Titcomb Hill

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Saturday we woke up to absolutely gorgeous fresh snow, and P decided it was the perfect day to torture me with his newest favorite hobby: cross-country skiing.

Surprisingly, I’m not outfitted with the butt and thighs so prominently propelling the world’s greatest in Sochi, and this is now my fifth time trying this wack-a-doo sport.

I’ve had skis on my feet since I was three, my brain and body are programmed into very specific behaviors when I put them on; none of which include my heels being unattached.

Now, I grew up alpine skiing on Mt. Hood. This pass time makes sense to me: Oh it’s nice and snowy! Let’s ride on a nice lift and then go really fast! Then drink beer! Awesome.

Cross-country, I’m finding, makes you work for it.

My nemesis.

My nemesis.

Although I’m still struggling with why you wouldn’t just go hiking and/or snowshoeing, I’m starting to get the hang of this glide-ski-walking-hiking-struggle.

Yesterday, we went out again in even more powder and as we laughed and fell our way down (seriously that heel thing), I was glad I could at least try. My sore butt may beg to differ.

***

The Art of the Everyday – February 15: Old(ish) Dog, New Trick – reflections on learning from scratch while looking at 30.

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