme. 

They rip 200cm GS skis in variable snow (to put it kindly), they float a classic "extreme" tip cross off the cat track, and they apparently have ACL's made of steel, 'cuz they backseat everything and ski away. 

Maybe -- if I stay committed, stay fit, and keep working at it -- maybe some day I'll ski as well as Dexter and TJ. 

The Luck of the Draw.

I thought I had timed it right.  I bailed on work last week and I skied the four best days of my year -- in a row.  We floated through an effortless Thirds to Eagle's on Thursday; arc'd hero snow on Baldy at The Bird on Friday; ripped an untracked Lone Pine and a windbuffed West Rustler on Saturday; and then porpoised through fluffy craziness in Gunsight and the Backside on Sunday.  It was as good a string of days as I've ever had. 

And then we received another four feet of snow.  LCC didn't open yesterday.  The lifts at Alta never turned.  Today is going to be epic . . . at my effing desk.
 

From this morning at The Bird, 'cuz Alta's website is down.  Probably buried under too much snow. 
I hate everyone.  Perhaps this guy the most. 

My new idol.

He can pull a lincoln loop on a jet ski, he rides a mean mechanical bull, and he has great taste in tattoos.

Yes, it's official, my new idol is: the monkey sock puppet from the Kia Sorrento commercial.



Mr. Monkey was nearly beaten out by The Most Interesting Man in the World. But the Monkey has a kick ass theme song, so he gets the nod.

Praying for the Holy Grail of Snow Conditions . . .

Once upon a time, a group of us were skiing at Alta on a day in March. It was a storm day and an honest 6-10" had fallen by early afternoon. As we hopped on Wildcat for a lap in the 'Ho, the liftie pulled the "Closed" sign across the lift line behind us. At 2:30 p.m. "That's odd," we thought.

Before we heard the thunder, we heard the lift cables sizzling. No shit -- sizzling. And then came the lightning. The liftie at the top of Wildcat was abandoning ship by the time we got to the top. Later, we would hear rumors that the hippy in the top shack at Supreme was on his megaphone yelling "Save yourselves!!" A quick run down Collins Face and we retreated to the GMD for a pitcher. The storm had gone nuclear, the lifts were closed, and people were headed for their cars. We assumed our day was over.

But is wasn't. An hour later, the front passed and the lifts started turning again. And it was ON. Two inches of windbuffed graupel coated everything. The High-T was effortless and West Rustler was buffed-out silk-tastic-ness. Everyone who had enough vision (read: luck) to wait it out spent the next hour going very, very F-A-S-T.

Why bring this up now? Because this:


sounds like an afternoon of this:

Graupel a.k.a. silky ball bearings. Pure speed.

Keep your fingers crossed . . .

The Age Old Question.

If you could be any kind of pro athlete, what would you be?

After watching the Olympics for the last two weeks, "alpine ski racer" is an intriguing choice. Alpine racing has a rich history of hairball competitors (see Exhibit A, below) and exotic locations. And you go really effing fast. What could be better? Well . . .


Exhibit A: Bill Johnson may have valued speed above all else. It eventually cost him, but not before he won gold in Sarajevo. A total stud.

MotoGP Racer. Hairball characters, exotic locations, and a throttle. And you go really, REALLY effing fast.


Il Dottore: Valentino Rossi. He has side burns, I have side burns. Coincidence?

If I could do it all over again -- I'd be an engineer. But I'd still dream of being a MotoGP racer.

Grrrrrr...

My shoulder is still f*cked. I rested it for a full four weeks, but . . . I may not have been entirely consistent with the prescribed physical therapy. And I'm pretty sure that my (now failed) Lent-time resolution of doing 100 push ups a day didn't help.

So now I'm back to wincing whenever I reach over my head with my left hand. Grrrrrrrrrr.