‘Learning To Ski At 57 Helped Me Embrace Uncertainty After Divorce’
Taking up skiing at any age is challenging. But doing it at 57? When I signed up for a two-day intensive course at ski school in Switzerland, friends gasped, “At your age?!”
I’ve always been more interested in après-ski than in the sport itself. Lounging on mountain decks, hot chocolate by the fire, and most of all, the outfits! A Miami-dwelling fashionista like me could really cut a dash in the cute bobble hats and colorful, retro-style ski suits I’d been eyeing in the Free People catalog.
A few months earlier, I’d adopted a motto for my newly single life: “If not now, when? If not me, who?” So now that my work as a travel writer presented this opportunity, shouldn’t I seize it? I’ve been a runner for 20 years and lifted weights regularly for the last 2, so I felt confident I wouldn’t be the first in my class to fall. More important, like many midlifers, I’ve been tempted to stick to the stuff I know I’m good at, for fear of looking foolish. But in a season of life often characterized by a cascade of endings—fertility, careers, the ability to read fine print, and my marriage among them—what a gift it could be to start something new, regardless of the risk for injury and almost certain embarrassment.
This is how I found myself in Mürren, a picturesque village (population: 428) in the Bernese Alps.
Accessible by foot, bike, and cable car, from Lauterbrunnen or Stechelberg in the upper Lauterbrunnen Valley, the ski spot is far less “ski and be seen” than St. Moritz or Gstaad, and its residents are unpretentious.
The morning of my first class, my stomach roils with nerves on the short walk to InSport, the outfitter where my feet are measured and I’m presented with a pair of rigid, Frankensteinian ski boots. Just getting into them is a workout, and by the time I’ve fastened both feet, I’m sweating profusely beneath my base layers. I’m issued a pair of surprisingly heavy skis and skiing poles before I galumph out of the store and set off to Schweizer Skischule Mürren-Schilthorn.
There, our instructor, Christian Edalini, awaits our class of four. Also middle-aged, with a mocha tan and fit physique, he’s wearing a crimson vest accessorized with a Day-Glo orange helmet and ski boots, which I immediately covet.
Our two-hour class starts with the basics: how to get our boots into the ski bindings (toes first, then push down with your heel until you hear a click). Then how to aim our skis (parallel, like two French fries). And how to use our poles (keeping them behind us and pushing backward to propel us forward). As each of us drops our poles, Christian offers some valuable advice: When you’re not using them, always keep your “sticks” upright and planted in the snow on either side of you, so you never have to bend down (no easy feat for a beginner in ski gear) to retrieve them.
He gives life advice too. “Always ski when you can. On the slopes and in life, if you have a choice between skiing and walking, always choose skiing, because there’s much less physical effort involved.” Choose the path of least resistance, you say, Christian? Noted.
Our first foray on the snow isn’t on a bunny (blue) slope.
Instead, it’s a gentle gradient, only about seven feet high, next to the parking lot. One behind the other, my classmates and I go up and down it, sliding our skis forward on the uphill, then pushing with our sticks to glide downward. I love the free, flying feeling of going downhill and gleefully lean forward into it. I’m skiing!
Then Christian instructs us to turn our skis perpendicular to the mound, so we don’t slide backward. But I keep losing traction. I can’t get the hang of leaning my skis into the snow to anchor myself, and I start to slide. The inevitable happens: I lose my footing and unceremoniously fall off the snowbank, landing in a heap in the driveway. Despite my best efforts, the oldest person in the group has been the first to fall, and I feel my face flush with embarrassment.
But in those first few seconds on my back, immobilized like a giant insect with my skis pointing upward in different directions, I don’t cry. Instead, I do a two-second body scan, realize I’m not hurt, and laugh. The “worst” has happened and I’m okay. I had to fall eventually, so why not now? And in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? Christian comes over and nonchalantly removes my skis from their bindings, and I clamber up, ready to try again.
“There’s such a difference between teaching kids and adults,” Christian says. “Kids learn just by copying my movements. But adults need to be told all the steps, given verbal instructions for exactly what to do. They need to get it in the brain before it translates to the body. Their fear of falling really complicates the process.”
By the end of our first hour, I’ve learned how to glide (ski!), how to go uphill (almost), and how to stop (kinda) by pointing the tips of my skis together into a triangle so they make the shape of a slice of pizza. In the second hour, we move to the bunny slope, where a pulley system takes us up and we practice skiing down. I feel pure joy as I go downhill with wind rushing past my helmet, and I manage to stop a few feet in front of the orange plastic fence.
Class ends, and I’m spent. My triceps ache from all that pole pushing, and my shins are sore from leaning forward into my boots. It’s nothing a hot shower can’t cure.
The next day I’m more eager than nervous.
On tap: another two-hour group class in the morning and an afternoon private lesson while my travel companions visit a nearby cheesemaker. I get into my boots in half the time, and we practice our descents on the blue slope. Christian wants me to work on my snowplow (pizza pie) technique. But the “legs wide apart, heels out, toes in” position is a challenge for me and, truth is, I love to go fast. And if that means that 30 percent (okay, 50 percent) of the time I whiz down the hill and topple at the bottom? As long as I’m not hurt, who cares?
Our private session soon puts me in my place. With three fewer people in the class, I’m doing four times as much work, all under Christian’s unflinching supervision. “You’re doing it wrong! Go again!” he scolds as I come down the slope too fast. I can’t seem to widen my legs or point my toes enough to slow and stop quickly. I keep trying and am getting marginally better. But I’m increasingly frustrated with myself and, though I know he has only good intentions, bristle at Christian’s brand of tough love.
We take a break for a square of chocolate, and Christian offers a pep talk. “Learning to ski is like learning a language; you can’t pick it up in two days,” he tells me. “But eventually, with practice, you become proficient. It takes time.”
The sugar rush kicks in 15 minutes later, and I’m ready to try again. There’s a “magic carpet” conveyor belt that goes up an intermediate slope, and Christian suggests we try it. On my first attempt, as Christian records from the bottom of the hill, I start confidently. But as I ski closer to the finish, I lean back to smile for the camera and fall to the ground. On the second try, appropriately humbled, I’m more respectful of the mountain. As I descend, I repeat Christian’s instructions: “Weight on both skis! Lean forward! Breathe! Smile!” This time I come down at a steady pace before slowing to a stop and triumphantly raising my sticks in the air. I “graduated” from ski school, empowered and proud that I stepped out of my comfort zone.
Back home in Miami, I appreciate ski school’s lessons even more.
I learned that sometimes the only difference between what feels like flying and what feels like falling is fear. Whether it’s learning to ski or to code, we’re always free to try something new. On those snowy slopes, I discovered the fun of being a beginner. I discovered the inevitability and value of failure. Now, instead of worrying about the future, I lean into the uncertainty of this stage of my life and welcome its possibilities. And if I stumble? I’ll simply regroup and try again.
Sarah Greaves-Gabbadon (@JetSetSarah) is based in Miami, where she’s currently shopping for brightly colored ski clothing.
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