Sock Francisco - Episodes 4-6

Previously on Sock Francisco, Andrew and Adella battled the mighty United Leviathon, as foretold by prophecy and shuttle reservations, to gain entry to the promised land of Sock Francisco. They were greeted at the entry point by an emissary from Japan who gave them a magical token to speed them on their way. Andrew's mother heard tell of their quest, speeding to their aid and preparing a mighty repast to steel them for their journey. An evening with Andrew's kin equipped them with more guides and many plates of crackers and cheese. While time was pleasant there, the quest loomed and our heroes steeled themselves with thermal socks and rental equipment for their ascension into the mountains. With them, they brought the mighty dog beast and her keeper. Upon arrival, they dug a small home from the snow and brought their magical charms to warm it. The were ready, then, to begin: the skiing would commence!


Sock Francisco - Episode Four

The first ski day began with its usual series of prat falls and calamities. Most of these occured while attempting to get from the car to the slopes with sports gear in tow, although I saved a few up for subsequent attempts to use the bathroom, to walk through the dining hall, and to push myself from lift to lift on unkindly flat or upwardly sloping snow. We stood in line with various degrees of success in order to get lift passes, mine requiring the obligatory utterly hideous photo just in case my experiences attempting to hold my skis, walk in boots or make it up and/or down a mountain weren't enough to leave me properly humbled.

 After leaving no doubt that I'm a ninny best suited for Buster Keaton's stand-in, I sent the experienced skiiers away, so that I could actually focus on remembering how to ski, something best and only done in solitude. My first run on the blue courses was predictably bumpy. I struggled with my skis, my hands were so numb that I couldn't feel my poles, and my feet were equally out of operation by the top of the gelid and gusty lift to hell that preceded the skiing. It was, should I have forgotten to mention, about 18 degrees and very windy when the day began. I am, should you have forgotten to notice, incredibly prone to frostbite and lost sensation in my extremities at the slightest hint of inclement weather. It was, should you have failed to infer, not exactly my version of perfect ski weather.

Naturally, I fell a couple of times in silly ways, struggled far more getting back into my skis than I ever have trying to stay in them, and got back on the lift without giving myself pause to consider whether I wanted to actually repeat that experience again! Fortunately, "that experience" was a one time sort of thing and subsequent runs went far more smoothly. Loosening my boots and eschewing the liners in my mittens (glove-liners which were strangling that tiny spark of warmth generated from body heat in my hands) helped take the edge off the numbness, and I managed a series of more or less clean runs before my legs started getting shaky.The day's mantra was "Stair Stepper" which is how it feels when I'm using my legs to turn correctly. I also thought about various exercises the scary Russian ballroom ladies make me do in Core Rhythms, and this at least had the effect of lightening the mood as our recalcitrant sun finally lit the slopes a bit. My other mantra was "oh CRAP" but stair stepper was a more fun one to repeat over and over again like a crazy person. I got some good flashes of flow between flashes of "Oh crap!" and was happy enough to call it a half day and delve into my heated bed for a few seconds before hitting the showers and eating a very large amount of food.


Sock Francisco - Episode Five (New Year's Eve)

The sun came out to play in the mountains on ski day two, bringing with it blessedly balmy temperatures of nearly 32 degrees (just dandy when you're skiing, especially compared to a dark and stormy 20 with unspeakable wind chill factors). Happy-fun-good-sport Adella emerged in kind, leaving surly snippy Adella back at the ski cabin for the day. As a result, the skiing was good. Possibly great, and full of more quivering thighs than your average Harlequin paperback. I tackled a number of more challenging runs quite successfully, before capping off my day with a spectacular wipe-out: getting a little overconfidant at the end of a hill, and careening face down away from my skis and poles. It was, if this makes any sense, a enjoyable freefall with a moderately celebratory aspect.

Sensation returned to my lips after only four or five hours. 

Tom, Lisa's fella is also a neophyte, and has slightly more challenge picking up some of the natural motions of skiing. He is, unquestionably, a far better sport than I am. Not that I am not a great sport most of the time. Some of our runs were fairly challenging for both of us and there were a few - er - miscommunications about which run from the summit was "the easiest way down." Andrew informed us quite convincingly that "the easy way down" that had been signed was absolutely not as described and - in fact - sucked. Of course, the way down that he was describing did indeed (I assume) suck. However, he was not describing the easiest way down that we all had seen, and which was actually the easiest way down. The alternative to the easiest way down was pretty much straight down. I am proud to say that I managed it thrice with a good amount of control and adrenaline rushes more akin to excitement than terror. Tom had less luck and eventually took his leave to enjoy a beer while we hurtled down ice. He rejoined us for my suggested cool down on an easier slope and actually found his rhythm in the very last run of the day. Later that day I think he (and all of us) rediscovered bruises and muscles that we'd never known existed! He was also fairly understanding when the "easiest way down" debacle came to light.

After skiing, we cozied into cabin life, with a fire, a puzzle (the dining room table is strewn with impossible puzzles, most of them completed in years past), and a book or two. I finished a story about myself - highly sensitive high self monitoring introverts - and not-Andrew - husbands with aspergers (this was a gift from Andrew's dad with a lot of eyebrows raised and "I think this will be familiar to you". It was sweet. 

Next, I moved on to Cloud Atlas, a fun little nesting series of short stories told in genres appropriate to their time period (I liked, though did not love it in its entirety but thought the execution was apt). Little talk of the passing year arose, albeit some cropped up only to dwindle into ash. I never much make resolutions of such a grand scale, but perhaps promise myself to keep on doing what's working: remembering its my story to tell with the data life gives me, fostering gratitude, focusing on the what-ifs and remaining mindful of my cognitive biases, and generally giving the world a break for my own sake.

2012 waltzed into oblivion later that evening with a mild head nod on our part: mostly a few glasses of champagne with oatmeal cognac cookies (substitution made due to the absence of vanilla and which turned out to be an exceedingly good call) around 8:00 p.m. (midnight somewhere in the Americas!) and then muttering and mumbling when most of Tahoe apparently came under siege around elevenish last night. Elevenish, of course, being when all good skiiers are already tucked into bed so they can take advantage of New Year's morning's notable absence of large swaths of holiday celebrants on the mountains. We seem to have survived the night, but it certainly was touch and go there for a while.

Sock Francisco - Episode Five (2013!)

A new year and time to return to Sock Francisco. Our oblations to the gods of Sugar Bowl gave us one more day of skiing that was not quite as eidetic as the prior day, but darned acceptable. Tom was wary of returning to the mountain, having felt the throb of a rib or two over the evening, and remembering that frustration of attempting to survive being out-terrained by your significant other. Lisa was wary of missing a final day of skiing, particularly of leaving Tom with a bad taste of snow and fear in his mouth. Our compromise was to send me and Andrew into the mountains while they prepared to leave and then to meet up after lunch for a few more runs "just to see." I sent Andrew off to get some final excitement and commenced my own miniature migration around the mountain, which was largely abandoned and dauntingly icy.The wind suggested that perhaps Sugar Bowl itself was nursing a mild hangover, and naturally my feet and fingers went quite numb in a matter of seconds.

The numbness turned out to be an advantage for the day, as I was also battling toe bang in my left foot. Toe bang, as any runner knows, occurs when one's foot is not perfectly secured in the shoe, causing the longer toe of that foot to push forward into the front of the shoe upon impact with the ground. As any skiier could tell you, it's even less pleasant when that happens in a ski boot. Essentially, I stubbed my toe repeatedly for three days in a row. I will be addressing the fit issues of my boot, but that wasn't quite an option that day. So, cold sufficed as my impromptu anesthetic.  I did also remember that I'd not applied sunscreen and hastily smeared lip balm with an SPF on in its place at the top of one of the lifts. Thank goodness I did not bring tinted lip balm on this trip!

I was quite pleased with myself for hitting almost every blue course except for the very hardest one on top of the mountain. I may have lessened my confidence about knowing my way around when I got it into my head that we were meeting at a lodge on the wrong side of the mountain, but at least I was able to stuff most of my lunch into various pockets and ski over to the right lodge where they were waiting for me. At the time, I was in such a hurry that I failed to address the split zipper in my outer coat, so a bit nippy of a ride, but I'm pleased to say I made it. Tom rediscovered his skiing legs later in the day and we finished off with a grand return to the course with "the easy way down." This time, we actually found it, as well.

Our day ended around two and the second part commenced with more bag-tetris, more final details, and four hours stuffed into the car together, before getting home around 8:00. The weather apparently had taken a turn for the worse just after we left - with predicted lows of 1 degree Fahrenheit - so returning the steamy forties of Sock Francisco was just what the doctor ordered. I am now stumbling around discovering little bruises, aches, and pains from the prior revelries, but feeling rather proud to have skiied at my most competent for three straight days. Our final day will shed the warm liner socks and fleecies and bring us to a dance hall. I'm back in the knee highs, which also make wonderful camouflage for horribly banged up knees and shins!