Snowboarding, round two

Bruised but living

By SANDRA DECKELMAN

CALLICOON — As if my first snowboarding experience was not humiliating enough, the tale continues. Every year I chaperone my son’s skiing program at the Villa Roma. As I was signing him up for his lessons, I was asked if I needed lessons. I laughed, and explained I had been skiing these slopes for years, and if I needed lessons something had gone terribly wrong in the universe. Then I noticed the snowboarding lessons for beginners. I mustered up the courage and asked, “Can I take the snowboard lesson?” With a smile, the woman placed my name on the list and sent me into the rental room for my board. What could a one-hour lesson hurt?

At least this time around I knew what size board I wanted and that it should be set up “goofy” style.

I got out to the slope and joined my lesson. The instructor explained the bindings and the basics of snow boarding. Then we split up into groups, older and younger. It wasn’t very hard for me to figure out where I belonged. Everyone else in the lesson was under 5’4” and 15 or younger. As they counted us off, the students in my group kept counting an extra person. After the fourth time trying to count off, it was explained to us that a very young looking boy was actually one of the instructors. I wasn’t really sure I wanted a 10 year old as a superior, but hey… if he could teach me to get to the bottom of the slope, I would give it a try. I knew the older instructor for my group. His name is John and he is a senior at Sullivan West - Delaware Valley. I was slightly assured by his presence, having seen him board, knowing he is really good.

We did some basic stuff at the top of the slope on the level. Then we made our way to the edge of the slope. We got strapped in and started out. Moving only five feet at a time at first, then 10, 25, 50 and so on. All the while learning something a little different as we went.

To everyone’s amusement, and my embarrassment, my seven-year-old son, Michael, skied through our lesson a couple of times—saying hi and wishing me luck.

Eventually I learned my 10-year-old instructor was actually 14. This did little for my self-esteem, but having authority over the rest of the children (as a chaperone) made up for the fact that I was at the mercy of three teenagers.

An hour into the lesson we were about three quarters of the way down the slope and I was getting the hang of it. The three amigos, the instructors, agreed to get us to the bottom and up the chair lift before bailing on us. We were all grateful for this.

I was falling, but not as hard or as dramatic as the first time. I was not nearly as tired or cold, either. This wasn’t so bad. The instructors told me that I was doing real well and would be making runs by my self at the end of the lesson. I was thoroughly satisfied with my instructors when I reached the last drop off in the slope, did exactly what was asked of me and stopped at the bottom without falling. I did it!

My real fear was then experienced. How do I get to the top? Learning to ride the lift with skis was freightening. How was I going to do it with this 20-pound board dangling from my leg? John gave us words of advice, and Michael joined me for the ride. “Don’t worry Mom, if you’re scared you can hold my hand,” said Mike. Again, total embarrassment.

The experience was not as bad as expected. They slowed the lift so we could get on and off, and I actually managed not to fall. The thrill of reaching the bottom and having the confidence to go to the top and do it again was exhilarating. I had conquered the basics of snowboarding. What was there left to do?

The lesson was over and that left me to try this all on my own. I waddled over to the edge of the slope, strapped in and did it again. I made the run four or five times on my own, getting better every time. I was still falling, but I learned how to do it without hurting my self. Then it happened.

The two teenage girls from my class joined my son and I, and off we went. About half way down the slope I broke my concentration when one of the girls fell, and down I went, landing so hard on my tail bone that I cried. I lay there a few minutes, and another parent chaperone stopped to see if I was ok. He was nice enough to help me up and I made my way to the bottom, struggling to stand up. My son stood there, patiently waiting for me to catch up to him. Writhing in pain, we rode the lift up the mountain.

With all of the parents waiting at the top of the lift to pick up their children, I had my shining moment. I crashed and burned getting off the lift. In more pain than I can recently remember ever being in, I struggled to unhook my other foot from the bindings, as parents came racing over to see if I was ok. I was not, and the lift attendant stopped the lift, helped me out of the bindings and watched as I wobbled off to turn in my equipment.

Will I do this again? Yes. Even though I have a bruise in a place only God sees, and I walk like I have a basketball between my knees, I will do this again—probably tomorrow.

For now, I ask for your well wishes and prayers for luck. Who knows, I may actually learn this sport before the snow melts.