Face Full of Powder

“Your hair’s too long, Man, you’re a queer, You’re too new wave, Put down that beer. And do the Slag." Dead Kennedys from "Do The Slag"

The nurse limped into my antiseptically decorated dormitory of delight wearing a new accessory to her cleavage mashing uniform. A neck brace. I cackled the laughter of a mad man. "Oral sex injury?" I inquired without a trace of concern in my voice. She dumped my Dixie cup of medical malaise into my gaping mouth, trying in vane to choke me. "I was skiing, asshole." She snarled. I hadn't realized that she had a pet name for me. Cute, I thought. As she left to attended to her throbbing pain I thought of my own experiences on in the White World.

I'm no snow bird. When Jack Frost dumps his white load across a region I'm Casper. A ghost. This awareness of my thermal threshold has kept me off of skis my entire life. But back when I was right around the legal drinking age, I had a neighbor who found this to be a tragic flaw in my coolness armor.

Jack lived in the apartment below mine. He was chronically unemployed, a tile layer by trade, and living month to month on his government subsidy and a pay out from an automobile accident. See, Jack was a biker. A tattoo ridden, long haired, scars to prove it Harley man and I was fascinated by him. His wife was smoking hot, he had no time card, and whenever the urge hit be fired up the pan head with a suicide shift and bombed down the road. What wasn't to love about the guy?

Well, having someone whom I admired with coat tail pulling affection think me uncool was devastating. When a trip to Mountain High to go snow boarding was mentioned, I jumped at the chance to increase my Hipness hit points (yeah, I know that cost me any points I may have gained, whatever).

Having never ridden a snowboard, or been on a ski lift, I strapped the slippery plank to my boots like a veteran. There was no shaking in my hands, my heart rate not nearing arrest levels. Cool. I could see Jack in my peripheral vision watching me, looking for signs of panic, but I was stone. Granite. Alright, maybe not granite, but certainly not sand stone. Placing a Marlboro Light between my ever chapping lips, I stood ready to face the white mountain before me.

On the ski lift I joked, looked around passively, and enjoyed a rare lungful of smogless air. This was nice, I thought. Nothing to worry about. We neared the top of the lift, I swung my board under my one unbound boot, let the lift east me gently off the wooden seat, then crashed down the miniature mogul with the grace of a drunken grissly bear. Jack howled, but I simply stood, brushed myself off, and pushed towards the slope.

Here's what they didn't tell me. California snow isn't snow at all. It's ice. Hard packed, pelvis shattering, hell from the clouds. Tumbling down that hill felt like being on a Slip-N-Slide made of cheese graters. When my bloody mess of a frozen body finally arrived at the lodge I was met by a raucous round of applause and an ice cold beer. I lived. Total cool points awarded: Uncountable.

What are some of your wildest first times? What fears did you face in order to be cool?

Dixie Cup of Love: Jack the Biker.