It’s Olympic season. Time for some epic wins, and some epic fails.
Watching these beautiful, beautiful people accomplish amazing feats, as well as the occasional falls that are also part of the game, reminds me of my own days going down the ski hills.
Spoiler alert : this is not the story of an Olympic athlete.
I started skiing when I was about eight. I can’t say I have fond memories of it. It was okay. I remember how afraid I was of losing control, which lead me to go down in a pretty safe manner. Like Grandma passing me by manner. Not much fun.
I mostly forgot all about it, except for this one evening. My whole family was there, grandparents included. We got to the top of that slope. Actually, I don’t think you can even call it a slope. Let’s call it a pitch. All I could see was the dark sky full of stars. As I stand there, I knew this was going to be the end. There was no way I could go down, I could not even see the next turn I would be able to take. I had to go down in the unknown, and I was so scared. After minutes and minutes of resisting, I went in reluctantly, crying all the way. Like a baby. Once down, no way I was ever going to try something like this again.