You can't outrun a mother's curse, you'll only break your neck trying

You can't outrun a mother's curse, you'll only break your neck trying

I’m reposting this now because I just realized that today is the 2-year anniversary of my little mishap…

My parents lived a mostly sedentary life, which was typical for many of their generation.  There’s no great explorers hanging from our family tree.

I was the daredevil of the family, but the bar for that was pretty low.

I liked to nudge boundaries, but not to0 hard.  Adrenaline is its own reward, but there was also a sense of accomplishment just raising mom’s blood pressure.

Observing reckless behavior, her go-to warning was always, You’re going to break your neck.  Of course, no one ever did, but that may have led to a false sense of security.

I was the first skier in my family.  As far as sports went, my father bowled and my mother played Mahjong.

I started skiing in college, when a friend invited me on what turned out to be one of many our many adventures in survival.

We hitchhiked from Dekalb, Illinois to the North Side of Chicago, where we picked up some gear and a car.

I don’t remember the specifics of the ski equipment, but it might have included breaking into someone’s house who surely wouldn’t mind.

About 90 minutes over snow packed roads and we were at Wilmot Mountain in Wisconsin.

Putting on our skis and grabbing a tow rope, I got to the top of the hill (190 feet), where my “ski instructor” said, Follow me.

And so it went.  I followed him down without falling or making a single turn.

At the bottom, we ran into some people (literally), and returned to the tow rope for another run.

Fifty years and millions of vertical feet later, I found myself cruising down a completely deserted ski run west of the Continental Divide.  What happened next I do not classify as a ski accident, per se, but as a lapse in judgement.

Struggling to my feet, I was suddenly surrounded by people and my skis and poles were 50 yards uphill from where I was attempting to stand.  I could tell people were asking me questions, but I couldn’t make out the words.

Gathering up my gear and stepping into the skis that suddenly appeared at my feet, I turned downhill and headed home.

Something, however, was very wrong.  My left arm was dangling, I couldn’t move my head and my shoulders seemed to be locked into a permanent shrug.

Somehow, I got down.  Now all I had to do was cheerfully convey the situation to my wife, whom I affectionately call Broomhilda.

For those enjoying a little schadenfreude at my expense, tune in tomorrow for Tales from the ER

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Filed under: Activities, Editorial, Personal

Tags: NIU, Skiing, Vail

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