Wanderlust

It’s been too long since I last disappeared. I miss the weight of a rucksack on my shoulder. I miss the moment when I first step off of a metro in a strange new city; the nanosecond-long pause to inhale the new air and realize it’s just the same as the air at home.

(I lost countless photographs in a hard-drive crash during college. I have so few photos left from my travels… Here’s one. Hopefully hard copies of the rest have survived, buried somewhere in my parents’ basement.)

A moment’s rest on Mt Luxmore.

“You’re coming to realize that travel anywhere is often a matter of exploring half-understood desires. Sometimes, those desires lead you in new and wonderful directions; other times, you wind up trying to understand just what it was you desired in the first place. And, as often as not, you find yourself playing the role of charlatan as you explore the hazy frontier between where you are, who you are, and who it is you might want to be.”

Rolf Potts, from“Tantric Sex for Dilettantes”

Going Bare(foot)

From ages 8-18, I was a swimmer. Happy, water-logged, and injury-free. Until a strained shoulder aggravated and ended my swimming career just as I was getting excited about swimming at the college level. Kicked out of the pool, I stood on land with a confused look on my face. What am I supposed to do now?

After quite a lot of peer pressure, I took up Ultimate. Which went well enough until I got good enough to make the sharp, sudden cuts that make Ultimate an awesome sport to watch and play. I kept spraining my ankles and wrenching my knees… and custom orthotics only made it worse…. Long story short, it seemed like my running career was over before it started.

And then I switched to New Balance Minimus Trail.

Pre-minimus, I couldn’t run for longer than half a mile on pavement. On my first minimus run, I ran four miles. I had never, ever run four miles before.

The soft Vibram soles connected me directly with the ground, letting my foot strike adapt immediately to irregularities without twisting ankles. The snug heel keeps my foot in place, while the roomy toe-box lets the mid- and fore-foot stretch and flex naturally.

There aren’t really barefoot running shoes, though. There’s a 4mm drop. While I don’t really understand what that means, the 4mm drop encourages the mid-foot strike. Even when I tried these shoes out for the first time, they forced me to adapt a more balanced, forward stance. (I am a supinator that likes to lean back and walk on my heels. Serious issue for running. And skiing.)

I love these shoes. I love them so much I often use them on day hikes instead of hiking boots. They got me through my first Spartan Sprint. They are the shoes that got me running and have kept me running ever since.

Yellow is my least favorite color. I hate it. Probably because I’m from Massachusetts and therefore find yellow lights offensive.

For my second pair, I opted to try out the Minimus Multi-Sport, the water-resistant cousin to the Trail. They’re essentially the same show with a less breathable coating. And I’ll say, for running on damp streets, the Multi-Sports are great. But I definitely notice the loss in breathability. With the Trails, I could run without socks on really hot days, but not with the Multi-Sports. I tried once, and it was pretty uncomfortable.

I’m planning on getting a new pair of Trails pretty soon. I’ll save the Multi-Sports for day-to-day use (like walking to the grocery store on a damp day. Being in a grocery store with soggy-feeling feet just ain’t right), while using the Trails my primary running shoe.

But guarantee, if you see me yogging through town, I’ll be wearing these.

Live, Learn, Run.

 

Sugar, Spice, Almost Everything Nice: Head Sweet Ones

As promised, a proper write up on my darlings. Consider this the official review for the 2011 Head Sweet Ones. You remember them – the skis with the stupid shiny W.

Head shot.
……. get it?

After a full winter riding these babies, I can say… they are a whole world of difference from my old skis.

The Sweet Ones are soft and flexible with plenty of play in the ride. They eat up groomers and the fluffy white with ease.

All that flexibility comes at a price, though. When the going gets variable, the ride gets real weird. When alternating between ice, crud, and soft, the flex works against you. Especially at high speeds, they chatter and bounce uncomfortably. On the one hand, this can make the run interesting (and therefore more fun), especially when riding a more relaxed day with friends with lower top speeds. But when it comes to hard performance riding on variable snow, the Sweeties get left in the car. (Don’t worry – I always leave the window open a crack so they can breathe.)

This pair is a little longer than my old skis (Rossignol Cobras from the annals of history), and I swear I can feel it. There have been times in the woods when I’ve misjudged my turns, only to get tangled up in the undergrowth. Some of these control issues probably stem from my boots, which are way too old and way too stiff.

What really took a while to get used to was my sudden ability to carve in powder. With my old, stiff, skinny skis, turning in the deep was more of an aggressive wiggle (or, in the words of Freeride Skier, “bounce up and down in an energetic fashion”). But with the extra surface area and forgiving softness, I could turn. In the snow. Believe me. This was a revelation.

My main complaint really isn’t much of a complaint – I hate the twin tips. But not as much as the people behind me hate the twin tips. They kick up a serious amount of snow and really piss off whoever is riding behind me. Because I am polite, this meant I spent a lot of time at the tail end of my skiing crew, morosely chewing up the leftovers.

The bottom line, these are great skis that do a lot of heavy lifting. They are a joy to ride – most of the time – and when they’re not, my old stiffies are more than up for the job. But, there were only two or three days where I absolutely had to ride my old skis for the added stability (not counting race days, when the old parabolic curve kicked ass).

The winged W is still stupid.

From Snow to Beach in 7 Days

In the span of a week, my photostream transformed from this:

73º and sunny – April 28, 2013

To this:

It also comes in pints. May 5, 2013

Now, my routine has turned to running and long bike rides along the water.

Running-wise, my mileage is low and the pace steady. It’s taking time for my body to re-align after a cold winter spent locked in to stiff ski boots. Monday morning’s brisk 2 mile jog was the first time I really felt myself hitting the perfect stride – forefoot striking with balance and energy.

As to the cycling, I confess. I’m not much of a biker. My dad and elder brothers are pretty into it, so I made a point to not be. But, after a 14 mile spin along the waterfront, I’m starting to see the appeal: the gratifying sensation of speed, the pleasure of exercising in the sun, and, more importantly… a built-in air conditioner! It’s no skiing, but at least it’s cool.

I’m looking forward to getting back to the mountains, though. First for hiking, then trail running, picking up the pace as I train for the Spartan Race. I did the 3 mile version last year, and am looking forward to the long form. Nothing sounds like more fun that running up and down a mountain through mud, under obstacles, over rope ladders… and through a gauntlet of gladiators.

There’s a lot I’m looking forward to this summer, but don’t expect the ski talk to disappear completely. I’ll be writing up a review of my new skis (Head’s Sweet Ones) in a few days, and I’m sure I’ll find some other way to keep the snow alive this summer.

How’s your spring going? Are you keeping the snow alive?

Spring on the summit of Jay Peak

What an amazing day.

Day 29 and I’m sunburnt, happy, and completely content. I fully intended to tap out at 30 – to hit that magical round number. (This is my first year counting days. Something I picked up from the ever-inspiring Female Ski Bum.)

But, if this is the day I end on, then so be it.

You should definitely view this full-sized.

I conned/bribed/begged a friend to come with me to Jay Peak. He’d never been, so it was a extra joy to introduce him to one of my favorite mountains (and the tram – he’d never been on one before!).

It was 63º at the base when we arrived. Then, we skied snow at the sweet spot between the consistency of corn and mashed potatoes. Wide open trails, hardly a crowd… we didn’t even mind that there were really only a few ways from top to base. At the summit, we could see straight to Mt Washington.

Sunny with a chance of Craig.

Lunch was the Jay Peak meal of champions: two salads, a plate of hot poutine (my favorite food group. I’m mad for poutine.) and a 24oz can of Molson.

A few more runs, and we were both cooked. Back at the car, the thermometer read 73º.

I can think of no better way to end the 2012-2013 ski season than this: sunburnt and happy sipping on a fresh, cold Switchback.

The next season

Have you gotten the sense yet that spring is not my favorite thing? My roommate certainly has. It must get tiring listening to my nonsensical rants against the warming of the world. Between the loss of snow and the rise of allergies, these months get me pretty ornery.

But I ain’t turning back to living that old life no more.

But, there is nothing less constructive than raging against the weather. Instead, make the best of it. Focus on the seasonality of things.

This spring, I am grateful for:

• Evening runs when it’s still bright enough to see
• Corn snow
• Tulips
• Muddy boots
• Musicians singing on Church Street

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What are you focusing on this spring?

Last Days, Blue Skies

The sky was blue, the sun was warm.

I didn’t mean those things I said. I love you! Don’t let me go!

28 days doesn’t seem like very many.

28 days of new friends and old. 28 days of powder measured in inches and the distance between two gates measured in seconds.

28 days later, I want 28 more days of snow and cold and bluebird (and graybird. I am from New England after all).

Before the crowd.

The inevitable thaw continues on, although it’s not over until it’s over. Jay Peak is holding on, as is Killington. Sugarbush, too.

28 days. Why not squeeze in a few more?

Less than Stoweked – A Stowe Mountain Ski Area Review

Alternative title: In which I bite the hand that skis with me.

I spent the winter riding up, down, all over Stowe Mountain Resort. Bombing trails, bumping moguls, ducking in and out of trees, and sometimes avoiding cliffs and ice flows. (But only sometimes.)

Stowe is a great area.

Two words: powder day.

But I’m not going back next year. And I’m not bummed out about it.

I got my season pass at a steep discount. A lucky break for me, really, as I’m poor. My very impressive Helly Hansen jacket is a hand-me-down. My new skis were bought on sale. The rest of my equipment is either ancient, a hand-me-down, or a Christmas present.

I love skiing on Mt. Mansfield. It’s an awesome, gnarly mountain with the steep pitches and tight chutes that make my heart go rat-a-tat-tat. If Stowe was the only resort on this mountain, I would seriously consider sleeping in my car to afford to ride there. But it’s not. Smuggler’s Notch is just on the other side of the slope. You can even ski between them.

Oh hey there, Stowe. You’re looking pretty today.

That about sums up why I like Stowe, but don’t love it.

There’s also this: I’m sure they put a lot of money into their facilities, ski programs, and whatever else. None of which I use. They have fast, efficient chairlifts that carry more than two people. That’s nice, but I don’t really care.

Then again, that 4.7 million dollars they spent on a new snow making system… that is awesome. Their man-made snow is just as fun to play in as the real thing and the investment meant my first day of skiing was November 10th. Nowhere else comes close in snow making ability and quality, and in the temperamental winters of New England, that counts for a lot.

And the locals. Stowe locals are amazing. While I’ve probably pissed them all off by writing this, I must say that they are the best damn riders in New England. I’m a much better skier having spent a winter chasing them down the mountain, and when I go back (because I will. This winter and in winters to come), it’s because of them.

But I won’t miss snide comments overheard in the lift line that were so stereotypically moneyed American that I wanted to reach across the ropes and smack them. I also won’t miss the poorly concealed “Oh, you’re one of those,” when I tell people where I ride.

I love Mt. Mansfield. But I don’t love Stowe. The positives (of which there are many, many) are still outweighed by an overarching sense of disquiet. I belong somewhere quite a bit weirder.

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Get out to Stowe and form your own opinion. Let me know what you think. And Stowe-folk, please don’t hate me.

Those Green Mountains

Oh, you’re taking a photo? Here. Let me ruin it.

Can you believe this photo was taken on Saturday?

24 years of skiing and this sport still surprises me. Mid-winter coverage all the way into April. Corn snow as light as powder. With every turn, the falling ssshhhhhhh sound of sand downhill. Only… it’s still snow.

Clouds hung on to the summit for dear life – like winter holding out against spring. The sun broke through in the lower elevations, however, baking the corn into wet, soft mush.

We spent the day in the trees. In April.

The next morning, I sat on a porch in a t-shirt sipping coffee watching the grass turn slowly greener.

Don’t give up yet. There’s still snow in those green mountains.

Dog Borrower

I’m an unabashed, unashamed borrower-of-dogs.

From Sophia, my old corgi girl. My first dog and my litte sister. A quintessential corgi personality. Impossible to photograph, impossible to train out of begging for food at the dinner table.

To Joey, my brother’s Norwich Terrier, who conquers hearts and gains admirers wherever she goes.

Or Tanner, the English Shepherd mix who might just be the perfect dog. A rescue, too, who’s found his forever-ever home.

Then there’s Hailey, the most opinionated dog on the planet. I have never met another dog more convinced that she’s right and you’re incredibly and incurably wrong.

Ella, my dog-cousin. She looked me in the eyes one afternoon, and the wordless knowledge passed between us that she owned me and there was nothing I could do about it.

Younger than the others, though fast growing out of her gawky teenage years, is Clover. A free spirit and mountain dog with a soulful face and a hound dog’s bark.

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There are others, too, that I’ve held and held back. And still more that I’ve stopped on the streets to say hello. Corgis that have brought tears to my eyes. German Shepherds that won me over in a matter of moments. A Chow-Chow-mix who was the sweetest dog I ever did see, but who definitely did not understand the concept of me spending a night on his sofa. And my parent’s first dog, who I know only by pictures. A protective mutt they found in a barn.

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Here a mutt, there a pure bred. From rescues, puppy mills, pounds, breeders, accidental litters.

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Dogs who evolved to stand at our sides. Who we brought into our tents, homes, families. That lick our fingers and faces. That leave marks on our lives, and maybe even our skin.

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I still have the scar from when I was bit in the face as a child. An accident on both our parts – mine and the dog’s. Neither of us meant any harm, and there were no hard feelings. I loved that dog, Oscar, before and I loved that dog until he passed away, a very old man, years after. When someone tells me they don’t like dogs because they were once bit, I lift my chin and trace the thin mark of stitches against my jaw.

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Like a dog, forgive. And love again.

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Other lessons from every dog: stop to admire the leaves on the ground, the grass. Appreciate a blanket and a sofa. Stay hydrated. Stretch you legs. When it feels good, lean in to it. Sigh with contentment. Love your work. Love your play. Get dirty. Shake when wet. Kiss the ones you love every day.

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Mine is a life lived in dog-years. Mine is a heart marked by paw prints.