Cold Winter Night

I was 16, signed up to go on a weekend ski trip with the American Youth Hostel (AYH) ski program. The bus was there when I arrived. All the people boarding looked older than me. I thought about going home but didn’t want to admit to my parents I’d chickened out. The bus driver honked, “You getting on or not?” I got on.

I walked down the aisles, seeing only couples filling the seats. I kept walking, looking, wondering if I’d have to stand the whole way. I finally found one, covered with a coat and two books. The window seat was occupied by a guy, older than me, younger than most. I asked if the seat was taken. He shook his head and emptied the seat, not saying a word. I put my stuff in the overhead bin, sat down, and prepared to cover myself with my ski jacket.

I was tired, nervous about being with people I didn’t know, skiing where I’d never skied. The main bus lights were turned off. I felt restless in the cramped space. The guy sitting next to me was as fidgety as I was only he was a lot taller—less space for his legs. He asked if I’d been on AYH trips before. “A bike trip,” I said. He told me he was 19, graduating from Columbia University, accepted to medical school on a full scholarship. I was impressed and silenced. I was graduating from high school, no scholarship to college. Pretending I was too tired to talk, I turned away from him, covering my face with my jacket.

The bus arrived at the ski area around 7am. Wearily, we left the bus carrying boots, skis, poles, and small bags. The restaurant was open. I walked in, looking for a place to put my equipment. A deep voice from behind me offered to store it on a shelf too high for me to reach. The guy from the bus. I thanked him, prepared to leave, when he asked if I’d have breakfast with him. He was tall, handsome, and the only other person besides me who wasn’t partnered. I nodded.

He was a much better skier than me, as well as more adventurous. He liked speed. I liked slow. He signed up for the advanced class. I signed up for the beginning intermediate. I didn’t see him again until it was time to board the bus to go to the hostel for dinner and sleeping. 

I was tired, cold, and hungry. I didn’t notice or feel the excitement until he came up to me and asked me to be his partner. “For what?” I couldn’t imagine a guy like him being interested in me. 

Ignoring my unenthusiastic response, he told me there was going to be a ski race after dinner. Teams consisted of two people; would I be his partner? I shook my head. What was the point? He was a better skier than me and liked to go fast. I suggested he find someone else. He admitted everyone he’d asked already had a partner. I reminded him I was slow. He couldn’t possibly win with me. He was persuasive. Against my better judgment, a bit awed by being with him, even if I was his last choice, I agreed.

The night was cold and dark. No moon. The only light came from streetlights not close enough to provide much visibility. Looking at the steep hill I was overwhelmed with fear. Forget racing down. How was I supposed to make it down without falling? No soft earth covered with snow. This was ice-covered concrete. I tried to think of excuses to avoid participating even as we were herded up to the top of the hill where the race would begin.
Two by two people zoomed off. I wondered how they could stop. People watching crowded around what looked like the finish point. We were being timed. The fastest pair would win. I hung back as long as I could but then he took off and I was pushed off the starting point, down the steep icy hill.

I was so scared my teeth were chattering. Speeding down, needing to put all my attention on staying upright, my skis wobbling toward and away from each other. I managed to keep them apart. Barely. I’d never skied so fast in my life. The terror that I wouldn’t be able to stop mingled with the fear I’d fall before I arrived. I kept going faster, faster, faster—unable to control anything, my skis clattering on the icy road, my breath lost somewhere inside my lungs. 

Suddenly I swooshed into a blue fabric, helping me stop, to cheers and people yelling: “Well done. “Good show.” So relieved to be in one piece I didn’t hear the announcer yelling the results. I didn’t care. I did what I never thought I could do—zoom down a steep icy hill at night on skis. 

We came in second. 

Have you found yourself doing you were afraid to do? What happened?