Death Grip
Last week Kim and I went cross country skiing in New Hampshire. We were seeking fresh snow, groomed trails and a “real” place to use our new skis. All roads led us to Gunstock Mountain. As we pulled into the parking lot, we were surprised to see dozens and dozens of very fit teenagers unloading from school buses. As the students gathered with their groups and started putting their numbered bibs on, it became clear they were ready to compete against all the other high school cross country ski teams already there.
For a few minutes, this seemed perfectly fine to us. We parked the car, grabbed our gear, and walked up the hill to put our skis on. As we approached the green trail, we were informed that the students would be using that section for the rest of the day, but we were welcome to ski on any black or blue trails.
If you’re a good skier, this would have seemed like no big deal. But we are novices. In fact, until we bought our skis last winter, neither of us had been cross country skiing since (ironically) high school. Kim and I proceeded with caution as we made our way to the blue trails.
The trail began with a downhill slope. I gripped my poles as I began to pick up speed. I then tried to swish smoothly from side to side like I would have if I’d been on downhill skis. But with cross country skis, only your toes are clipped in, your boots are soft and have no hard plastic support, your heels are loose, and there is no way to easily “swoosh” side-to-side gracefully.
In one slow awkward movement, I wiped out.
It took me a moment to remember how reposition my body to get back up. I reassembled, gripped my poles, pulled myself up, and we were off again. I was clearly out of my comfort zone.
At the end of the first gradual decline was a sharp right turn. I slowed down enough to make the safe transition. In front of us was a beautiful trail that stretched deeper into the woods, snowy and quiet, and flat for about 100 feet. It ended with a very steep uphill climb. I took a deep breath, pointed my toes outward and reshaped my skis into V’s to ascend it. I also clenched my poles with a death grip: every step upward was accompanied by a simultaneous jabbing of poles into the snowy/rocky/icy hill. For every step forward, I slid a bit backwards. It took about 10 minutes to get to the top, catch my breath, and reassess the situation.
At the top of the hill I found myself at a crossroads. We could go left and climb another, steeper hill. Or we could go right and begin the descent.
I turned around to see what Kim was thinking. That’s when I saw that she had unclipped from her skis somewhere in the middle of that icy hill, carried her equipment to the top, and was in the process of putting her skis back on. As she tried balancing to get her toe into the clip, she tipped over. I attempted to ski toward her to grab her pole, but instead I skied right over it.
To add to this unathletic scene, imagine that a few days earlier I had gone to the salon to have my hair colored deep magenta. With the skiing and climbing and my significantly elevated heart rate, I had begun sweating hair dye through my ski hat. Picture magenta splotches of color seeping through beige wool.
We opted to go downhill rather than keep the climb going. I went first. I gripped my poles so tightly on the final curve that I snapped the top piece off of my right pole and the strap broke. I had to stop to put the strap into my pocket, and then continue.
My anxiety decreased only when I could finally see the lodge up ahead. Next to it, the high school kids were cheering wildly for their friends as they finished the final lap of their race. I too was cheering—quietly in my head— that we had made it back.
As I waited a few moments for Kim, I found myself reflecting on the past hour, wishing I had better skills, wishing I was more confident in my skiing ability, and wishing that I could have made the turns without falling down. That’s when Kim skied up alongside me and high-fived. She pointed out what a success our day was: we had burned a lot of calories, used our new skis as planned, and broke no bones. In fact, she stated that we should be proud that we navigated a long blue trail across unexpectedly challenging terrain despite our rusty skills.
She was right.
Life often presents us with challenges and discomfort. We also have choices: uphill or downhill? Climb with skis on, or unclip, carry your equipment and be safer? Getting the job done doesn’t always mean looking good in the process. Sometimes accomplishment is hard to see when it’s hidden between anxiety and purple sweat. No matter how awkward the climb or the descent, we need to be reminded of the importance of acknowledging and appreciating our own hard work.
Think about this story as you begin your week. Look at the choices you’re faced with on a daily basis. And keep in mind that sometimes we have to get through death grip experiences before we earn the high-five.
