Um, I could do that

Doof. THUD.

The sound of my body clattering across the snow-laced floor seemed to shake the entire bunny hill.

My legs desperately flailed and crossed over each other in my interesting attempt at standing up. Thighs smashed against the solid ground. Neck contorted, head in the air. 

As soon as we drove to Holiday Valley, my height-fearing, injury-prone self was less than overjoyed at the thought of towering ski lifts and fast-paced winter sports aficionados. 

So why, then, did I think pffft. Easy money. I’ll go do exactly that tomorrow — the day before I watched the women’s Olympic ski slalom on TV?

Wrong. 

My girlfriend saw my nonexistent potential right off the bat, and started me off on what can only be called an arena of humility. 

Standing on what can only be classified as completely flat ground with a slight tilt, I readied myself for the decline.

Flanked by seasoned instructors with concerned looks on their face to my right, and  literal 5-year-olds leaving me in the dust to my left, I began to uncontrollably slide backward into a ditch.  

What made it so much better was that I couldn’t shout loud enough for my girlfriend to notice my sheer idiocy — losing me in the span of five seconds would have been miraculous, and not in a good way. 

Thankfully, she turned around just as my eye level started to disappear into the snowy abyss, and shouted at me to just fall over.

Were my skis still attached? Yes.

Was my dignity? No.

It was like ‘Wipeout: Sophie Edition.’

Realistically, I deserved to feature in the Winter Olympics one way or another. If not for my questionable capabilities, then for my sheer talent at turning solid ice and snow into what felt like tidal waves of slush.  

I kept asking myself the same question: Why did two uncontrollable, slender pieces of wood seem to get along with everyone else but me?

But, as a good sportswoman, I had to get back in the game. A glance from a concerned parent (looking at me like how you would probably look at lifeless roadkill) was the prompt I needed to get back in gear and actually give this thing a whirl.     

Because I hadn’t yet mastered the art of going downhill — or even standing still — I was faced with the ordeal of hauling myself back out of the frozen cave I’d ended up in. 

Cue to my entire weight being shifted through short ski poles as my body shook like I was in a Zumba class.  

Back (questionably) on my two feet, I surprisingly got the hang of the short slopes fairly quickly, and ended up graduating to the next levels sooner than my injury-plagued body probably wanted. 

The next thing I knew, I was being hoisted in the air by a creaky ski lift, as the man putting me in it laughed about how he’d rather die than have to ski the bunny hill all day.

Valid. Different reasons, same results.  

I’d say my entire life is defined by my unsolicited confidence landing me in less than peachy situations. 

But here we are, I thought to myself — staring down what felt like the barrel of a gun. A swift ski lift ride had landed my girlfriend and I on what was my version of a black diamond.    

Ski goggles lopsided.

Hair strewn all over my face. 

Legs shaking. 

Let’s get it?

No point in waiting around, right? I set off. 

No sooner than five seconds into my descent I took my worst wipeout yet. 

The slow-motion, banana peel-esque slip left my air-suspended body angled to just the right degree so that my neck smashing into the ground allowed me to bite down on my tongue so perfectly that my blood mapped out the 360° roll trajectory it took to come to a stop. 

I mean, I guess I got some air time?  

From there on out, an understanding of how much I was at the mercy of falling over actually made me go faster and faster. To the point where I was in full control of the twists and turns and could come to a stop without having to think so hard. 

All in all, even though I started to really miss the idea of sports on solid ground (what a concept) and I might not be the next Team Great Britain snow-edition member, I really loved trying out the sport. 

Just maybe I’ll bring more aspirin on my next Olympic conquest. 

Sophie McNally is an assistant sports editor and can be reached at sophie.mcnally@ubspectrum.com

---