“Thar he blows, way to puke and rally!”—the words rang horribly in my ears with the intensity of tinnitus.

Starting in medias res. The surface layer got viewed through a scuzzy coating of pond scum. I waded in and out of this patchy, sludge-like consciousness. Hunched over in a downtown alley somewhere and surrounded by the faint echoes of loud dance music. My right hand propped up against a freezing brick wall as I stared at the half-digested remnants of what looked like oatmeal pizza. The ground swirling beneath my wobbly legs.

As if I were aboard a ship on a turbulent sea. My thoughts adrift until Lefty’s foghorn voice reeled me back to dry land.

“I hope you’ve exorcised those demons, because we’ve gotta go before that bouncer comes back to kick your ass.”

I squinted back in the general direction of his voice. Failing to focus on the lines of his blurred face. The laughter in return meant Billy had also joined the fray against our livers. I wiped my mouth and stuck a cigarette in it. If only Lefty could do the same.

“I honestly can’t believe you tried lighting a cigarette inside the bathroom only to be caught by the same bouncer later on pissing in the smoking section.”

“He about fucked you up,” Billy confirmed.

I was speechless. In utter disbelief having little to no recollection of such allegations. But it didn’t matter now having already been recorded into the public register.

“None of you could speak on my behalf?”

“And say what? The bushes look like urinals?”

“Or that I’m a drunken moron, maybe.”

“The damage was already done,” said Lefty. Adding: “You should have saw him knock the cig out your mouth. That’s the last time we’ll receive table service.”

I failed to see the humor as their guffaws reverberated down the alley. By the grace of a too-forgiving deity my drunken behavior narrowly avoided having to get facial reconstructive surgery.

Never had I fit in at dance clubs. It was hard enough to imagine me standing there awkwardly off to the side. Slurping down drink after drink with nothing better to do. And the more Lefty went on, the less I could stomach.

“We might be 86’d from Club One but that doesn’t mean we can’t go someplace else.”

“There’s Sugar House Bar,” said Billy.

“We’d have to take a taxi. Too bad Port O’ Call closed down.”

“Quit your belly achin’. Niko says he’s at Tony’s Bar.”

“That’s even farther!” Lefty cried. “Everyone is still at Lumpy’s and it’s almost last call.”

They continued to argue. I could only rack my brain as to what backwards steps had led me here to begin with…

Snail-paced snow groomers held me up at the lodge entrance as I arrived for practice this morning. Impeding my urgency of reaching the main lodge where I hoofed it up three flights of stairs, turning right at the gift shop located kitty-corner and passing the sourdough pizza parlor next to the glass display of chocolates and caramel apples until I reached the banquet hall where all the age groups met.

After bracing for impact, the double doors opened to reveal something worse. An empty room.

Back onto the main plaza.

Where it all began.

The reality of being late passed over me like a dark cloud. Rushing to get there now was futile. I knew there’d be some first day hijinks, but by the time I found the team in the weight room they were already doing their exercises. With the exception of that one night at Drunken Moose ages ago, this was my first time seeing them without their ski gear. Standing there and shooting daggers at me.

That was nothing compared to being in the crosshairs of Coach Price. As if feeling the flaming tongues lick up while tied to a burning stake.

Judgment Day had come.

But such apocalyptic visions vanished just as quickly as they came. Coach Price simply returned to his instructions on how to properly deadlift. I hung back awkwardly for him to finish. Letting the others begin their workouts before approaching him. One of them stole a glance over his shoulder. A widespread grin upon his face.

Retaliation would only incite his satisfaction further. I was fresh meat. Soon to be hung up and bled dry.

Coach Price further contracted his brow.

“Isn’t this lovely? I stick my neck out for you and you repay your thanks with tardiness?”

“About that, my alarm never went off this morning. But I figured we could make up time by skipping warm-ups. I could even stay late if you want—” I grasped for a catalog list of excuses to regurgitate.

“Stop. If you had listened to your voicemail, you’d have known not to bother coming at all. No matter. Since you’re here already I’ll tell it to you straight,” he continued on, loud enough for the whole lot to hear. “Presentation is key. The most important things in life are taken at face value. Whether it’s handing in an essay. Or a job resume. To be presentable, one must consider every aspect from its layout to the design. Try approaching a potential investor with a proposal handwritten in crayon and they’re not going to be signing off on it. Likewise, as your instructor, there’s a code of conduct I expect to be upheld. Like showing up on time, ready for the day. I believe I may have been the only person to put trust in you and I expected better considering you don’t have a foot to stand on yet. And if you aren’t bringing your complete devotion for training than don’t bother. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Coach.” I set down my bag on a bench when he stopped me again.

“My position stands. Feel free to pivot and head back home. You’re not needed here today.”

“I-it won’t ever happen again. I swear.”

“Save the promises. I don’t need them. When you do present yourself again, if you’re late then there’s no place for you in the Academy. There won’t be another warning after this.” He stormed away. The team snickered right behind him.

Although warranted, I never expected to be dealt such harsh terms. I contemplated staying around to show Coach Price I cared. Even if that meant watching from the bottom. If only I could be so pathetic.

But here I was fearing punishment when I got the day off. I tried not to relish in the prospects yet. Lest he resorted to more medieval tactics like the pillory and stocks.

I cast a longing glance at the manicured slopes on my way out. Nothing marked the smooth eggshell surface that their skis would crack come mid-afternoon. I stomped in my ski boots. Seeking shelter from the bitter cold as I slipped inside the lodge bar to regain my composure.

Sports memorabilia including signed photographs of winter athletes in glass frames decorated the dimly lit walls. On the counter a stack of dishes lined the counter. Chairs rested on top of tables. Not a person in sight. But a closed bar wasn’t an option for me.

I hopped upon a wobbly stool and drummed my fingers on the bar top before checking behind it for an alcoholic beverage to put me back at ease—all with the full intention of leaving a few dollars behind for what was taken.

I only began snooping around the shelves under the counter, stretched across the bar top with both legs in the air when a voice from behind froze me on the spot.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

I shot upright. Someone now stood in the doorway. Stamping fresh powder off their boots.

I scrambled for a semi-plausible explanation but words betrayed my tongue as she began removing her ski goggles, hat, and bomber jacket while making a beeline towards me. Packaged in the signature baggy style of a snowboarder with jet black hair sticking out from under a bright purple beanie she was clearly part of the local community.

“Does the bar look open to you?” She spoke again in the same cutting tone as before.

I transitioned not so smoothly back onto my wobbly stool. After being caught red-handed I felt the rush of what confronted me next. Shameless embarrassment. My ears turned a dark shade of reddish-purple. Yet, her directness and forward attitude held a special quality about it which compelled even the dumb to speak.

“Could’ve fooled me. The front door wasn’t locked,” I attempted to explain, unable to turn towards my good side before she stopped me.

“And you thought you could help yourself?”

“I’m back on my side now for what it’s worth, and look. I have money too.”

“What is that? A bifold?” She frowned. Her prickly disposition suggested she wanted nothing more to do with me or my wallet. And having been exposed I became petrified as if struck by a bolt of lightning.

She pushed the jet-black bangs out of her face before disappearing into the back. My clear opportunity to leave. Lingering after almost getting caught was never recommended and she could’ve been calling management for all I knew.

Regardless of the outcome I couldn’t budge. My feet held in place by invisible nails to the floor. I caught fleeting glimpses of her passing back and forth through the doorway.

She soon returned. Her gaze never meeting mine as she busied herself under the counter. To my surprise she withdrew two green glass bottles and set them before us, uncapped.

“Who’s to say this wasn’t why I came? Although, I usually aim for a higher percentage,” she said.

“Fair enough,” I said, “if not slightly brutal and unnecessary.”

“You deserve worse for rummaging around where you don’t belong. I can call my boss, if you’d like?”

“What for?”

“There’s trespassing, for starters. Maybe breaking and entering depending on the angle…”

“My only crime is impeccable politeness so far. Besides, I didn’t think you were one for breaking the rules.”

“I’m not twenty-one if that’s any consolation.”

“My fake ID just breathed a sigh of relief. But isn’t it illegal to serve alcoholic beverages underage?”

“What can I say? I’m a good girl with bad intentions,” she said, showing off her bright toothsome smile for the first time. A grin in which every pearly white fit perfectly.

I thought of adding more to that. But refrained from ruining things by speaking aloud.

An uncomfortable lull followed in which only the vent could be heard blowing hot air above our heads.

She grabbed a wet dish rag out of a bucket and began wiping down the counter.

I hit the beer bottle. Swishing the suds around my tongue in search of kindling to reignite our conversation. Such uneasiness had a way of rubbing off onto others, acting as a strong repellant. But she wasn’t repulsed by my peculiar charm. Rather the opposite. Pausing every so often through her task to glance my direction.

I left her alone until I finished my drink, feeling empty again.

“How was the snow up there?”

“Either mashed potatoes or completely iced over. But that’s alright. Skiing all day is one of the many perks of working for the resort,” she cracked two fresh beers. “And you? Isn’t it a little too early to be calling it quits?”

She eyed my skis propped up against the wall in the entryway.

“Not if your coach kicks you off the mountain before you even hit the slopes.”

She shot me an inquisitive look. Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re a ski racer?”

“If that means showing up late to be sent home, then yes. What about you? You get paid to drink and ski all day?”

“Pretty much. That’s why I love working here. Everyone is like family. But we’ll get overrun with tourists soon enough when the resort opens in a few weeks. We’re getting there. Although, it’s rather hard with someone chatting you up all day.”

“I understand. I’ll finish this and be on my way. Before I go—” I got cut off as the door opened behind me. She quickly grabbed the bottles and stashed them under the bar.

“What part of closed don’t you understand?” She lit into me. Ending with a wink to complete the act.

“Is he bothering you?” A man stuck somewhere between his mid-thirties asked in his best imitation of a deep, commanding voice.

The room turned stuffy by his added presence. Standing there with his chest puffed-out, he was the shortest in the room and his glistening bald head begged to break a rack of pool balls beneath the low-hanging lights. Two beady eyes reflected his cold, managerial tone.

Our speechless exchange reaffirmed I wasn’t welcome. Same as before. “Not anymore,” I spun off my spool. Adding: “I’ll have to return later for a drink.”

“Makes no difference to me. Hours of operation are posted on the door,” she said. Her manager stood close to her side. A hand on her shoulder. His concerned look followed me out the door.

Walking with light footfalls to the parking lot I chain-smoked cigarettes while trying to remember what was said. My interactions with girls were usually clumsy and uncomfortable. The conversation strained. But there was an organic nature to this spontaneous encounter. A marvel of pure chance that spun me in circles faster than tumbling down the mountainside. Now I had twice the reason to return Wednesday morning.

I shifted into low gear to save my car brakes on the way down the canyon. Any momentum from overly hoppy beer was lost upon returning to the valley. Causing me to fill up at the gas station at the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon. The day was clear enough to see the Great Salt Lake which was responsible for sending snow into the mountains when cool air passed over it. Brilliant sunlight poked over the eastern ridgeline. A golden shaft which pointed to a small bar next door where I observed a small group of backcountry skiers exiting the swinging door. Well on their merry way to the bus station with either a pair of skis or snowboard hoisted onto their shoulders.

I soon found myself showered in the hot electric glow of neon. Radiating in fizzy gaseous rings onto the slushy cement pavement. The bouncer hardly bothered looking at me as he checked my ID at the entrance. Canyon Inn was an eye sore from the outside and was about as vacant as my headspace within. Normally, I preferred the security of solitude. But such stillness was unnerving. The mirror-backed wall ablaze with neon beer signs. Its shelves lined with bottles filled a space no larger than my living room. A soft pearly haze played the air without a cigarette in sight. The charm of these dismal dives always attracted me. No cover charge, no lines, with easy access to the pisser as I sipped draft beer from a stein glass with a whiskey shot on the side. The five-dollar special. Seated in a row of empty stools. Popping out every now and then to smoke cigarettes while watching the cars coming and going from the canyon with a sidelong eye. Their hoods and roofs covered in a white sheet of snow trailing behind them in a sparkly glitter which could be followed all the way to mountain tops wreathed in grayish-white cloud.

I couldn’t help but feel robbed. We touted ourselves as being glorified apes but somewhere along the way we got stuck on our path and never cared to deviate. Flies in the web. Trapped forever to a doomed system.

When I pulled into the driveway Lefty’s red jeep remained curbside.

He lay there sprawled out, mid-snooze on the couch where I left him. A sharp poke in the ribs caused him to bolt upright. I sidled in beside him and reached for the bong to satiate the taste thirsting upon my lips.

“Where were you?” Lefty asked, blinking as if still in a daze.

“Swept by a flash flood of whiskey,” I answered him.

“But what about your plans?”

I blew a snake-like coil of sickly yellow smoke.

“Turns out I’m free after all.”

“No surprise there.” He rubbed his eyeballs with the palms of his hands. “My shift got traded by the way and I was (yawn) just about to leave.”

“Down for some drinking?” I asked him outright as he grabbed for his car keys.

“It’s barely noon and you reek like alcohol.”

“I don’t recall asking for the time. Wanna get sloshed or not?”

Lefty scratched under his chin.

“Well, yeah, if you put it like that.”

He always broke down in the end.

“Is the liquor store open yet?”

“Goddamn, you’re an asshole. You always get my hopes up for nothing. I thought you had something to offer.”

“Not when you always drink it all. Let’s go out.”

After picking up a fresh pack of cigarettes we hit an Irish pub on State Street before moving onto the usual suspects downtown. All of which pooled from there after the second or third round of AMFs. Adios, Mother Fuckers.

So with Lefty now joining Niko and Billy arm-in-arm as they headed towards the heart of the downtown drinking district, I turned heel instead.

I was no more than halfway down the alley when Lefty called back to me.

“Yo! Lumpy’s is thataway you drunken baboon.”

“I’m taking a taxi home. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Lefty answered by clapping his hands over his head.

“What you say? All I hear is a big, floppy vagina flapping in the wind.”

Such echoes followed me into the following day along with the pounding realization there went another night down the drain. Set to a tone of unmatched excess as I spent the day laying hungover in bed, thoughts drifting. I daydreamed ways of proving my worth to Coach Price and the rest. Especially her whose nameless face disturbed even the deepest sleep. Like the moon which lingers in the morning. Or screeching sirens which lie beneath the water’s surface until awaking wrapped up in a tangled mess of sweat-soaked sheets.

On Wednesday morning my alarm went off at 5AM. Only a couple hours before I fell asleep last night.

Now I was ready to impress the team.

An icy shudder passed over me. Causing my insides to contract. I lamented making the impassioned call which led to this. More so than having to crawl out the comfort of the covers to greet unforgiving cold of a new day.

Quickly I smoked a bowl before the anxiety got the better of me. A short-term palliative that was like sipping water to quell the burning fires in my stomach below.

The coffee pot brewed while I scrambled two eggs and threw them atop burnt toast. I shoveled my breakfast down with a large glass of tap water before grinding up a nug in the waiting open mouth of the steel-toothed grinder.

Half of a smoked cigarette rested precariously on top of a beer can like it was an ashtray. I emptied its contents into my freshly ground weed.

All of my ski gear was already packed in the car from my last attempt going to practice. Leaving no excuse for me other than to embrace the brisk morning cold. The sun yet to peek out over the mountaintops in the east.

Steering with my knees to drive the car I used the eye drops in the center console which created slick glaciers in my puffy, bloodshot eyes. Being so early, the roads were clear all the way up the canyon. I yawned between puffs of my cigarette and arrived with ample time. With luck, I’ll have another excuse to visit the lodge bar for another chance encounter.

Cast under early starlight the morning was placid, still. Only I had enough caffeine in my bloodstream to keep me buzzing like a chainsaw.

Today, the banquet hall was pure pandemonium. With the youngest skiers running amok and climbing upon the folding tables and cushioned chairs which were primarily used for wedding receptions and large events. Their shenanigans quieted once the U21 team and Seniors took note of my arrival.

Their ravenous stares suggested I had stepped into their den and were on the verge of pouncing when Drake stepped forward. A venomous gleam in his eye.

But as his mouth parted, so did the doors behind me. Coach Price entered the room with the rest of the ski instructors. One by one, they led each group out of the room starting with the youngest.

“That’s enough, boys. Get together and quiet down,” Coach Price began, pulling me close to him. “You’re familiar with some of us already but the time is nigh to introduce you to your fellow skiers.”

He named everyone off starting from the back, and working towards the front: “That’s Chuck with the rectangular cut, and Blade beside him, next we’ve got Rib, Short, Top, the mop-headed one, followed by Plate, Flank, Hanger, Skirt, Round, and the Shanks, can’t forget about the twins, they’ll see to that… and lastly, our star team captain, Drake. But I believe you two have met.”

“We go way back,” Drake said. His smoldering gray eyes backed by a row of sneers.

“OK. Let’s keep it friendly. Although my duty is to foster a competitive spirit, the team is a single unit that works best together. Like a well-oiled machine. It’s only as good as its parts. But I won’t belabor a point you already know. Everyone here’s deemed an adult in a court of law and will be held accountable as one. My approach is forthright because I hate repeating myself, so I’m only going to say this once. You must work hard and train daily to reach your goal. But it’s going to take much more than that to achieve great heights. Now who’s ready to hit the weights? I’ll hang back to set up our new recruit with his racing gear.” The room broke into a thunderous commotion at Coach Price’s closing words.

Drake tapped at his watch.

“Alright, you rogues,” he said, “knock it off already and schuss those lazy asses to the weight room.”

At his lead, they stampeded my direction with a rallying cry. Toting their skis and ski poles like medieval weapons. Their cold eyes fastened dead ahead. Looking through me.

I remained rooted at the spot. Willing to endure the harshest of treatments when I got the opposite instead. No mean mugs, stares, or a single word spoken. I was being shunned like an outcast. A favorable outcome considering my scant experience in this arena.

Was I in over my head? Yes. Most athletes trained for a lifetime in their respective discipline. My off and on experience over the last two decades was a footnote to what the others had dedicated their lives to. Throwing me in the mix was an insult to the entire sport altogether. It would take something special to prove to them I wasn’t a phony or fake and that I belonged here. Even more so to myself.

All I’ve managed to do thus far was squander every ambition by hopelessly appealing to the flesh. Always out of place, I was committed to breaking the mold after a lifetime of lying idle. Rekindling that old flame which had nearly expired long ago.

What I did now meant nothing to the world since I had no place at the top. I intended to sponge up whatever I could before ultimately outed as the imposter I was. Resulting in my expulsion from the Academy for good.

I bumped into Coach Price and his shiny black binoculars right as I stepped out the banquet hall.

“Rise and shine,” he said before steering me down the opposite direction. His words deliberate and calculated like his every step.

I rubbed my eyes. Not only had his previous ire froze over but I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted with even a modicum of warmth.

“Get some sleep last night?”

Already scatterbrained, my head clove in twain from spliff bowls, I scrutinized how the words rolled off the tongue or caught mid-sentence like shards of glass before they were even said.

“Some, yes,” I said much too slowly to mask my braindead response from feeling forced.

“You have a summer’s worth of conditioning exercises to catch up on. The key here is aerobics training. I’ll ensure you never forget your ABCs. Agility. Balance. Coordination. Any questions regarding the competitive circuit will be addressed later on.”

I shuffled along as if my feet were bound by rustling chains.

“First things first. It’s imperative we get your uniform.”

Accompanied by our echoing footsteps, I struggled to think of things to say that didn’t revert back to missing last practice.

We passed the ski rental shop where the distinct smell of hot wax followed us to a row of metal lockers. The dials on their locks were either chipped or so worn you could hardly read the numbers.

He stopped before a wooden closet door with a dented brass knob.

“What size shirt do you wear?” He asked as if we had already done this before, fussing around with a keyring containing an assortment of keys of many different shapes and sizes before he found the right one.

“Medium.”

With the door held partly ajar, an overflow of supplies nearly came spilling out. Including all things related to ski training from training poles, ski flags, and nylon brush markers to endless canisters of base cleaner and ski wax that practically covered over a forgotten ski press. The back wall filled with old homemade DVDs and VHS tapes which were organized by the location and year of their event.

“A few moments, please…” He said before he dove headfirst into the pile. Allowing me to mull over the situation further. All that passion from before was now broken up like waves lapping upon shores of concrete. The tight hallway collapsed as claustrophobia sunk in. What have I bought into? I can ski for fun anytime I want. Was I in too deep? If not, was it too late to pull out? Plenty of others have paid far worse for so human of a mistake.

Coach Price returned with a handful of scrunched-up fabric.

“Here’s a small. It’s a downhill speed suit which will suffice for now. It’s not padded so there’s more stretch but it can be worn for slalom and giant slalom racing along with protective body armor.”

One look at the atrocious article of clothing made my heart sink into my stomach. Worn out did it no justice. The orange having faded to brown, was discolored with bleach stains in anatomic correlation to human sweat glands.

“As long as I can breathe.” I bit my lip as he set the worn-out material on the ski press which, as if alive, slithered away and spilled off onto the floor.

His entire upper torso disappeared again behind the closet door.

“Oftentimes you won’t have to. Here—” And what could top off this weathered stretched-out elastic rag? A bulky, matte green helmet that was equally battered for its short lifespan. “It doesn’t fit too well, does it? I’ve never seen such a mismatched head on a small frame. But it’s the closest fit we got so let’s hope that skull is thick enough for the meantime—there we go. This suits our purposes until we can take official measurements. Of which, we could have been further along if we did this Monday morning.”

He handed me more training gear; a protective, padded undershirt called a stealth, hand guards, booster straps, shin pads, curved ski poles with cone-shaped baskets to assist while in the tuck position, and an old copy of the official rulebook to skim through at my leisure.

“Thanks. I also brought my program fees.”

“Don’t forget about USSA membership. There’s also your FIS license if you’re qualifying for national teams once you build your point profile. It should be noted that bringing someone on without a lick of formal training is quite unorthodox, if not entirely unheard of. I still don’t know whether that was a regrettable mistake or not but what I do know is that we’ll need to whip you into racing shape as quick as possible. It’ll be a tough road ahead. And I can’t ensure you’ll grasp the rudiments unless you follow my methods to a T. Accuracy and precision are key. Never settling for perfection is our modus operandi. It won’t be easy following this rubric. But you’ll thank me once you see the means through to their end. The efficacy of this approach is demonstrable by a catalogue of esteemed winners and medal holders. If you seek the harder path then welcome aboard. I’d elaborate further but time beckons us to move forward. Over here is your locker. My office is at the far end of the hall. I hold hours every night after practice if you ever care to pay a visit. Welcome to the Academy.”

When he had finished, I felt more bloated than his over-stuffed supply closet.

I found the smelly gym in time to join for a painful regimen of endurance cycling followed by interval training of overhead medicine ball throws, weighted box squats, and band walks. Coach Price’s emphasis on flexibility nearly broke me by lunchtime where I was too busy puking what I never ate that morning to stomach a meal.

I had never done so many squats or deadlifts in my life, followed by more dry land training, tight-rope walking, reaction drills. Even worse was Coach Price’s lecture in which, with all the manner of a professorial air, he took up the entirety of a portable whiteboard writing his notes with a black dry erase marker.

Then, with a little extra time after a conditioning test, we closed practice by racing parallels as a reward for good behavior.

Taking my ski goggles off I became engulfed by blinding white light which reflected brightly off the ground. From the moment I buckled into my ski boots an itch began to grow beneath my foot which I couldn’t ignore. And worsened.

Still wearing my old coat, I hid what was worn beneath. Guarding against the dreaded moment I’d be stripped to my race suit. In which, I appeared more absurd than I could ever imagine. Not only a size too small but this unflattering get-up competed only with a horse jockey. Skin-tight spandex was an understatement. It was the type of garb to show every line, crease, and fold you never knew you had. I never knew how skinny I’d become wasting away all these years. Every contour of rib and shoulder blade accented in a piss yellow polyester blend.

Such a loathsome garment elicited an abrasive reaction. The type one encountered when seeing the barbed wire glued to their teeth after first getting their braces installed. Another mismatch in expectation in which you bore witness to the destruction of all you once held to be beautiful.

We staggered like snow drifts across the catwalk. I hung around the back, unable to drop the growing itch from my mind as our path led away from the plaza, up a steep slope curving right which forced us to shoulder skis and poles to trek in a single file up the mountainside.

Hiking up the hill in snow boots siphoned the oxygen out my chest. That, and the itch at the bottom of my boot persisted.

Step by step, I gasped for breath which couldn’t be found. Stepping carefully in the holes made by those in front with the loud crunch of snow underfoot breaking up their running dialogue.

I felt nauseas already. Paranoid at being the topic of conversation. My stomach turned as I considered what pained me more: being on the group’s terms or my unwillingness to accept them.

Up above were two identical courses with a vertical drop and twenty gates. They trembled without a breeze. Dotting the white slope in blue down the left side, and red down the right. I tried ignoring the itch I couldn’t reach by stepping into my ski bindings with all the grace of a hippopotamus on stilts.

When I skied down the main-piste to the beginner lift, Sugarspoon, over tumbling mounds of moguls to meet Coach Price who was already mid-speech.

“Those in back, crowd in so I can see you. OK, the plan is to race in alternate pairs. I want you to get to know our newest member and encourage one another with constructive feedback. There’s no limit to what we can accomplish together. Alright?”

Everyone answered in unison.

“Wonderful. Now get up the mountain. I’ll see you at the bottom.”

Drake waved me on in an open invitation to rematch. His cohorts spoke in hushed whispers. No doubt conspiring about his shot at redemption. Not that it mattered much. Odds were completely in his favor. I didn’t stand a chance. An upper hand he commanded like any competitor who touted their abilities to secure a position at the helm.

Yet someone happened to be up for the challenge. Someone reckless and willing enough to throw all caution to the wind.

Unable to bear the tension any longer I gave them exactly what they wanted: more fuel for their gripes and jeers. The removal of my coat revealed all in its faded glory, proving too much for Drake who fell backwards onto the snow with hands over his face as if blinded. His laughter crackling like a wood fire; easily pleased, eager to burn.

Being placed on full display bordered on tragically comical. Or was it comically tragic?

“I see you brought your Elan SCXs,” he said, back on his feet. “The preferred ski of a generation dead and gone. Sign him up for the Cannon Club already.”

My confusion passed unheeded amongst the ensuing uproar as the team started to ascend the chairlift in pairs.

Overwhelming dread creeped in. Seizing hold as my thumping heart leapt into my throat.

I sucked in deep. Drawing each shallow breath. Whatever happened now would be the first step of a long, harrowing journey towards honing my craft.

“Need the lift slowed down?” Drake called back when my turn came to board the lift. His tone frigid as the icy slopes which were still to be marked for the day. I flashed back a thumbs-up with my middle finger as an empty chair rounded the cable line.

Sweet solace at long last.

I was by myself for the first time all day which afforded the best companionship one could ask for. A lit cigarette in my mouth as I dangled over snowy treetops which bordered the terrain park’s halfpipe. Maybe a little too trusting that the handlebar wouldn’t let me fall. And as I got lifted from out of the tunnel-like caverns of my mind I forgot all about the hostility and screwed up faces waiting for me on the other end. Up until I reached the platform to get off.

It was a short distance down the bald-faced mountainside to the learning area. Positioned on a near vertical slope it offered a panoramic view of the picturesque resort. To my surprise, none of the others were there and thinking nothing of it was about to light another cigarette when there came a whooping sound as a dozen skiers burst out of the dense limber pine and poured down the sides of the bowl.

The leader skidded to a stop hard enough to kick up loose powder onto me with his downhill ski. I brushed the excess snow off my skis as if not taking notice. Without Coach Price around our dialogue picked up where we last left off. Hostile and venomous.

“What are the chances?” Asked one of Drake’s lackeys after they had formed a small semi-circle around me. The voice undifferentiated from the pack behind their matching ski goggles and helmets which made it impossible to tell any one of them apart. Only Drake stood out. Unsurpassed by his condescending tone and towering height.

“Good question. Let’s see,” he mused, his serpentine mouth coiled and ready to strike. “Someone with no rank versus a known record breaker?”

“Impossible.” A second voice answered him more brusquely. His face a soggy teabag which had seeped for too long.

“Oh, stop being such a wet blanket, Chuck. Let us humor it for the time being.”

My blood began to boil. Nothing sounded better than to crack his nose out of alignment. But I had to take these blows to earn their respect, with likely far worse still to come.

“It’s happened once already,” I blurted out before biting my tongue. But the damage was done.

“Lightning never strikes twice. You’ll learn that shortly.”

“I give it 12-1.” Said one twin. “More like 12,000-1.” Said the other.

“If only those were the stakes last time,” I said. “I’d have put some money on it.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“You underestimate my wealth.”

“Nope. Only your merit.”

His supporters stiffened up behind him. The twins flanking on either side cracked their knuckles loud enough to hear through their padded gloves.

“If up to me you’d never step into a pair of skis again. Let alone race with us. You don’t have Coach up here to save your ass now and you’ll answer to me as your captain for however long you’re around.”

“Too bad that’s not up to you now, is it? But as our team captain, you’re in charge when he’s gone and I am going to respect that.” I replied coolly. I knew I was getting to him by following the rules which would only further work in my favor.

“Let’s make things perfectly clear. I don’t like you and nobody wants you here, so I’m tasked with the privilege of expelling you from the Academy by any and every mean necessary.”

“Can I hear the abridged version, please?”

“We’ll see who’s joking at the finish line,” he ended it there. His voice dripping with malice.

Even before he had slithered off with his train our impending rematch hung over me like a big, black cloud. Finding any peace of mind would be impossible now.

Parallel runs began all too quickly. The thought of performing on the slopes constricted snakelike around my chest whenever the next racing pair readied themselves at the starting line. The reassurance of not being in their place lasting only as long as it took for them to become tiny specs at the bottom.

Those who already finished hung out with Coach Price. Eager for the main event.

I stayed in a constant state of unrest. The race course tallied by impending follies in which I was bound to commit a multitude of mistakes.

I met my racing partner for the first heat without even a glance his direction. The mountainside unfurled before me in a blank sheet marked by poles alternating blue and red. With eyes squinted, I discerned the faint markings and worn grooves of prior runs. My strategy was to blindly follow their paths in the hopes of finishing on my own two feet.

I tried finding my starting stance when I happened to look over at my competitor. “Ready?” Drake blew a kiss at the exact moment we got the signal. Go.

Off to a slow start I bungled my chances already. As if the brake got pulled well before wheels were set into motion. I hoped to pick up speed however I could from there in crude, haphazard turns with an eye on Drake approaching the second gate where I swung too widely heading into the third.

Having lost precious time already I hurried along by crouching low enough to bear-hug my knees with poles tucked tight and digging trench-like holes into my armpits. Skis vibrated and hummed on the snow in haywire zig-zags as I tried not to heed the shiny pink dot on my periphery. The gates hissing by—halfway to the ninth gate I hit a hidden bump in the ridge which caused me to catch an edge and I was hovering off balance over the smooth slope until landing hard on the vertical grade.

The impact sent me careening with my left ski raised and right ski down as I caught the next gate. The twisting force of my contorted torso wrested my ski boots free from their bindings, and I was sent front flipping for twenty yards or so before sliding to a standstill, face down in the snow.

Flattened out, I cursed not having a broken bone or an injury bad enough to require ski patrol to take me away. I uprooted myself and hiked up for my scattered belongings. Snapped back in. And picked up right where I left off. Only to be met with a round of menacing jeers from below.

“Now that’s stalancing. If only he knew the square position.”

“Let alone the general stance.”

“It all makes sense now,” Drake chimed in, wiping his watery eyes with his ski glove. “He must’ve thought this was Nordic Valley.”

Their laughter echoed across the canyon along with Drake’s loud hacking noises until Coach Price stepped in: “Shouldn’t you be back on the lift? Oh, and Drake, we’ll have to chat about leadership qualities.”

Coach Price pulled me aside: “First off kudos for finishing what you started. Even after straddling the gate. The fact is you would’ve been disqualified in a downhill or super-G competition in which skiers may not continue after a fall or stopping. Now for your critique—it should first be mentioned that bluntness has the sharpest point when appropriate, for which this is warranted—we both know that wasn’t a great run. Everyone straddles the gate. But there was no equilibrium. That symmetry between internal and external forces. It’s critical to note a rotating ski unchecked by equal force, say your upper body, throws off your balance. Like whenever you initiate a turn, holding an edge depends on both the angle and pressure applied. Remember: strong, sharp turns and a tucked body on the downhill stretch—and don’t be afraid to really dig in. You either make your mark up there or get written over by the next pass. There’s still a chance for redemption on your second run. Try again.”

Only I didn’t get it on the next run. Drake won the heat and advanced.

Knocked out in the first round. I could only watch as those left in the running dwindled down. Offering a brief period for me to recover. But the loss had reduced me to nonexistence. Order had been reestablished amongst the team. For whom I was nothing less than nobody.

The tone was set from there. All that was supposed to come natural and easily didn’t and my once entrusted instincts frustrated me at every turn. It took several races for me to win a round and even such a feat was bittersweet. Having to face Drake for a subsequent rematch was an inevitability which stuck me like a thorn. A lingering, constant source of dread.

I spent the rest of the day desperate to make up for it already being half past. My failed performance only nourished the seed of doubt I sowed deep inside. No matter how much I pushed these fears aside, they returned like the rotting carcasses of beached whales. I was a hack. A broken instrument, useless as a leaky vessel. With nothing but an unimpressive scorecard to show for it. Doomed by enlightenment. The setting sun marking its grueling pace.

Each run didn’t end without a movement analysis by Coach Price to access the skier’s ability. Which was more or less a brutal critique always delivered with the dashes and strikes of a red felt-tip pen.

This all came with the repetitious drilling of things like “stop lifting your head” or “only lead with your shoulders” or “always act on calculated impulse” to his oft-told phrasing of “make correct moves to channel the flow, not work a-gainst it”, which after hearing his funny pronunciation of against enough times I felt disemboweled of emotion entirely.

It was jarring to be held to unnerving truths and undergo such intense scrutiny of my every action. My prior existential crisis now felt redundant and diminutive as I struggled to crawl out of the primordial ooze I was stuck in. Nascent, and infantile.

Drake, on the other hand, carried all the grace of a natural born performer. A talent for whom consistency came effortlessly whereas I couldn’t slip into first gear. He operated on all cylinders whenever put to action, and deftly handled obstacles with technical precision and with an almost divine execution. None came close. He was undefeated, unmatched. Excelling with the best runs every time until the bitter end.

As an unbiased observer I witnessed his prowess firsthand. Anyone who watched him became enthralled by the mastery of his control. He was dauntless; a true paragon of his craft with all the proper embellishments of a proficiency unmatched.

Who was really to blame for my discontent: the known savant or a no name amateur? I was stale and tasteless by comparison. His gifts being hand-selected by the grace of good fortune. It was no contest.

In the final heat of the day. Drake nearly faltered to allow Blade an opportunity to win when he bested everyone’s time on the second run by almost three seconds. Everyone swarmed their vaunted team captain. Bustling excitedly over his lauded talents and raising him to new heights.

Only Coach Price, rosy-cheeked, and with a rare smile showing on his face, stood above the commotion.

“Here is a prize model, the shining example for those of you still struggling on their turns. So the majority of you. Already anticipating the pivot, he glides on the edge of his working ski. Maintaining dynamic balance he’s poised for the moment. As if absent of thought when measured by the clock. A rare virtue only the great possess. Drake included. Make use of him while he’s with us. Shadow his every move on the race course. Look for the common thread to find the pattern. Yet, there’s always more to learn. Even for our top racer.”

“And I was skiing out the womb,” said Drake.

Everyone laughed simultaneously at the silver-tongued showboat’s latest quip. Coach Price’s darling could do no wrong and even he knew it.

“With that lovely image in mind, we’ll close the day. Same routine Friday. Sun up to sun down. And it’s only going to get harder. We’ll soon have four to five conditioning sessions per week. Our main focus is eccentric strength training. Which brings me to the last matter of discussion,” the team began to chat excitedly at Coach Price’s eagerness to share his exciting news with us. Which for a manic perfectionist like him, anything related to a competition was the closest thing to a vacation he’d allow himself to enjoy. And his face lit up like a Christmas tree as he delivered the news with a shiny bow on top.

“OK boys, let’s settle down. It’s nearly that time of year again for what you’ve all been training for. We just got the call confirming Carbonado will be hosting the Western Region Open.”

The team exploded into cheer while embracing one another. I even got some inadvertent back pats during the outcry of approval. But I felt alienated from any such involvement. Even as I stay tuned to understand its importance. So used to being out of the loop I was constantly on the verge of not knowing what I should. I also distrusted the magnetic positivity of their rejoice.

Since joining their club, I hardly thought about the competing aspect of this vocation. The notion alone caused my anxiety to bubble up as the whole reality surfaced. My body felt overheated. Yet I was cold all over. The spandex race suit clung uncomfortably tight and itchy to my perspiring skin.

Such strain proved unbearable for my weary legs and I sunk upon a mound of snow. Downcast.

“You should be proud. That’s all your hard work in divisional races paying off. Don’t forget the regional ski camp in Park City is only weeks away. We’ll begin on-snow training after Thanksgiving weekend to prep for qualifiers. Let’s set a precedent before the race season begins. Momentum can shift at the slightest wind.”

I tried listening to Coach Price but I was too exasperated from running full steam without any fuel to do so. I stood there as if frozen to the ground. Casting a scornful gaze with eyes bent upon the mountain. My primary source of hell. Left unconquered for another day.

On that high note, practice finally ended.

Voices drifted off with the rising squall which was blowing in. I lifted my head to the windswept peak. Once a source of comfort, it pressed down upon me with an immeasurable weight.

I started to cramp physically and mentally. Uncontrollable fire welled up from the bottom of my lungs. A few hacking coughs helped dislodge the mucous buildup to clear my throat.

I took these extra moments alone to reflect. I had to prove to Coach Price I belonged here like the rest. Although nobody on the team was advocating for me, I felt good that no matter what happened from this point forward I wasn’t afraid of falling flat. Which I had done so often that I was beginning to acquire a taste for it.

Swirling storm clouds in the sky hovered over me. Low-hanging, and menacing. Swathed in thick, black billows that rippled across the sky without a sound. From out this cloudburst came a heavy fall of blue snow. Bright as lightbulbs.

A single fluffy flake lighted upon my nose. Suspended for a crystalline moment before melting in an instant.

“See that?” Coach Price stood beside me. His voice startling calm as some traces of humanity broke through his stern exterior now that the day was done. “Fresh snow is burying your tracks. The mountain is a graveyard of failures, forever mounting. All that white makes it possible to turn a new leaf. Come next practice you’ll get the chance to revise today’s marks. And again, the day after that. Elevating the ritual until you’re sharp enough to carve strokes out of solid rock. We always get to rewrite our beginning. It’s how history books are written. A single sheet of text; rewritten over throughout the ages. Today’s sunset is tomorrow’s sunrise.”

Despite the comforting sentiment of his words, the wriggling worm remained. Writhing, lodged within my Adam’s apple as I gurgled on how to reply before he left.

Attempts to console my frustration couldn’t excuse such a poor show. Where every lousy run outdid the last one. I ruminated over each pass. Smoking cigarettes until they burned hotly in my lip. Like after smoking that first one, you’ll never return to the experience which first got you hooked.

While some fulfilled their legacy in volumes, I was an illegible smudge smeared across a blank page. Held hostage upon the shoulders of giants.

I had never felt so exhausted in all of my short, insignificant life. After a full day of strength and conditioning, every muscle was fatigued. Spent. I needed time alone. To reset. Begin anew.

And all I looked forward to was a relaxing night at home. Except now I needed to make up the rent money used to pay for this prestigious program.

Time to earn back my dues.

More than a few brave souls were willing to risk driving in the snowstorm for another high. Who could blame them? I returned to the comforts of my home in the same desperate rush to lighten my load after a grueling day and my chronic intolerance to company was quickly remedied by a few bong hits.

Before my soggy socks could dry, the living room had been reinstated to the smoky saloon in which I normally dealt. Most customers stayed around to try their purchase. Their eye-bulging subterfuge swelling up their lungs as their visit extended long past the bong’s rotation. What I loathed most, even more than holding asinine business hours, was the burden of forced conversation. Which was tasking enough with a complete stranger. Living room dialogues often parroted the same discourse. Cannibalizing topics that lost flavor with every chew.

But whether it was the growing storm or dumb luck, no one lingered long enough to overstay their welcome. One exited, another entered. Trading green for green in a turnstile operation in which, I quickly earned back most of what I lost this morning.

I had collapsed onto the couch after what I believed to be the final customer left when a fusillade of knocking threatened the door hinges. “Come on in,” I called back without the energy to bother rising again.

“Ay what’s good?” Billy stagger-stepped across the threshold. Already smelling like a microbrewery.

“Where’ve you been?” Lefty asked me with the accusatory tone of a mother who had waited up all night for their kid to return home.

“Out.”

“I know that. Thankfully, we were around the corner at Batter’s Up putting some beers down until this storm blew in. We called over a dozen times and damn near slipped through the back window to make sure you were OK.”

“Glad you could show restraint.” I drew attention to this admission to avoid answering the question. As if holding onto some shameful secret I couldn’t talk about.

“Not my idea,” said Billy, holding up his hands.

“Lefty, we’ve been through this before.”

“Which is why it never happened. Scout’s honor! And if it did, I wouldn’t have told you, but I didn’t, so I didn’t. See? But I haven’t had a chance to smoke all day.”

“That’s what you’re haranguing me for? I sold you enough last night to get through today.”

“True. But I haven’t had access to a bong and you know the only way I’ll smoke is with a fifty-fifty ratio. Weed to tobacco, that is.”

“Why should I give a damn? I’ve smoked out of aluminum cans, plastic bottles, a lemon, you name it, if I was in dire straits. What makes spliff hits out the bong, sorry, I’ll rephrase that, what makes smoking spliff bowls out my bong superior?”

“Maybe because,” he trailed off in search for a reason. “I lack understanding.”

“And imagination, apparently.”

“Is there a difference?” Said Billy.

There I was again. Ground up in the same circular maw. Its silver chiseled teeth shimmering under the ceiling fan light.

“Allow me to be forthright. I won’t always be available day and night. I’m not the sole purveyor of your pipe dreams.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

“A forewarning to get used to it. That’s all.”

“What else could you have going on?”

“That’s my personal business.”

“What crawled up your ass and died?”

Lefty got answered by a subsequent knock at the door.

“COME IN!” I yelled before setting my sights on Lefty and Billy. “It’s been a long day and I’ve hardly sat my ass down—come in already! Holy hell, all I’m trying to say is I’m not at your beck and call twenty-four fucking seven—excuse me, can I help you?”

It wasn’t until they stood in the middle of the room that I paused to address my visitor whom I didn’t recognize. Looking like a youth from a misplaced generation, he was a cardboard cutout of the pervasive hippie aesthetic still plaguing our nation’s schools. Strips of fringe dangled freely from his shirt sleeves. He had shoulder-length hair held back by a leather headband. His parted bangs revealed a soft pink, almost vacant looking face.

As a general rule I didn’t open up for anyone I didn’t know. This applied to any passerby who happened to be strolling by. Such as vagrants, door-to-door solicitors, and LDS missionaries alike. So I couldn’t reconcile letting a total stranger into my house and with no time to hide the bong or jar brimming with weed or digital scale or several hundred dollars in cash laying in plain sight on the coffee table I jumped onto my feet.

“Do you know this person, Lefty?”

“Nope.”

“Billy?”

Billy blinked behind his glasses.

“Not even a little.”

“What can I do for you?” I tried blocking the coffee table from view but he looked as stunned as the rest of us.

Unmoving, he remained frozen there. Sponging up his new surroundings.

“Kristy invited me,” he said. His reply came from far off as if shrouded deep as the fog within his eyes. Momentarily, they cleared. Fine-tuning to the present before glazing back over into complacency.

“I don’t know who that is. You should leave and I suggest you never come back.” I said flatly. My intent to cut swiftly and to the point was undercut by a shaky voice.

The uninvited guest merely nodded with blank approval and kept shooting askew glances around the room before asking: “Wait—are you messing with me?”

Growing weary of his failure to recognize the mistake I spelled it out: “No. Nobody can help you here. Get out. Now!”

Without another word about it I ushered this unfortunate happenstance right back into the snowy night from where it came. His facial expression muddied with confusion.

The poor fellow must’ve been more shaken up than I was as he, slightly confused, wandered down the sidewalk. I hung around to watch his departure as he stopped every couple of houses to glance hopelessly about before trudging on into the unyielding snowflakes. Taken by the winter storm.

“Good riddance.” I called out into the night, and about slammed the door shut when an old, run-down Mercedes-Benz pulled up behind Lefty’s parked jeep.

Out hopped Niko whose footfalls crunched up the porch steps.

“Who was that?”

“I’m never unlocking that damn door again.”

“Knock on wood it stays solid.” Niko withdrew the glass handle from its brown paper sheath and tapped its bottom on the coffee table. A maniacal flash in his demeanor.

Somehow, he always knew what to say.

This prompted me to throw an arm around his shoulder as we entered the house.

Rank bitterness set upon the wind. And upon the heels of this grayish brume came a cold front. Building storm clouds whited out the night. Swelling and contorting as they expanded: impregnated with worsening conditions which stirred up the heavens with an arctic wind. A swirling blizzard of sidewinder snowdrifts, shifting directionless. The temperature drop was deadly, and having to go anywhere was a backwards process that curtailed you before any potential progress could be made.

Practice days always came too soon.

A splitting migraine heralded each new morn as I arrived to the resort two bong hits deep with seconds to spare. Looking like I just rolled out of bed before throwing on some clothes. Habits my fellow teammates honed in on whenever Coach Price was out of earshot. It was no different than any other social situation. Once an outlier, forever the odd man out.

And for good reason to. They were proficient skiers and my competitors on the mountain regardless of our shared affiliation.

Mornings strung together as I picked up the pieces again with the still slumbering sun. Blindly putting them together knowing fully well they’d fall apart later that night. Long days got traded for shorter nights as both ends of the candle burned to their wick’s end. Lack of sleep snowballed from there along with any chance of making up lost progress. Even once dragged out of the confines of my bed I never fully left the polluted haze of a growing inversion back in the valley.

On top of flexibility tests, movement fundamentals, strength training, and aerobics conditioning, Coach Price’s lectures were hours-long training seminars on critical subjects like the seven phases of the athlete development system.

Disconnected and elsewhere, if not absent altogether. Artless. Before every run on the mountain was like looking down a blank expanse fraught with infinite ways to fuck it up. All of which got highlighted by Coach Price who scrutinized my every movement to a fault. And I took heed of every word, painful as they may be.

Unable to properly frame my ambitions, the toll of grueling physical labor soon bled into my personal life as apathy slipped into antipathy. Apart from practice, I rarely left the house. Cribbed and withdrawn. Hidden from the world. Yet never quite alone. My walks around the block increased in both frequency and length. At first, they were a means of working out a goal I was unable to accomplish or something Coach Price said at practice. Quickly they became part of my daily routine. A ritual of sorts.

Between joining the Academy and the constant demands of clients and friends, there was yet to be a peaceful or uneventful night alone to myself. Only the same tired routine of drunken debauchery with the boys until they broke up and scattered like roaches in the dawning light. Other nights for potential rest got hijacked whenever Niko showed up on my porch step. Given time off at random, his unannounced arrivals were as unbalanced as his half-staggering steps as he toted an already half drank bottle. Lefty came along next, leaving me with little choice but to imbibe before Billy came to help finish the rest. A joint effort that settled in wispy streaks of ghostly vapor. Swirling our senses. The quick succession of shots interrupted only when retreating outside to smoke cigarettes.

My earlier frustrations got put to bed by a host of distractions. From Billy digging around the kitchen cupboards to Niko and Lefty bickering over who played on which game controller.

I always gave in. My discontent countered by the shortage of numbers on the clock to spend complaining about things. A privilege lasting up until the next day which illuminated the little changes taking place as I careered headlong into self-destruction with my three vices. Drinking. Smoking. Skiing. And by each weekend I wanted to shut out the world around me. Receding further into myself. But I had to recognize my hand in creating this culture. I’d forfeit it all if not for needing to pay the bills and habitually smoke weed. We were a collective of miserable souls who suffered together through shared conflict.

Pensive, discouraged, I ruminated darkly over days no brighter than night. I couldn’t help from obsessing over my relationship with the Academy, social life, and overall inability to fit in whatsoever.

Throughout this entire inclement period, whether sleet or snow, I returned to the mountain. Week after week. Bound to repeat bad behavior as if a student in adversity with a penchant for abuse. The struggle to develop myself further became a discipline far more comprehensive than having a technical grasp on the bong. I didn’t miss a single practice and Coach Price made damn sure we ended up in skis to end each day. Despite the toiling effort, it felt good getting back into the swing of things, and after several practices I became more accustomed to Coach Price’s non-stop drilling. Without school or a job or anything else to tie me down I focused purely on my skiing. Which, slowly began to consume the days and every other aspect of my life.

The cogs turned while the days passed. As with every cycle nearing its end. Blown away, forgotten.

No more than cigarette ash loosened to the wind.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

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