Black Diamond, Chapter VIII

The journey to Park City for ski camp is fraught with potential dread. Yet, exciting. After drinking too deep from the spirit of adventure the pounding hangover persists until race day.

          “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

Suicide Rock told a story. From the moment you passed this heavily graffitied landmark at the mouth of Parley’s Canyon it evoked ties to an urban legend about a Native American woman. As the story goes, she was so heartbroken when her beloved never returned from battle that she hurled herself off of it. In similar fashion I was about to create a story of my own. Once the bus driver shifted into gear, he cranked the steering wheel like a boat undocking from the harbor. I could almost see Sophia’s figure waving back at me from the uncertain, swirling dark. Along with my native city and whatever else it had to offer. The spread-open valley with its sprawling salt flats and network of wetlands; all belonging to a great basin where creeks, streams, and rivers found no outlet to any ocean and were bound by the Snake River Basin to the north, Sierra Nevada and Cascades to the west, and the Wasatch Mountains to the east; an outdoor wonderland for those who enjoyed winter sports along with all the hiking, mountain biking, river rafting, and rock climbing alike.

Park City was considered a world-class resort and a major tourist attraction for celebrities and skiers the globe over. A destination accessed via Interstate 80 which made its passage through the stream-cut canyon. The lower part was a narrow, winding series of curves through the distinctive orange-pink sandstone exposed on the north side of the canyon. On a route overrun with semitrucks racing up to the mountain pass at the top. Where finding a navigable pass over such a ridge once presented a formidable barrier to travel, our path to the popular mountain resort was like turning over blank sheets with no delineation. There weren’t any crumbling overpasses, fallen rock, or even a single pothole along the way as we drove into nothingness with only the headlights to guide us. I felt exhausted already thinking of the white volumes stretching endlessly ahead. As if shipping off into a ceaseless white sea. The Great Unknown. And with giddiness at the reins, this trip was bound to be an eventful one. I was running headlong towards a well-deserved break from my banal routine and perhaps there would be an opportunity to learn about myself and grow along the way. Yeah right.

Along with that realization came a deep-seated anxiety. Gnawing at me with the teeth of beggarly mice. A mood which starkly contrasted with Coach Price who bounced up and down the aisle cracking jokes to everyone’s shared laughter. I had never known someone to be so chipper and high energy this early in the morning, and any attempt to catch up on sleep got thwarted as the team excitedly covered every aspect of what to expect for the week, and to nauseating effect. Too stoned to sleep; yet, I was too wired to prevent fidgeting for a better view out of the windshield when daylight broke over the black rimmed horizon. Having forgotten my sunglasses in my haste out the door I became dazzled by the lightning flashes of rural splendor as the open road pierced into the sublime landscape of a sketch book. The hefty saddles of her highlands, whose trickling slopes were now frozen over in sparkling ice bright as diamonds, gave off an ethereal gleam at its cleavage before curving out from the hidden slots into snow-covered plains that beckoned you like a weary guest in search of hospitable lodging towards the security of an over-arching bough. I couldn’t see clearly due to the blinding imagery but envisioned frozen cataracts erupting from her formidable peaks in an icy mountain torrent. Teeming with the burden of a season’s unyielding term. A sight no less wondrous than if painted by the early morning light; dripping from mountain peaks, and spilling over each jutted crag to pool in valleys. One could also envision the wildlife. Mule deer, elk, and black-tailed jackrabbit. Perhaps a mountain lion stalking pronghorn or bighorn sheep. After receding further into the landscape, every twist and turn brought me closer to needing something beyond my hometown. The world itself being much bigger and exciting by comparison. Brighter even. I felt the pang of departure stronger than ever. That arresting emotion where desire broke you free from your routine and I intended to take full advantage of this excursion. Even if I didn’t deserve it. One needed to leave home sometimes to be known abroad.

And what was more enjoyable than new experiences? Our drive quickly turned into a voyage of epic proportions. Preparing me in advance for its destination. Yet, to prolong one’s distance from their familiar surroundings was equally liable to induce vivid hallucinations. Ones that eluded sober recollection. For with travel came that seductive pull. The allure of inherent promise like being whisked away from one’s motherland. The memory of which disappeared in fuzzy patches until one forgot how home looked with no trace linking back to it. And scanning over the horizon I couldn’t help but feel this was a rite of passage. Escaping from it all like one who tosses their comforts aside in favor of daring endeavors and ceaseless roving. This renewed spark of vigor came accompanied with a newfound eagerness to observe new scenes and customs during my travels. For which there was no greater ideal than what lie beyond this picture-perfect sketch framing.

On a steady climb towards burning daylight. My eye turned inward. Where I was free to daydream countless hours about winning races. Starting somewhat realistically before they quickly degenerated into full-blown fantasies beyond any reasonable doubt. All conjured by an imagination centered upon myself as an underdog stacked up against the impossible who somehow outperforms his peers. But whenever the reel played out to the awards ceremony where Coach Price congratulates me with a big smile on his face it would stop before I returned home to show what had been accomplished. Having succumbed to enough repeat scenarios, I rested my head against the vibrating window. Clouds darkened the sunny skies overhead while I pondered every potential bad performance from buckling at the line to missing the last gate. Drifting further into my lucid state, I half-awoke midway to peer out with heavy-lidded eyes at vast aspen fields backed with evergreen hills from the lowest saddle to the highest peak. The sun ascended into ashen clouds with touches of bright orange and yellow which painted the mountain-countryside in stands of fir trees interspersed with golden aspen groves. In the distance, a gravelly road wound out of the surrounding lodgepole pine towards a black structure under the guise of a cozy, log cabin which spotted the hillside in a remote clearing. Long-abandoned and fallen to disuse. In near blinding light I could see a series of tracks dotting the white acreage where gathered logs were split for firewood. All of this filtered through the golden light of a passing snow flurry. Like frozen rivulets in an hourglass before its upturned again. Suspended in time. I faintly recalled my bewilderment not knowing whether this were reality or some dream of a simple life fulfilled by hard labor. A comforting notion up until the next bend when it revealed itself to be nothing but a shack on a private golf course.

Becoming weary of the sharp, sudden turns upon a thin belt with towering gulfs on either side, I dozed off again until snapping out of my knee-jerk reverie—halting with a forward lurch as he came to a full stop in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Alas, not all had been a dream.

Road construction at Kimball Junction had limited traffic to one-lane. Delaying us mere miles from our exit. Soon the bus grew restless.

I became subjected to one too many conversations. Becoming disoriented without a single line of dialogue to follow that further antagonized my rude awakening. I cursed how short passages elapsed so slowly, thinking it uncanny how weary I remained from the process. As if doing the equivalent of a solid day’s trek with no stops.

Even after we cleared the traffic jam and pulled off the interstate it was only constant dread from there.

The Utah Olympic Park sparkled upon the mountainside. Once the site of the 2002 Winter Olympics for luge, skeleton, and Nordic combined events, the worldclass training facilities had a freestyle aerial splash pool and bobsled track in addition to ski jumps.

“Look at those groomed slopes!” Coach exclaimed. “Feast your eyes on the legendary training courses for the U.S. Ski Team. The big time. You’ve heard me going on about nominations for the West Team and Regional Training Group, well their athlete selection goes on to make up the finest talent our country has to offer. Competing internationally against the best ski racers from across the globe in every alpine ski discipline. Super-G. Downhill. Slalom. Giant Slalom. Racing on some of the same courses we’ll practice on before Friday’s mock tournament. No wonder the U.S. Ski Team’s address is 1 Victory Lane. Perhaps one among you will rise to their rank.”

At the base of the state’s largest ski resort were the steep roofs, windows, and wooden balconies of a chalet-style hotel with ski in/ski out access, heated outdoor swimming pool, hot tub, restaurants and lounges, fitness center, and spa. The hotel drive was packed with the general madness of manic bellhops and incompetent valet parkers. All of whom ran amok in general disarray trying to accommodate the long chain of buses now idling stationary. Their vented exhaust clouding up the clear sky.

Coach Price addressed the unruly cab in the only way he could to quell our growing restlessness. “OK. We made it. But don’t get too excited, the journey is only half the battle. Next order of business: the code of conduct for this week’s proceedings.”

There followed a collective groan.

“Yes, gentlemen, that means a strict, zero tolerance policy will be enforced by myself and all other event personnel. No snowballs. No sword fights with ski poles. And absolutely NO drugs, NO alcohol, and NO leaving the resort premises. Remember: it’s only a weeklong stay and it’s a privilege to be considered to lodge here. I’d hate to pick up a disqualification from the onset because of someone’s failure to follow these simple terms. Any questions?”

“Yes,” said Drake, making a noise to clear his throat. “Where are the ladies staying?”

“Not here. They’re at a different resort in the village with the kids. Which reminds me, no late-night visitations are permitted of any kind.”

Next came the guilt trip.

“Every year there’s someone who ruins it for everybody else. Don’t be that person. If it’s serious enough you will be sent home early. Lastly, there’s the matter of curfew. Yes, even us adults have them too. Apart from specially sanctioned outings, you are to be inside your rooms by 10PM. Lights out by 11:30. Any questions? Wonderful. When, and I say when tentatively because I don’t think we’ll check in until tomorrow morning at this rate, we do get off this bus I want everyone to stick around to account for their gear and luggage.”

Bus doors slowly hissed open.

Everyone sped down the steps and dispersed every which way with no heed to Coach Price’s instruction.

The hotel lobby buzzed loudly with commotion. There were many windows and the mountain contemporary décor adorning the walls harkened back to this former silver mining boomtown’s past in the 1870s. Every ski club in the Intermountain Division was represented. Including neighboring resorts like Brighton, Solitude, Alta, Snowbird amongst others throughout the state. Snowbasin, Cache Valley, Brian Head, and Sundance Ski Resort and beyond, spanning the western region from Sun Valley and Bogus Basin in Idaho all the way east to Grand Targhee and Jackson Hole. Twenty in all. Most were quick to drop their bags and glare at us while we passed by.

Like a lost child sidestepping through an endless mob, I found myself plopped into a nightmare sequence when my panicked steps stopped dead at the gift shop. Inside of which I found salvation in a wood-carved vitrine containing a small alcohol selection.

I pretended to make a choice. My mind already made up as I picked up a pint of sour mash whiskey and a non-filter soft pack of Lucky Strike being intoxicated with newfound adventure.

I stowed away my purchases inside my jacket without a crinkle before rejoining the hustle and bustle with a whole different attitude.

But such relish lasted mere steps from the gift shop. The team stood beside a crackling stone fireplace. Coach Price spoke with the concierge at the front desk while a sweat-soaked bellhop with bloodshot eyes scrambled to accommodate the mound of bags and suitcases stacking up on his overflowing cart.

After nearly blowing a gasket when told his booking info went missing over a simple misspelling of his name, Coach Price had the key cards to our rooms and we were told the schedule for the week. A slew of early morning, all-day practices with on-hill coaching from a supporting cast of coaches and guest ski instructors.

Being in such close proximity with the others I dared not breathe so that the liquor bottle didn’t show its boxy contours through my jacket as our room assignments got announced.

“OK, I don’t want to make this any longer than it’s already been so let’s listen up. I’ll divvy out your room keys if I can get the twins’ attention. Everyone’s mostly in three-bedroom arrangements except two of you will share a studio. There are two cards in each envelope. Due to volume, I’ve been kindly informed these are the only ones you get and if you lose it prepare to scale the walls. Quiet down now—I’m past due for a bottle of red and I’m only going to say this once. First up, Round, Top, Chuck, Hanger, and Shank and Shank. Go figure. Not sure how that happened but here you go Zack. Wait—you’re Luke? Good try, but not this time. Try not to cause too much damage in there.”

“Yes, Coach,” they both grinned.

Coach Price read on.

“Next room. Blade, Rib, Short, Plate, Flank, and Skirt.”

Only two of us remained. “Look who we got here, Drake and…”

I should have seen it coming. Like attracted opposites we were a natural pairing.

“Don’t give me those looks now. This was a randomized selection, alright? And I’ve been assured there will be two double beds.” Coach Price maintained his poker face all the way through. “It’s only seven days and who knows? Maybe you’ll find some common ground by the end of it.”

The team snickered at this prospect.

I knew better than to speak out on the contrary. As always with Coach Price, the arrangements were final. Despite an initial show of defiance from Drake, his disposition altered to that of utter indifference. Yet I continued to harbor my frustrations. As if there wasn’t enough to stress about. I now had to sleep with one eye open.

“I’m told there’s going to be pizzas ordered for dinner. After that, I expect everyone to get a good night’s sleep. Orientation starts early tomorrow morning.”

Drake took his key card and strutted off towards the elevators. Coach Price smiled back his reassurance which only antagonized my growing headache as I shouldered my bag to follow behind my roommate.

Neither of us breathed a word in the elevator. All the way to the top floor. Making for an otherwise pleasant ride if not for the malignant tension that elevated with each level of our ascent. Doors dinged opened. Drake exited. I proceeded snaillike before a round mirror hanging on the wall. Holding the straps of my backpack which contained all my belongings for the trip with two ski boots dangling from it.

Drake broadened the gap between us with his exaggerated gait. More than fine with the distance, I hung back. Counting down the numbers until reaching my new lodgings for the week.

The hotel room came fully furnished with all the typical ski décor decorating the walls along with all the amenities from complimentary internet to a kitchenette and mini-fridge. Drake had already taken residence with his luggage on the first bed before locking himself in the bathroom.

I dropped my bag, the exact same kind and color as Drake’s except for the broken zipper, and skis to the floor and got settled in. My shiny new purchase hidden under the pillow.

This retreat already provided the freedom I’ve been yearning for and with one glaring exception I felt comfortably secluded. With a world of troubles now behind, there were no constraints to tie me down. I even contemplated striking up a conversation with Drake. If not to disarm him entirely.

Nearly thirty minutes of running water later Drake stepped out only to grab his bag and leave the room without so much as a dirty look my direction.

Alone at last. I pondered the many options from my cushioned chair by the window. Nothing was on the agenda for the night and Coach Price said he didn’t care what we did as long as it complied with the rules.

I nipped at the sour mash while cycling through endless ads on TV. Eye-level with the bottle each hit until it made sense to me. This was the time for spontaneity. For being completely open to the moment.

And the more I drank the clearer it became. Adventure awaited me beyond the lobby’s revolving door. What’s the harm in breaking a few more rules? Other than being sent home amongst other worst-case scenarios, which, if anything, might be the best service I could provide this distinguished organization.

Even without the usual comforts of home all of my previous excitement came rushing back so I filled up Billy’s flask and one glance out the window at the empty drive below was all I needed to steal out of there without bothering to turn off the TV.

A misfit shadow: devoid of any order or plan. Brimming with curiosity and mischief, and holding zero regard for Coach Price’s warning.

The downstairs lobby no longer crawled with hotel guests. Only a shell-shocked concierge leaned against the check-in desk, still struggling to recuperate. I took care to circumvent a group of fellow campers sipping espresso drinks at the café by using a passing bellhop with his cart as cover.

I slipped by largely unnoticed with the exception of two puzzled maids who witnessed me snatch a matchbook along with a complimentary mint from the crystal bowl on the check-in counter before waltzing out the revolving door.

No schedule. No plans. No rules.

Ice-cold mountain air nearly caused me to choke. After spitting out my mint I checked over each shoulder before sparking up a Lucky Strike. I relished in the harsh smoke. Unfiltered.

Late afternoon sunlight broke like runny eggs through the dark rack of cloud. Completely filling me with a newfound ardor to experience firsthand this mountain retreat in all its magnificent glory.

Halfway down the drive I turned heel to walk the opposite direction, as if blown about by every passing wind.

Quickly disoriented. Having no clue where to go. I couldn’t wait around here in the open where I stuck out like a sore thumb. I looked hopelessly around the drive until spotting an old yellow taxicab at the far end. Its lightbox on.

If anyone could steer me right, it would be one these captains of the road.

Without wanting to shout aloud to the cabby I started making wild, frantic gestures to flag their attention. It wasn’t until approaching the passenger window that I viewed the cabby dozing off with his mouth agape.

The wrap of my knuckles on the window would’ve sent him through the roof if not for wearing his seatbelt.

“Vacant or off duty?” I exclaimed. Using the same level of jubilance my mother used to wake me up for school in the morning.

“Depends,” the cabby rubbed his dry, red eyes with rough, deeply cracked palms. “Where you trying to go?”

“Good question.” I stooped until head level with the cracked window. “Maybe a quick ride into town. I haven’t figured that much out.”

“I can tell,” he tugged at a bushy beard which got counterbalanced by a head of thick, dark curls.

He waved me on before attempting to start the already running motor with an awful grating noise.

I flicked my unfinished cigarette to the curb and hopped in.

With a belly full of good spirit—I was off already! Eagerly casting myself forth to the whims of desire. And was that an eastern accent on the cabby’s tongue? His slouchy beanie could hardly contain such a suave demeanor and the waxen twirl in his mustache signified he was a certified drifter.

The ashtray lighter popped out and he pressed the glowing orange end to the tip of a hand rolled cigarette.

“Is this a smoking cab?” I asked. “Why not?” He answered without hesitation.

Finally, someone who spoke my language, I thought while striking a match.

It was all coming together. The cabby even offered to handroll one for me. I dug for another unfiltered cigarette from my soft pack. “How’s your day going?” I asked after he had chugged his remaining cup of coffee. My aim was to tap this wealth of local knowledge and keep the chatter alive while it lasted.

“No complaints yet.”

“Are you off soon?”

“Jus’ getting started. I work graveyard shifts.”

“Right on. I’m itching to check out the action.”

“New to town, eh? I remember when I first came back in the early aughts. It wasn’t long before I had been everywhere and seen it all.”

“Any recommendations on what I should do? Where to go?”

He stroked the ends of his mustache as he thought it over.

“Most out of towners love Main Street. There’s the charming 1800s architecture which transplants you to the past with its Victorian buildings. Along with your fair share of shopping and fine dining. The Egyptian Theatre. It even has a museum. I’ll take you.”

“Is it far?”

“No more than a ten-minute drive. Twelve if you hit any red lights.”

We were yet to pull out of the hotel drive. But with the hidden flask I had all the time in the world.

The cabby whisked me away. Talking all the while as he followed the sharp curve of this bustling mountain town. Now painted with the golden strokes of a pastoral promise suggesting inner growth. Or better yet, a transformative experience.

This transmuted mood came accompanied by a cheerful willingness to make a pilgrimage out of my visit to this storied community. With all its historical charm as a world-class destination for American winter sports. A glossy travel brochure narrative which defined this mountain town as an escape for celebrities and ski bums alike. From piney vale to majestic peaks, the stunning contrast could only be realized in person.

The cabby dropped me off at the top of sloping Main Street and said it was the best spot to return to once I needed a ride back.

From there I loitered at my leisure. Down the historic district where I blended in with ease while puffing on a Lucky Strike. Ambling past decorative storefronts belonging to countless gift shops and winter retail outlets out of which families and seasonal tourists flew off the racks in neoprene flashes of every color imaginable. Flaunting brand name clothing and ski gear in a parade of bright colors topped with ridiculous ski hats.

As I sauntered about, led around by delayed spurts of curiosity, I became caught in large blocks of passersby which were otherwise too preoccupied to note an additional floater adrift this backed-up cesspool of rampant consumerism. Brushing right by me in avoidance of secondhand smoke exposure. By virtue of this newfound perspective, I enjoyed being a random variable. Lost and liberated. Safe from the knowing looks usually found at home.

Nothing felt better than wandering an unfamiliar street. Completely unnoticed. Without fear of random chance encounters with acquaintances you’d rather not recognize. Operating within this mode one’s character could even be obnoxious in manner, disposition, and dress. All while repeatedly failing to affect the masses beyond their primary concern. Themselves.

Roaming on. With nowhere to go. I kept becoming swayed by the whims of misadventure. Like the fading remnant of my story’s origin.

I wandered down the winding stone-hewn avenues. Chain-smoking cigarettes. A slight skip in my step. Breaking off into an alley or side street to intermittently consult with my shiny flask.

Becoming lighter and lighter with each thirsty swig until tapping out at the bottom of a storm drain.

My romantic lolling ended somewhere around here. Stuck upon the lower step of an abandoned stoop. The rapid approach of evening soon left me shivering. Every short breath matched by slow, steady puffs off a dying cigarette.

This beautiful resort town was no more than a snow globe sitting on display at a cheesy souvenir shop. But what had once been a bright and sunny afternoon turned dark and cloudy again along with my thoughts which had taken on the sudden, heaviness forming overhead. The sky purpling in the coming dusk to cast eerie shadows which began to swirl and swell on the darkening streets. Teeming with the near imperceptible flakes of a light snow revealing itself only in the glowing gaslit orbs hanging over the sidewalk.

Here, alone on some side street I’ve never seen before, this was supposed to be my turning point and I hadn’t the slightest idea what the next step would be.

The gathering gray cloud broke over me. The wind picking up so that it was impossible to light a match for a cigarette.

I staggered snowblind—zigzagging back in a diagonal line towards the top of Main Street. My head down and jacket held fast beneath my chin. Ears ringing from being whipped by the stormy gusts of incessant winds.

All sight became a wall of surrounding white.

I wandered aimlessly for what could’ve been miles. My pain and exhaustion bypassed altogether as the liquor I consumed circumnavigated the brain to operate my feet.

Having misjudged the importance of orienting myself before I left, it didn’t take long to realize that in all my stumbling around I must’ve missed where the cabby first dropped me off. And likely more than once whenever I returned to moving forward.

What began as a personal journey or youthful rite of passage was quickly lost to an all too familiar wasteland. The sour mash starting to affect me for the worse.

Hardly nighttime and the town was already going to sleep. Stores no longer being open and the once vibrant street didn’t show signs of a single living soul. I yelled outwardly in a desperate cry for help.

Almost immediately I got answered by birdcall that was uncannily joyous considering the pelting snow and other blizzard-like conditions.

It came from a slate-gray dipper bobbing up and down from its perch upon the swinging wooden sign of a red-brick building. The songster cocked up its tail as it continued to harmonize with the growing hellish winds. Their screams becoming one before the bird swiftly took flight by plunging straight into the heart of the storm.

Blown about by a fortuitous wind, I stumbled towards what appeared to be an olde world tavern. Like going back in time to when a weary traveler could order a flagon of grog or malted quaff. Inviting me to come in as if an ivy bush hung upon the red brick wall.

The ruddy glow coming from the window caught the eye like blazing firelight. I considered smoking a cigarette when a rising swell forced me to take shelter inside where I was met with the sweet embrace of grilled meat and other savory foods.

Every blustering gust, both great and small, tested the heavy door which rattled with each unabated blast. A row of oak casks stacked three high lined the far wall. Some of them with missing staves. In the far corner a stuffy wood-fire provided dim lighting along with wax tapers in brass candlesticks which were wreathed in garlands of green holly upon the wooden mantel. An old hanging wall clock ticked away behind the taps.

My hands, all reddened and numb, sought the warmth of the fireside and a freshly tapped keg like any other wayfarer passing through here. As I was handed the menu I gave a cursory glance about.

The few patrons who were there hardly noticed my arrival. Even the barkeep seemed unfazed. Humming a tune while she wrung out her dirty dishrag to wipe the same greasy spot.

Always a thirsty soul by nature, I was unable to stave off from spending more of my emergency money and got handed the closest thing possible to a magic beverage to dilute the sour mash getting metabolized by my liver and flooding my brain.

Being too impatient to let the draught settle, I drained it well before the food arrived. An overly greasy bacon cheeseburger with a small basket of fries.

I sat there solid as an ice block. Stationary, except my eye kept darting aside. Skimming over, and glancing about, I feverishly imagined trading tales with that one local ski bum who, leaning against a rail, hand on hip, sucked up the air with his extravagant stories. I soon craved social interaction like never before. As if all the life-altering and potentially life-threatening experiences weren’t nothing until shared with a kind stranger over a frothy glass. I quickly became filled with enough mirth to buy a round of drinks for everyone. The barkeep partook as well. Along with all of her guests and the only thing I had to offer in exchange was more money. I was feeling good. Too good. My comfort beside the toasty hearth shifted; I nodded to acoustic voices set to the rhythmic titling of glass. A tawny pub cat with a bushy tail brushed up against my legs between visits to the bar to lap up the scummy dregs. It was somewhere between my last pint and another round of shots that I faded from kindred to sour spirits. Swooning from side to side. My wandering eye rolling backwards as it spun circles in my hollow skull.

One of the last things I remembered was smoking a cigarette outside and conversing freely with another casual straggler I promptly forgot about. Sunken eye-level with liquor clear as a muddy spring—my blurred vision became a rippling sea of capsized faces. Their seams torn asunder. The darkness gobbling, swallowing, closing off the mental faculties in an inexorable blackout stew as the rising waterline brought with it the remnants of my last meal.

Weightless; floating in a swirl of pointing fingers belonging to authority figures in tight blue uniforms with heavy-duty belts. At first, nothing came through but their inaudible facial contortions which became further twisted and strained until purpled like oversized beets stuffed into rigid blue collars. Imagine my confusion standing on the welcome mat of an angry lady’s residence until being escorted off the premises by police officers who couldn’t bother to help me make sense of it all.

From there the message came through partway. Like the broken feed of a staticky walkie-talkie. “But, can I get a ride?” I asked the cop again, more confused than before. “Absolutely not! - {static} You’re covered in sick- {static}!” Said a burly officer with a distinct English accent which sounded strange and out of place. All I could do was incoherently spew something back about Carbonado Ski Resort and ski camp. Thankfully, they must’ve had better things to do then take me in for processing and after the senior officer emphasized how many charges he oughta stick me with, to which I simply nodded along, I was allowed to flee the scene without even a consideration as to whether being released back to the street was better than being in their custody.

It had stopped storming. The skies clear. Only now I couldn’t escape the sickly smell of stale vomit.

All of my prior excitement and drinking to excess quickly caught up to me. And with a vengeance. Permanently erasing the rest of what happened thereafter, and perhaps for the better. I strained my mind trying to remember any more tidbits and relevant bits of information. The one thing I gathered was that after knocking endlessly upon the door in my drunken stupor it flung open to reveal someone else’s condo instead of my hotel room. The poor pajama-clad couple could only watch in horror as I moved onto the next door of their complex. Before the cops had the opportunity to pound my face in the pavement, all parties involved must’ve wrote me off as an out of towner and cut me slack for the sake of public relations. Tourism contributed to the city’s income, after all.

It became abundantly clear I tried walking to the hotel after closing time and been too inebriated with good spirits to prevent from puking, and mostly all over myself. And the more I came to, the further I was from blacking out the means to my utterly humiliating end. The solid evidence covering down the entire right side of my jacket, my hair, and shoe in half-digested orange chunks. Even Billy’s flask was missing.

I burned with my cigarette. Reflecting on the reckless decisions leading to my walk of shame in an unfamiliar place during the lonesome hours of the night. Without even a gentle breeze for company. A walking, spectacular back fire to the motive which sent me out here to begin with.

Like being pointed by a compass with a broken needle. I had no means of discerning which direction to turn.

I was turned loose. Left stranded on this empty road I never stopped travelling.

Blinded by the dark; no more than a vagrant earthworm squirming through loose dirt to bury itself deeper. Confusion begot frustration. Frustration begot despair.

The night air hung still as I blew down the sidewalk more furious than any storm. Nearly on the brink of giving up when a passing car trapped me in its high beams.

“You sure get around, don’cha?” The driver’s response came from out of the partly cracked window.

That was all I needed to hear to know it wasn’t more law enforcement and the same run-down cab from earlier.

“Man, I’m sure glad to see you. I can’t seem to find my hotel.”

The cabby sniffed at the air with cool indifference.

“Not surprising. It’s nowhere close to here.”

“Can I get a lift?”

Warily, he studied me over in my present condition. Crusty. Red-eyed. No doubt stinking worse than the trash-filled gutter I emerged from.

“I’ll pay double the fare,” I added.

“Don’t be standing around now, get in,” the cabby said. His disbelief regarding my altered state was palpable as I crawled in, puke-ridden and eager to be wrapped in the running car’s warmth. Safe and sound all snuggled in the back seat.

“Thanks again for the ride, I thought I’d be hoofing it.” I started to light a cigarette in hopes of distracting from the vile stench emanating from my clothing.

“Not a smoking cab. Sorry.”

Given such a distortion of character I soon found I was riding with someone entirely different. Someone who viewed me with disdain. Eying me suspiciously in the rearview mirror as he drove. He pressed on.

“Rough night, huh? What’s the story? In my experience, only a lady puts you out on the street at this hour.”

“Even worse. I did it to myself.”

“Well, I hope you learned your lesson.”

“I never was a great student. Sometimes you gotta keep fucking up to make sure.”

“Back in my day, once was enough.”

“Must be something with my generation. There’s almost too much pleasure in fucking up the process.”

“The threat of punishment should serve as a precautionary warning. I’m surprised you weren’t picked up by the fuzz.”

“I was, believe it or not. But strangely enough they tossed me back out like a feral stray. They’re a one-stop taxi service they said and had no desire hauling me to the station.”

“Not a terrible arrangement from the looks of it. All considered.”

“I wasn’t complaining. Except I’ve had more than enough walking around.”

“That’s the experience a visitor pays for, and as a seasoned cabby you’re not the first to be sitting in the exact seat you are now. Travel doesn’t do every visitor good.”

“No fooling.”

“It’s partly why I never leave or go nowhere. I don’t know about that touristy stuff. I live here is all. But you’ll help pay for the gas.”

“As long as somebody benefits out of this. It was some faulty reasoning to explore a new city with a full pint for a map. Remember which hotel?”

“How could I forget? It’s not too far from here. But a long walk if you don’t know where to go.”

The ride wound up costing all that I stuck aside for emergencies. Although a price couldn’t be placed on peace of mind.

Exhausted, fatigue pulled heavily at the dark shutters of my eyelids. My head wobbling unsteadily on its supports.

No longer bothering to cover my tracks I walked straight to the elevator in my crusty, puke-covered glory and took it to the seventh floor. The round mirror in the corridor revealed my hideous transformation into something toadish. With puffy rings around my eyes and a red bump on both sides of my forehead. Back in the hotel room I ran an extra hot shower. But there wasn’t enough soap to remove the night’s poor choices. I stepped out still swaying in my drunkenness shortly before collapsing onto an unforgiving mattress. Thankful it hadn’t ended face-first on a hard cot behind bars.

The TV set played on. Like the residual pains from that failed first night echoing throughout my dreams. Set like negatives hung upon lines inside a dark room.

My autopilot had always been an intolerable drunk.

I snapped back to reality with Coach Price pounding at the door. Still fully clothed and lying on top of the bedcovers.

I scrambled for the TV remote on the floor to turn it off.

“I still don’t hear any activity in there,” he said with clear urgency. Something told me he’d already been here before.

I responded in the affirmative with only slight incoherence. His tone quickly switched.

“Great! See you both down there.” He proceeded to the next room down. It then dawned on me that Drake wasn’t there. Neither were his belongings.

So began the week’s sobering routine.

Ski school officially began with scheduled orientation. Held in a grand conference room which, brimming with opulence, mixed terribly with the lingering smell of dried vomit clinging to my nostrils.

Day one started off with free skiing and technique drills before getting into gates on day two. Days three and four consisted of three slalom gate sessions followed by three giant slalom gates. Our week ended with a scheduled event in which all of us would race on the final day.

Instead of skiing as fast as the laws of physics allowed like I wanted to, this became my formal introduction to alpine ski disciplines like slalom and giant slalom. All set to FIS and USSA guidelines where the distances between gates were measured to ensure quality training. I was also learning about gate combinations like delay gates and hairpins, a two-gate combination in rapid succession that forces a change in the skier’s edge and direction. Where I faced the obstacle of having to perform. Day after day. At the Eagle Race Arena which hosted giant slalom for the 2002 Winter Olympics.

Course conditions for gate drills varied by the day and slopes were subject to sudden closure. Obstacles included advance terrain like bumps, rolls, side-hills, or sections alternating from steep to flat and flat to steep, inclement weather conditions, and my own stage fright. Especially starting, which I found to be the most difficult position. It was nerve wracking enough mounting the start block, a piece of plywood in a steel frame with a textured rubber mat, even without the added pressure to be ready to race on Friday. The thought of which I couldn’t shake as I readied to run my first flagged course. I sped off. Running counter to the gate in a traverse with my chest facing downhill. The air whistling in my eardrums beneath a helmet strapped too tightly. Each gate approached faster than the last and at the apex to every arc my surroundings began to blur. Like being airborne coming off a jump and the mind blanked. I briefly forgot about racing and breathed in deep, deeper than any bong rip and could feel the oxygen surge through my body. Starting at my feet, then slowly creeping up along my spine until reaching my head—then both skis slammed onto the iced over track and, absorbing the impact with an exhale of breath, I was brought back to reality at the finish line where I half-expected to meet hisses and boos. Whether it was out of celebration or scorn mattered not. I was alive, and the pounding heartthrobs were proof.

Nothing was better than carving the slopes and looking back at the curved S-shaped tracks I made after a run.

But to ensure this high didn’t last long came a host of the region’s top performance trainers. Each of our afternoons were spent with one Nor-am or Olympic level coach. With a couple athletes who competed in the Salt Lake 2002 games appearing for a quick speech accompanied by a rough overview of your racing performance. Which they capped off with something along the likes of: “Ambitious run. Take care not to take on more than you can handle.”

According to a gangly Frenchman with thick curly hairs sticking out from his enlarged nostrils and a heavy accent, the objective was controlling your breath throughout the run. That and the sole intent to perform at an optimal level. For which, he drilled me straight away and countered each answer with another question:

“I’m guessing you’re familiar with the fundamentals?”

“Pole plants?”

“Carving turns?”

“Transitions, gliding, and jumping?”

I’ll never forget the disappointment of the coaching staff each time I gave them an answer. Like I was wasting their time providing the wrong response and somehow failing their test. And nothing curbed an acid tongue like repeated performance drills in slalom. With junior instructors acting as Gate Judges who yelled commands.

“START STOP!”

This indicated whether the preceding racer had fallen or was blocking the course. There were designated yellow flag zones on Downhill and Super G courses for this reason, and in the case of an error or fall they’d instruct the competitor with one of two responses: “Go!” or “Back!”

Additionally, most of them loved to bark orders at you in attempt to knock us down a peg whenever and however often they could.

“Drills are not a safe space to be fawning over each other’s talent,” one named Isaac liked to remind us. No older than his late-thirties with silver flecks frosting the tips of his hair, he diligently checked for when a fault was committed and savored the bitterness of a harsh critique like any amateur after their athletic peak. “Done properly, they’re the method of bringing awareness to what’s holding you back.”

Further torn between extension and flexion, this dynamic got balanced out by the youngest instructor whose idea of harnessing potential was through unconstructive positivity and single-word feedback like “brilliant!” for simple things like flipping the ski from its uphill to its downhill edge. But perhaps the most harrowing experiences were the peer reviewed ski runs in which your fellow skiers got the chance to eviscerate your hard efforts.

Such gatekeeping came packaged as scathing critiques which demanded things like show me, don’t tell me. Calling to question why I ever considered this to be my life’s purpose. If skiing was my true calling than why did all this instruction seemingly land on deaf ears?

Drake meanwhile, was in his element. Especially in the technical disciplines there couldn’t be a more natural performance. Where I preferred speed events like downhill or super-G, Drake’s expert coordination led him to shine on slalom runs. His edging and pressure skills unmatched as he struck a perfect balance, rotational and side-to-side. There was an unspoken quality to his charm in the way his ski goggles concealed puffy, red bloodshot eyes yet he still skied with effortless grace to everyone’s unfaltering praise. Whereas, I struggled worse than I did back home. Between warm ups and recovery exercises I slipped into bad habits like centering my stance on the ski through the turn. Even without the dynamic balance or other critical components which made up a high performing ski racer I remained committed to a fault. Of which, I declared a catalog list of them. Whether failing to pass on the proper side or cross a gate line with both ski tips and both feet. Or continuing on the course after stopping completely. Always I was racing to make new mistakes on the next run with actual competitions on the horizon.

Following my first night’s drunken escapade, I had no desire to set foot into the cold or make the mistake of leaving resort premises again. I even considered dumping the leftover sour mash down the sink drain. Each day I only did what was mandated of us. Then skipped the social activities by staying sequestered in my hotel room. Almost monk-like. Except for smoking cigarettes on my balcony which I’d likely later be fined for, it was the best insurance for me to keep a low profile. Stone cold sober. Exhausted, and homesick beyond cure. I could hardly remember why I was so excited to travel here to begin with. Drake never once stayed in the room but always managed to meet us in time for breakfast. Like a beaming ray of sunshine that only further clouded my day. Yet these brief mornings to myself afforded the only respite before daylong workshops on the mountain.

All that week Park City saw unseasonably warm weather. Snow-making machines ensured the course remained race ready. Yet the challenging slopes remained icy and subject to closure in the case of windy conditions.

Still unable to distinguish myself via my craft I was more unprepared than when I first enrolled at the Academy and secretly wished for a shift in weather patterns or program change. If not some natural disaster or any other Godsent calamity.

Breathless whenever upon the mountaintop. I felt awash the infinite possibilities of a directionless sea of opportunity. Stuck upon that dizzying crest before each run. Where the course rippled and billowed out into the vast white nothingness below. Unsteady. My glutes and hamstrings already sore from nonstop training. I felt more disenfranchised and hopeless than ever before. My head swirling with directives as the mock tournament neared. Tips up. Nose down. Look straight. Tuck tight. Release. Despite being an unofficial event which had no bearing on the season, the atmosphere was as competitive as ever. Park City had been the reigning champs for years and treated it as their mountain. “Until now,” Coach would say to us in private asides. Adding further pressure whenever I practiced for the course it would be staged on.

Come Thursday everyone’s families started to arrive for a fancy Thanksgiving feast held in the resort’s largest event room, holding upwards of five-hundred guests. Most of my teammates could be found huddled together in small contingents. Trading impassionate stories with plenty of hand gestures and finger pointing. Always speaking loud enough for anyone in earshot to get the gist of what they discussed. Mostly shit-talking the other ski clubs while obsessing over what they referred to as the Cannon Club and rumor of the wild parties they had. Glamorizing second-hand experiences without having one of their own to share. The Cannon Club comprised the highest rank of named athletes in winter sports. Competitors at the elite level which, like any dream, being a member wasn’t available to all. They were 4-event skiers whose selection was a matter of their national ranking on the USSA points list. But regardless of qualification, they were distinguished by the emblem of a gold embroidered ‘CC’ encircled in laurel wreaths upon their jackets.

Despite feeling famished I slipped out before the dinner got served. A not too difficult feat being invisible to the group already.

Packed in with all the other athletes only triggered my performance anxiety. Now pent-up with energy I couldn’t stop thinking about racing the next day. Compelling me to pound drinks at the lobby bar I managed to avoid all week. I would’ve loved to share this special time with family but what was there to say? That I’m between jobs and spending my time and money taking up an old calling? Until I’ve got something to show for it, there was nothing for anyone to know.

Before long I wasn’t the only one.

A striking girl with honey skin and a curvy, petite body covered in tattoos sat a couple stools away from me at the bar. She had straight, shoulder-length hair dyed red with one side shaved and a star etched into it. Her high cheek bones framed by an oval-shaped face. Her emerald eyes aglow.

Beautiful occasions like these were a testament to all the missed chances which passed me by. Surely, she must not be in a ski racing program. Or else she’d be holed up in the banquet room with all the rest. I spent the remainder of my time attempting to muster up the courage to strike up a conversation before I thought better against it. For what was I doing? Dying to be left alone with a drink to take the edge off. So I should extend that same courtesy to her.

When I looked over at her next, she was gone. Slamming that window shut forever.

After downing enough martinis at the lobby bar to feel like a dry gin-soaked olive I strolled down spacious halls packed with fellow alpine skiers and their parents, grandparents, and siblings, along with countless volunteers who bustled about in all-white shirts. With nowhere else to go I returned early to my hotel room to smoke cigarettes with my belly full and breath reeking of vermouth and gin.

Race day. Friday morning arrived bitter cold and at the wake-up call of Coach Price’s twenty-minute warning.

“Time’s up. Hopefully you took my advice and slept well. Breakfast is ready in the lobby.”

Little surprise that Carbonado’s golden boy wasn’t here. Surely, he was down there already.

No time to shower. I climbed into my race suit and tossed loose clothing on top of it to keep warm. Then I grabbed my skis.

Most of the team was awake already. Wearing fresh, rejuvenated faces as they heaped waffles, eggs, bacon, and toast onto tiny paper plates. Being unable to stomach a continental breakfast this early, hot coffee staved off the nagging hunger yet to come. Other ski racers were already there in a variety of ages, the youngest of them still shuffling their feet.

Coach Price eyed the influx of competition anxiously. But was yet to formally note Drake’s absence or make any sign of it. Although the team clearly had, and expressed their concern silently amongst themselves as they shoveled in their food. Eyes glued to their plate.

The red hand on the wall ticked full circles. Still no Drake. Coach Price’s intensity heightened. Nearly forcing him to recognize all hope may be lost when Drake entered the room in a waltzing fashion, freshly showered and clothed.

“All right, now we’re all convened,” Coach Price proclaimed, right on cue. “Drake, grab a quick bite to eat.”

“You got it boss. I’m running up to the room real quick.”

“Absolutely not. It’s well past time for us to leave.”

The overwhelming dread of running out of time swirled in my unsettled stomach as they spoke. Unable to control my race day jitters I grabbed for my black gym bag when Drake stopped me.

“Hey, I wasn’t able to make it to the room,” he wore his friendliest smile. “Can I keep my items in your bag? I’ll even carry it for you.”

That explained it. An underlying motive existed to his nicety.

As much as I reserved every right to refuse his simple request it was far too early and I was feeling far too hungover to act so petty.

“What’s the catch?”

“What am I asking for here? I need a favor. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”

Paying no mind to his cagey response I shrugged, saying: “As long as I find no ticking time bomb.”

He took my gym bag then made for the remaining platter of scones, biscuits, and whatever else he could bring along. Coach Price’s scowl hurried us off to board the bus bound for Park City Mountain.

Scattered throughout the resort were the artifacts of the silver mining which had established this mountain town. Along with the weathered shell of the Silver King Mine historical landmark, the leftover hoists, abandoned mine shafts, many of them blocked with large steel doors, and old water towers were all that existed of what was formerly the world’s largest silver mine. The precious metals from its lodes delivered by sleigh. Turning a previously unknown laborer into a millionaire. When the price of silver dropped the site got repackaged into Treasure Mountain. Opened with federal government funds to revive the town which had become economically depressed. By result, a thousand miles of old mine workings and tunnels lay buried beneath these slopes. Some chairs on the lifts were even converted from old aerial trams once used for hauling ore.

Now, the only reward that can be found here was by deliberate runs on the race course.

Most of the competitors were already on the glinting cat-track below the finish line. Lined up like soldiers with the bright afternoon sunlight glancing off their helmets. Ready to race. Only I didn’t want to join them. But that was no longer an option now.

The sheer number of spectators was horrifying. All of them bundled-up to their pink faces with more layers than an onion and filling up either side. This was my opportunity to accomplish something. Even if impending failure was the only expectation. At least the record will show I gave it a shot.

Wind drifts carried me across the bright, snow-packed expanse. Coach Price must’ve read my confusion because he showed me to the registration desk. I hardly turned away from the sign in sheet when someone seized my skis.

“Hey—those are mine.” I nearly exploded, damn near clambering over the flimsy fold-out table to seize the twerp who took them.

“Excuse me, young man,” squawked one of the volunteers, an older lady whose stiff arm extended into my rising chest. “Rules and regulations require event staff to check your gear. You’ll get it back before you race along with your bib number.”

“So you say.”

“Forward your grievances to the Race Administrator.”

I suppressed the rest of what I said under my breath. Even Drake watched with wide-eyed horror as attendants whisked away all of our gear to a bright white tent. But only for an instant before he smoothed out his expression, plastic-like.

“Nothing lost,” I said.

He answered with a glare. “You better hope so.”

He left me there to stare after my livelihood.

Coach Price hurried us along. His usual intensity doubled. If not tripled. The process of waiting for the younger groups to inspect the course provided ample time to check out the competition. Ski racers varied by age with the youngest no older than kindergarteners dripping gobs of snot from their nostrils. Races progressed through each age bracket to the oldest division, Seniors/U21. Clear animosity existed between them all. Carbonado skiers stood huddled together. Heckling the other clubs from every possible angle with every sideways comment answered by a belting chorus of laughter. For once, it was a relief not to be in their crosshairs. Even if by default of being teammates. From which came a sense of community by our association so I planted myself on the environs of their conversation to avoid fretting further like a worried mess.

“What a show of competition this year! And for a super combi, no less,” said Chuck. To which, Hanger added:

“Right when you think it never gets better, it only gets bleaker. Take Tamarack, or Bogus Basin, for example.”

“Let’s not be insulting,” said Drake. “At least the latter recognizes their lame. Brighton looks trashed from the night before and Snow Basin is capped at U19.”

“Solitude isn’t much better off. Not that I expected less from that ice skating rink.”

“Must be those low altitudes screwing with their oxygen, don’cha think, D?”

“What I think, is there’s no chance we won’t make the pedestal.”

“I don’t know, have you seen Alta’s new stud?”

The new mention set the pack astir before Drake could contain it.

“Are you talking about the Swede?” He asked.

“I heard he’s from Austria and he’s barely nineteen.”

Shirt pushed into their circle to get a word in edgewise. “He looks thirty. Maybe they fudged the birthdate on his visa.”

“Yes, we’ve all heard about this Bavarian import.” Drake cut in impatiently. “Austrian or Swede. I’ve raced top tier breeds my whole life. Worry about your run times and leave this new hotshot to me.”

“That’s kiddie play for you.” Affirmed one of the Shanks.

“He should be racing U16.” Added the other with a smirk.

Even fellow skiers from our program got targeted. With Blade cutting them down in hushed whispers if they didn’t have a low ranking or failed to make the athlete selection for regional projects.

And the more I listened, the worse I felt about my own prospects. The unknown of what I would soon experience rotted inside. Like a sour pit in my stomach. The hourglass sands quickly dissolved minutes to seconds in a steady crawl to my deadline.

I felt for the boxy outline of my cigarette pack following an anxious pat down. Hiding off to the side, a sharp inhale later and the friendly burn of tobacco smoke soon caught my lungs.

Five more minutes and they could throw me down the mountain for all I cared.

But before I could relish further in the nicotine rush, the junior instructor Isaac advanced my direction. Flanked by two event staff with larger builds.

All this for a cigarette! Yet I had been previously warned and only had myself to blame. “Sorry,” I said, burying the still burning butt in the snow once they reached me. “I know smoking’s not allowed. See, I’m done now. I take full accountability.”

“Too late. Come with me. Now.”

Isaac grabbed me firmly by the arm as if part of the security personnel. He escorted me all the way to the white tent standing opposite the racecourse.

I was dumbfounded. My mind on a zooming racetrack, running in repeated loops without destination while my limbs ached with bone-jittering discomfort.

Isaac led me through the parted flap and my jaw dropped. Already there with his head hung in shame was none other than Mr. Team Captain himself. Even he appeared to have burned all of his good credit. His somber face refused to meet mine whenever I shot a glance his direction. But I could glean nothing further. For the first time he was shut down and visibly shaken. His face downcast, and fixed.

I was instructed to sit next to Drake before a table with three chairs. Two of which were already filled by two senior officials, the Technical Delegate and Referee. A man of small stature with gray flecks in his hair and a rigid woman who appeared giant by comparison and whose face carried deep-set frown lines, respectively. The third chair remained empty.

“Thank you, Isaac,” said the Referee to the junior instructor who continued to linger on the threshold. “All of your help has been invaluable.”

“Absolutely. Anything else I can do?”

“That will do for now.” The Technical Delegate dismissed him without another word. His tone slightly nasally. Isaac shot a last glare our direction before taking his leave.

The tent hummed with unsteady breath. The silence ticking away to the count of a clock the short man repeatedly kept checking.

The fact they didn’t confiscate my cigarettes graduated my fears from a smoking violation to wondering if my first day’s misadventure had finally caught up to punish me. Drake’s presence and continued silence, furthermore, could mean he was here to testify against me. But wasn’t he also absent that night? Clearly, the incrimination of such allegations would result in my removal from the program and his life for good.

In a bright flash of sunlight Coach Price entered the tent. He avoided our looks as he shook hands with the others in a brisk, semi-friendly exchange.

“Richard. You made it.” The woman regarded him curtly. Coach Price looked unfazed.

“Stacy. Matt. It’s been too long.”

“Not long enough considering our current predicament,” the Technical Delegate spoke to him at last, checking the clock again.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the Jury Advisor?” The Referee said.

“They’ve deferred to our judgment on the matter so we’re handing this internally as of now.”

The Referee loudly scoffed. She carried on with what sounded like a high-pitched hiccup in her voice that made one feel uneasy.

“Off the record, you mean? Need I remind you of Regional Policies and Procedures?”

“The super board doesn’t necessarily need to hear this. Please—join us. We don’t have much time.” The Technical Delegate nodded to Coach Price who took the empty chair at his side. His veiny hand pulling on the cord of the black stopwatch noosed around his neck.

The Jury had officially convened. The group consisted of the highest-ranking officials and they formed a formidable line before us. A wall of uncompromising scrutiny which observed our every movement in expectation of a confession to some perceived wrongdoing. Court was in session.

Drake avoided eye contact altogether by boring imaginary holes through the floor. His focus unbroken.

I could think of no clear motive for this assemblage but I knew keeping quiet was best to avoid taking blame for what I may or may not deserve. No mind any late encounters with the cops after covering somebody’s doorstep with hot puke. But why drag the both of us down together?

It became a stalemate of silence. The short man in the center tracked every passing second. Blinking in erratic flickering bursts.

When he stood, he barely looked over the heads of those sitting and with his nasally tone he snapped the tension as he spoke with the air of an extemporaneous speech.

“Afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Mr. Pantofle, the acting Technical Delegate. You may or may not know that my role as the divisional official chairman is responsible for the overall management of today’s race along with my counterparts here, our regionally appointed Referee, the highly esteemed Ms. Mann, and today’s Chief of Race, Coach Price, with whom you’re both well acquainted. We, the Jury and Organizing Committee of this event, are burdened with enforcing the good conduct and integrity our fine sport was founded upon, and we go through great pains ensuring our pristine organization isn’t blemished. This morning however, these most stringent efforts were compromised by unlawful conduct.”

“This affects not only the Division, but potentially the entire youth program.” Coach Price added. His emotionless delivery undercut by tremors of rage.

Mr. Pantofle, who maintained a delicate air about him despite the gravity of the situation, continued on after waiting for Coach Price to finish.

“Could someone be so kind as to elucidate what brought us here today?”

Drake’s dependence on higher authority rendered him as useless as most others who typically cracked in this situation. If there was any possibility of talking myself out of this, whatever this was, I had to speak up first and foremost to demonstrate a willingness to cooperate. Such were the basic terms of any negotiation.

“There’s been an issue?” I suggested to the Jury at last.

“That would be an understatement,” Mr. Pantofle whined on, casting furtive glances between the clock and something Ms. Mann held under the table, back to us again with cold, scanning eyes. Busy computing the probability of every variable to the integrity of our merit. It was torturous. Like being placed directly under the hot light for interrogation.

“You see, for us to proceed with operations as normal, it’s imperative we establish who this certain performance enhancer belongs to…” He nodded to Ms. Mann who withdrew the familiar black gym bag with the broken front zipper from her lap and dumped the contents out onto the table.

Mr. Pantofle slowly sorted through the pile for dramatic effect, which at first glance appeared no different than the usual racing gear. Ski goggles. Padded gloves. Then there it was. An orange screw-top pill bottle which revealed a baggy of finely crushed powder and a miniature spoon when opened.

Coach, who wasn’t focused on the contraband or any person whatsoever, remained seated and looking forward. His arms folded.

I was dumbstruck by the turn of events. But mostly at Drake’s brazen stupidity. And I was just as much of an asshole for not even knowing what was in my bag. If I was a little more on guard from the beginning this would have never happened.

Drake’s placid disposition bordered on comatose. Stripped of his usual posturing, he appeared to be moments away from making a mess of the place. This surely was the best outcome imaginable and I welcomed whatever happened next with open arms. Making my public debut had become a necessity. However superficial that might be. I couldn’t fool myself from not desiring the position if it were somehow achieved.

Yet despite having the power to indict this overprivileged prick, I found having such power to be unwieldy and heavy-handed. Most of the time I was getting in trouble. Whether for drinking and smoking, or thinking and talking—but who was I to sell him out? I wasn’t even sure how enjoyable that outcome would be considering what this meant for the Academy and from a utilitarian stance, it made no sense to disqualify our best skier. He was team captain because we needed him. And to regard my simple passion as a career profession was an ideal in itself. The thought of competing made me nauseous in contrast with my love for skiing down open basins unfettered or passing through pockets of trees in hidden glades.

But before I could formulate something else to say Drake exploded in a flurry of emotion.

“This is a mistake. I’m supposed to be at the Team Captains’ meeting right now. I swear I don’t know whose it is,” he sputtered, his bottom lip trembling. “Or how it got there, alright?”

“You repudiate the allegations?” Ms. Mann cut in. The shrill tone of her voice dragging like nails on a chalkboard.

The pressure nearly split his swollen head in twain until I stopped him short to spare all the trouble.

“Because it’s mine,” I said. Drake’s mouth opened as if to dispute my claim when Ms. Mann promptly snapped it shut again.

“Do you protest, Mr. Jager?”

To which, Drake stared back at his feet, shaking his head.

“We’re sorry for the trouble. You’re free to go the Team Captains’ meeting,” Mr. Pantofle said and he didn’t proceed until Drake slipped out of the tent in a bright flash. “Young man, you’ve compromised our esteemed program with your selfish little stunt. However, in lieu of previous infractions against the Intermountain Division, we must avoid scandal at all costs and being in the preseason, will decidedly not press this further.”

“Outrageous!” Exclaimed Ms. Mann, lunging forward with a bony fist pressed to the hard plastic of the folding table. More than prepared to throw the entire book at me. “You know as well as I do, Matt, that it only enables this unallowable, and need I mention illegal, behavior. The issue, as I see it, is we mustn’t foster these toxic cultures any further. It must get nipped at the bud. And sometimes it’s necessary to toss out a few bad apples for the sake of the batch.”

“Under regular circumstances I’d have to agree.”

“What about in-season events? Can we not dock his points?”

“He has none.”

“It is worth mentioning he’s a late recruit to our official roster,” added Coach Price.

“I swear to God, Richard, it’s as if you somehow plan for this. How do we know Carbonado won’t pull these shenanigans when they host the Regional Open?”

“Rest assured, Stacy, you have my word. I had no knowledge any of my athletes could dishonor this fine sport. If I did, I would’ve already expelled them from the Academy otherwise.”

“Big words. No mind the conflict of interest. Why even have this council? This is clear grounds for disqualification if not potential sanctions for future races.”

“Duly noted. Although unofficial, we’ll decide upon appropriate action through due process. Don’t thank me. A series of repeat offences is responsible for that. Primarily, of which, has been singularly provided by your program.” Mr. Pantofle shot a pointed look at Coach Price over his rimmed glasses. “So, once we arrive at a final decision you’ll be informed of additional demerits, if any.”

His tone took an ugly turn towards a subject that made his female counterpart quiver with excitement.

“Do what you must.” Coach Price said.

The Jury consulted in private about the extent of my punishment. Trying to reason with them now would be like trying to douse a match in gasoline.

Coach Price reclined back in his seat. His arms crossed in disgust. Periodically, Mr. Pantofle shook his head with dismissive complacency. A cold, calculating machine with zero regard for mercy. Still, their whispers worked up into a hotly contested debate. They vacillated from one end of the spectrum to the other, and after much contention their verdict had been reached. Landing somewhere in the middle of the two extremes.

Ms. Mann smiled as Mr. Pantofle dwelled even further on the potential detriment that my reckless decision could’ve had, digressing cyclically until getting around to the decision we all waited for. “In conclusion, and after much deliberation, we not only stand by our earlier position but are in agreeance we’ve been too lenient towards the Academy regarding its problematic history for the division.”

“I’m well aware of our maligned reputation before I joined the program,” said Coach Price with a degree of stoicism. “Thus, I take full accountability for where we stand today. But these are kids. Kids sometimes make stupid mistakes.”

“Except they are grown adults,” said Ms. Mann. “And it’s time we start treating them as such.”

“As our Referee points out, and I readily concur, every action has a consequence, its weighted counterbalance, that acts as a repercussion for breaking the rules. So in addition to a five-hundred dollar fine, a half-second will be added to each run of Carbonado’s U21/Seniors group. Questions, comments, concerns?”

Coach Price burst forward. “How can you penalize them all?”

“For reasons I’m only at liberty to discuss with you further in private.”

“Young man,” Ms. Mann took this moment to butt in. “Do you have a substance abuse problem?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“This is no minor offense, is there something else we should know about?” She stopped short when Mr. Pantofle, on the verge of a breakdown, made a frantic gesture toward the ticking clock.

“OK. It’s settled. You may reconvene with your teammates before the races begin. We’re past the scheduled time already. Chief of Timing and Calculations must be having a conniption fit by now.”

Attempting to talk now amounted to scratching my sandpaper tongue against the roof of my mouth. I had difficulty swallowing this big lump. My throat bone dry.

I tried taking my broken bag and the slap on the wrist with some humor. This was the opportunity the team needed to castigate me from their circle for good. A clean break for the organization to wash its hands clean of impending scandal with a fine at my expense. No need in tarnishing a pure reputation. And despite this ill fortune, my sentence removed a considerable weight from my shoulders.

Back on the outside. It was perfect conditions for race day and all I was thinking about was the lobby bar. Since that wouldn’t be made available, I sought the closest option. And right around the next corner there it was. A concession stand selling hot cocoa and adult beverages without a single person in line.

I was nearly a sip away from warming up with an ice-cold brew when Coach Price intercepted my purchase.

“And into the trash you go. No greater shame than being wasted,” he guided me back to the racecourse.

“Why waste it?”

“Good question. It’s to show that you care. Regardless of how you act. Which is something you should know well enough. That, and because athletes aren’t allowed to drink. I hope you read some of the rulebook I gave you.”

“Not sure what you heard back there, but I’m no longer in the running.”

“How so? You’re still training with the Academy, aren’t you? DQs are a regular deal. A mishap in the grand scheme of things. Just don’t expect any kind words from the others about it.”

I stared him down. Speechless. Stunned.

Barriers of poles with special netting demarcated the courses. Each marked by blue lines that converged at the same runway to the finish. I forgot all about my previous thirst during the transition to our racing group. Watching the ski racers gearing up eased my nerves while I tuned into the action narrated by the unpleasant squawks of a wonky PA system.

The race-day program began with a draw to confirm the start order. Conducted by the Team Captains’ meeting, after which, competitors from the ladies group began to load onto the chairlift, prepared to leave their marks. They raced first so they could start lunch after first run.

Coach Price studied me over long and hard. His face stern with a squinted stare which felt like a giant spotlight shining down on me before addressing what weighed on his mind.

“If I may ask, why take the blame back there?”

“What do you mean?”

“We both know that wasn’t yours,” he pressed. “You shouldn’t take the fall for someone else.”

“Neither of us exactly have a clean slate. Which is an important thing for a successful career. But Drake deserves an honest shot at the title.”

“Titles are available to anybody willing to step up and take it,” Coach Price responded with a sharp smile suggesting it might all work out. Providing my first sense of team pride since joining his team.

“I may not be able to stand Drake as a person, but I can’t fathom so much potential going to waste over such a little—OK, such a stupid decision. It would have only been my first race so we need him more than me. Who can compete with el capitán? Hopefully he learns his lesson.”

“I hope you both do. Especially you. It’s almost as if you speak like yourself and the team are different. That can always be you leading the team. What separates the two of you?”

“He’s been skiing competitively since the single digits.”

“So what?”

“I was never a contestant to begin with, and if that was needed for us to win, so be it.”

“Bullshit. And you know it. Never sell yourself short. If you focused a fraction of that energy towards something productive, you’d see the return we both know you want. Endlessly rationalize it however you want, but you should be the one up there today, not him.”

Regardless of how he felt, nothing could be reversed now. Even if I explained how taking the blame felt like the right thing to do, there was nothing more for my tied-up tongue to exhaust.

“Although I must add,” Coach went on. “It was quite admirable for you to do that. Leaders are distinguished by selfless acts made in decisive moments—but I wouldn’t make a habit of being someone’s martyr. People only love to watch you burn. Visit me during office hours if you wish to continue the discussion. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I’m a vast reservoir of knowledge and experience for your benefit. There’s no greater resource than a lifetime of dedication to the discipline and I’ll be goddamned if I don’t impart some of my wisdom on one of you. Come, let’s get to the ski area.”

The raucous crowd of spectators filling the designated area along the edge of the course further curtailed conversation as we slowly made passage to where the team stood grouped together on the snow. Collectively, they were unhappy about the delayed start and didn’t mince words once narrowing down the source. Drake remained nonplussed and for once stood outside the circle’s center.

An internal shift displaced the pressure in my head as we awaited course inspection. Seeing all of them in their skin tight racing suits made my stomach lurch. Their bib numbers reflecting the sunlight in radiant splendor.

Today’s event: a super combined. One speed race on a shortened downhill course and one slalom run. Although technically not a scored race, ski racers competed for bragging rights to start the race season.

Coach Price delivered a quick pep talk before the racers gathered in the start house.

“Remember the goal for speed events is to limit drag. Initiate turns by moving your center of mass from its previous position to one less inclined and to create tip pressure the movement originates at the ankles forward and downhill toward the inside of the new turn. Working the terrain with your outside ski may increase speed. On the slope, the lead change in the ski tips, hips and shoulders will gradually even up so you want the ski to maintain contact with the snow surface at all times and adjust where and when the pressure is in the turn. Now: to achieve an optimal downhill position will require a lot of mental stamina. Synchronization is going to be key here for good time management. Fortunately, we’re known for making prospects favorable to their advantage.”

It turned from an icy morning into a blazing hot day that made me wish I had left my coat behind. The mountainside became a bright, soupy bowl of sunshine. Brought alive the echoes of excited chatter. Somewhere, live music played as the announcer boomed in a resounding baritone voice that tingled the tiny hairs on your skin.

I joined Coach Price at the finish line with the other bystanders as he shouted out last orders at the team while they readied themselves to board the lift.

“Make sure to keep your muscles in tension. Not stiff.”

The likelihood of ending Park City’s longstanding win streak seemed impossible. That and it didn’t help the team penalty for my disqualification resulted in a delayed start. But Coach Price came readymade with enough tactics and strategies to tip the scales back in our favor. Shouting his orders at the team while I had the pleasure of tagging along. Taking some notes here and there. Even after they boarded the lift the discomfort remained. Like all my organs had ceased functioning.

We waited in painful silence as the athletes ascended towards the rising sun on a triple chair.

The electrified buzz of excitement held the audience in anticipatory fervor as each athlete positioned themselves at the start gate for the downhill course. The longest of all the different events with fewer turns and wider gates. All of which were the same color. Its boundaries marked on either side by blue lines. There were even several wipeouts that played out like car crashes for the oohing and aahing crowd who could not look away.

Younger groups who had already completed their run joined the crowd which only further charged the atmosphere. The mountainside rumbled with the sound of ski patrol on their snowmobiles and the cheering of spectators. Many of them parents holding up signs and banners for whoever they supported. Except one group stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the cheering crowd. They were less animated and clad in long charcoal-black overcoats with clipboards obscuring the bottom half of their faces. Their boredom palpable amidst the screaming stands. Coach Price quickly identified them as regional scouts who had come to evaluate picks for national selection.

I checked the scoring as another ski racer completed their run. I looked over at the course as if for the first time. Never had I spectated the sport live before. Coach Price provided all the specifics I needed to know about the point system for the coming season. New racers started their career at 990 points and raced last. In each age category racers got divided into four seeds; A, B, C, D, with the first race ran in bib order. Apart from non-scored open runs and optional fun races during the season, you moved onto additional events based on three qualifiers. Qualification is based on the best two runs of three races, two runs per race.

The only way to improve in the USAA point system was to perform better than your second best result the previous year. Coach Price went on to explain how athletes earned points from competitions for a national ranking by receiving numerical scores based on their relative performance and work to lower their points within a given discipline. Lower points not only provided a better starting bib number but fed into higher level events such as FIS Development and Western Cup races. Soon enough, he said, my own time would come. But I wouldn’t hold my breath. I couldn’t bog myself down with the ever-foggy future while we observed the next run.

As Chief of Race, Coach Price received a report after each run from the start and finish referees. He then checked the gate judges’ cards for any faults worthy of sanction. Marked by the letter F for whatever they declared to be incorrect. During the process, Coach Price broke down the key concepts of what made their run exemplary from the well-handled maneuvering of movement patterns and skill blending to pressure control, or not, simply by eyeballing the separate components of the athlete’s movements.

“You see, the double-S curve on the upper part of the course demands…” Coach Price was explaining the mechanics of the downhill course when an unexpected buzz at my thigh commanded my full attention.

A text from Sophia! She was asking if we still planned to watch tomorrow’s football game together. An event dubbed the Holy War by the press in which the University of Utah played their longstanding rivals from Brigham Young University.

I had so much I wanted to say but I played it cool. After yearning to make a connection for so long I could reasonably conduct such affairs at my leisure.

“Got that?” Coach Price asked me again. “All that said, the sharp right curve of the bottom section calls for…”

The stands broke into a thunderous uproar.

Park City outperformed everyone in each group thus far. The ladies had already started lunch by the time the U21/Seniors were to take the stage.

I felt the heat of rushing blood. The struggle became a shared one and no longer mine only. Each run had to be executed flawlessly and it would take some miracle for any chance of winning. I inadvertently picked up on Coach Price’s intensity and anxious fretting as the painstaking moments built towards our turn on the downhill track.

Already in his crash helmet and pads at the start line, Chuck spearheaded our futile movement. He was not our fastest but well-rounded for split events which made him second-in-command.

There followed another roar while his bib number and name were announced for the crowd.

He remained still inside the start blocks used primarily for speed events. Ski poles planted.

Ski racers were allowed to start five-seconds before or after the start command was given. GO.

With a kick-off motion Chuck launched out of the gate. Timing started the moment he propelled past the start switch to trip the fiberglass wand mounted horizontally on a hinge and forced to swing open at the movement of his leg.

He was off to the second gate in skate strides with tiny vertical jumps.

“Could’ve been a better start out the gate,” Coach Price muttered to my side, mostly to himself. “For clean skis pay attention to the interaction of his skis and edges on the snow.”

Chuck raced against the clock. Meeting more friction on the wet snow than by sliding on the icy ruts left by another competitor’s carved turn.

He glided through a series of linked turns in a direct line down the hill. Approaching the gate with enough lateral space to come from behind it and picking up the ski by finding the inside edge early in his turn.

Coach Price’s analysis of his movements detailed every aspect of the proceedings. Highlighting anything good or bad in an objective scaling of performance. And if one sifted through his critiques you caught profound insights here and there, even praise at times of Chuck’s transition from a low tuck with his chest flattened against his knees to being forward and high tucking to allow better movement of his lower body.

“Check how he’s coming into the gate deep and catching the edge to establish balance and pressure quickly on the new outside ski. Focusing always upon the feet and skis. Your base of support. Ideally one wants their ski grounded at all times for pressure control. Yet the real trick is adjusting where and when the pressure is in the turn. Technically,” he further elaborated, “no run was perfect and mistakes made in one area were effortless to others. Each side often canceled the other, almost working against them.”

Left foot turn to right foot turn—Chuck’s expert handling of each turn and jump while absorbing the impact of every external pressure from gravity, air resistance, and pole-to-snow interaction landed him in a blaze of glory as he skidded across the red finish line.

But such an effort hardly made up the deficit going into the next discipline as the top seeding times nearly 1/2 to 3/4 his time in the standings. Everyone from Top, Rib, Skirt and both the Shanks to Bottom—failed to make the cut. The other competitors in our group were cold, calculating machines who operated within a slight margin of error. And any potential frontrunner was prone to the tiniest slip ups that snowballed into further mistakes. The largest threat remained the hometown favorite, and if there was any chance to thwart our long running rivals it would require nothing short of a quality run.

Run after run, Coach Price would be first to greet whoever crossed the finish line regardless of the outcome. Our group began shaving hundredths of a second off their runs but ultimately fell short of being in the running.

Coming out of the downhill portion of the combined only Drake could make the flip. Starting his run before the start command was given to finish in the top thirty within mere tenths of a second.

Afterwards his race time got posted on the giant scoreboard—1:41.88. If not for the applied penalty Drake would’ve bested the top seed, the local team captain. How fitting the leaders of the two top clubs were duking it out for representation of the division and western region. Each began racing at a professional level since their teens and had the same goal in mind, Olympic gold medals and a cereal box with their face on it. For which there was only one spot.

Even Round’s spotty consistency wasn’t much of a factor moving onto the second event. The slalom course. Designed like a long drawn out “S” it had less of a vertical drop with gates placed closer together. Requiring short, quick turns which even at slower speeds made it the fastest event.

Between events there followed a quick lunch break.

Event staff handed out crumpled brown sacks containing a flattened ham and cheese sandwich with a couple orange slices to munch on while we sat on the snow as Coach Price lectured on the importance of pole usage and what else to expect from the second run. Like hiking which is permitted in slalom but not worth the effort because you must exit immediately if you get passed by the next ski racer on the course.

Despite my guilt over not contributing my fair share, we behaved as if under the same banner throughout the entire event and I did whatever possible to cheer the team on for another run. Although I didn’t concern myself too much with the logistics, I eagerly soaked up whatever I could in these crucial moments.

Course inspections finished for the ladies before it was even set up. The day was flying by as our brief interim ended with the remaining athletes switching to shorter skis, shin guards, and straight poles with pole guards in preparation for the more technical components of this discipline. The slalom course was specially lined with consecutive gates alternating colors in red and blue with a couple hairpin turns and a flush which was three or more consecutive closed gates. Ski racers would be tested on a number of differentials while attempting to ski the straightest line possible to the finish. To achieve this, Coach Price reviewed some of the techniques we practiced this week.

The group of spectators seemed to grow exponentially. The cheering crowd applauded as kids no older than ten-years of age stepped into the start gate. Once again, I hung back at the finish line until our group raced. The rigid structure of being part of a team constantly placed you around others. Still, I found comfort in my sense of loneliness and that was the paradox I had to live with.

The second run shuffled the top thirty racers to the end. Providing others an opportunity to race first and take advantage of better course conditions. Once the top racer completed their run, the rest ran in reverse order from fastest to slowest.

But only one Carbonado skier had the stamina to further shorten the time gap.

“This is what we’ve been training for.” Coach Price said to Drake before his run. “Go out there and show how it’s done.”

“I’ll give it full gas,” Drake assured him.

“Pin it!”

Cue ski racer #27, Drake Jager. Our fearless and capable leader.

Already in his set up stance in the start house.

Cocked and at the ready to spring into action. Poles placed in front of the starting wand in a crouched position.

The ensuing buildup intensified the atmosphere. Everybody shifted in their ski boots. On edge. Bent in expectant climax of what they came for while not an echo could be heard in the final seconds before Drake, the next to race—and our one saving grace—was signaled to start.

As his feet moved closer to the start wand he straightened up, moving his upper body forward which transferred his weight.

It wasn’t until his center of mass moved past the wand that, with a kick up and a little back, it made contact at the upper cuff and lower boot as he passed through the gate line to start the race.

His arms pulling hard to pull the rest of his body through and using this initial momentum to gain speed using powerful skate strides towards the second gate.

Drake came out of the starting gate charged with kinetic energy. Each muscle contraction generating internal force. The centrifugal force could be felt as he followed a curved path entering the course. His skis bending through the turns. Flipping the ski instead of rolling it to offer him early edge while in seamless movements he exhibited complete mastery of pressure control.

He moved his body forward to create a groove for the rest of the ski to follow, then shifting toward the tail, he started a turn in a strong, inclined position before adding angulation in the hip, knee, and ankle, offering quicker movement between turns. His upper body appearing to be completely unmoving.

His hands out and forward. He glided through turns in perfect unison with his pole plants through the gates.

What could be noticed above all was his athletic stance as he created edge angles in lateral movements. Steering through the first series of gates in parallel turns. Then switching to a countering movement which put his body into an anticipated position with a pole plant and his lower body twisted to pivot and redirect his skis before edging.

Coming out the under gate he moved his upper body forward to maintain a perpendicular attitude upon entering the steeper pitch to the flush.

For speed control he executed a stivot turn with minor slipping—basically a high-speed skid which sacrificed the top of the turn to allow carving out the bottom of it to get a good line.

Coach Price remained silent. Still as a statue despite the nervous gleam in his eye. Not only was this important for establishing the Academy’s supremacy but for him as well. We were equally in this together. The stakes being the same.

He glided across the hill in a precision arc by balancing along the length of the ski with his movement more forward while initiating turns and finishing more on his heel with pressure always through the bottom of his boot. Drawing an optimal line on the straightaway he passed between each gate with his ski tips and feet by cross-blocking. Using inside and outside arm clears to move them out of the way or knock them down using his shins to take a tighter path to those of us who rallied in the finish area.

As soon as the race started it had ended. Everyone fell silent looking at the carved track. Simultaneously holding their breath.

The result was debated only in hushed whispers until the Referee’s report came in with the official time.

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