I don’t know how it happened, one day they were just there. Upstairs, where my good skis go, the rack held a beat up old pair of Blizzards. The Impostors were bold, as if I wouldn’t notice the cheap auto bindings, let alone the psychedelic rainbow sherbet colored p-tex bases that could only be possible in the 1980’s. But how did they get there? I had to get to the bottom of this mystery.
These skis are barely capable of locomotion when they are on my feet, so how could they leave my loyal RCS’s helplessly bound in the basement and make their way upstairs? Usually when I am perplexed (i.e. most of the time) I go to my lovely wife Rebecca, for answers. She just gave me the look she saves for times when I am being an imbecile, (i.e. most of the time).
Then I realized: I am in denial. I might as well campaign for Ron Paul because I just could not face reality. But it all came flooding back: the endless rollerskiing, the canoeing in December, the ridiculous buds on my Magnolia…and sliding across the grassy slopes of Odana on nearly one whole inch of snow. But that was a good day. Marginal skiing is much better than not skiing in the same way that Blatz is better than no beer at all if you are truly thirsty.
So drag out your oldest, roughest skis. Don’t bother to put wax on them, it won’t matter. go ski on whatever we get. And give your rock skis the admiration they deserve for sacrificing their bases to extend our season.–Bill Coady