A Morning Ritual: Part 2

Not so long ago I wrote a blog called, “Morning ritual” which focused on a very small yet very important part of some of my many mornings before heading to the hill to do what I love most. What I realized since writing a blog about an alcoholic recovery beverage is that there is so many variations to a skier’s morning before heading to the hill it can be mind-boggling. Just think of all the gas stations you can stop at, all of the roads you can drive, exits you can get off and all the mountains you can drive to. It also made me look back into the past twenty-two years of my skiing career and what I found was that most of these mornings can be looked back at in utter hilarity.

The mornings where you’re so wound up on coffee and the thought of skiing you can’t do anything but bounce in your seat. The mornings you have to pee so badly but your buddies refuse to pull over and all you can do is sit still, think of the desert and pray they paved the access road over the summer. The 5 a.m. Saturday morning drives wearing spandex because you decided it would be smarter to just sleep in it than try and put it on in the morning.

There are also some of the best memories one can have. Memories of your first morning drive to a ski area alone with your buddies in their brand new rust bucket. Memories of pulling up to practice and seeing nothing but beautiful corduroy, each line reserved with your name on it.

Lets start with one of my earliest memories of skiing, which began at Willard Mountain in N.Y. Although it was not so much the ritual of getting ready at our old cozy split level home on Vanderbuilt Ave., as it was the memory of the warm 11 a.m. sun on my face. My parents passed off the duties of childcare between each other so they could both take their share of runs. My sister, not yet old enough to ski was a guaranteed bundled up L.L. Bean ad, stuffed into a red sled, propped upright. The tailgate of the red Ford Bronco was down and we where most definitely tailgating on it. The snow banks look huge when your only Four.

Now lets fast-forward a few years to the Fosbrook residence which is located right on West Mountain Ski Area in Glens Falls N.Y. The Fosbrooks was a place I started many of my ski mornings from, usually in the company of two red heads, a Mr. Andy Fosbrook and a Mr. Jason Beckmann, two yahoos’ I still consider my best friends and two of the best skiers I know to this day. I cannot tell you how many ham egg and cheeses I have had made in that kitchen or how many bowls of Reese’s Puffs I have eaten around the dining room table, but whatever that number is, double it because nobody can have just one bowl of a cereal that bears a striking resemblance to dog food. This is also the place I learned that bagels, lox and cream cheese and a can of Yoohoo is a terrible combination.

Après at the Fosbrooks was always an excellent choice as a kid because it always started with the coldest most frigid, crisp can of garage kept Coca Cola you’d ever find, but that’s après, a story for another time.

I’d like to talk more about this Beckmann character now. A few years ago Jason was going to school at CU Boulder, which meant he had a kick ass free place to stay in C.O. and you were a moron if you didn’t go out for a majority of winter break. My morning ritual in Boulder was guaranteed to start with literally dragging Jason out of bed to get him in the damn car so we could start skiing before 2 p.m. This was due in part to our decision to close Pearl Street the night prior. Before the dragging there would be various threats made to get him out of bed, which usually included the possibility of using Bubba, his roommates screeching exotic bird. Although the bird was never harmed and never actually used we all thought about putting the thing out of its misery, sorry to all the bird lovers out there. Once the 751 Marine St. frat was assembled, all bodies off the couches and floors there would be a mandatory stop in Golden at Big Daddy Bagel, then on to wherever it was we were heading that day in the natural disorderly fashion five to eight guys travel around in.

Back East we have our morning rituals as well. For example, Tuesday, Craig and I drove up to Loon for some early season turns. I asked him on the way up if he planned on visiting the world’s slowest McDonalds right off the exit. He replied, “Is that even a question?” After four Camel Lights, his bacon egg and cheese on a biscuit and my classic EggMcMuffin promptly followed by a hash brown we drove down the street to the mountain for the usual chance, unplanned but know it might happen because it always happens run in with Ben Michaels.

These morning rituals are all part of the experience of skiing. From the moment you awake for a day of skiing the adventure begins. Enjoy it, make your own rituals and take note of the funnies you may encounter or create on the way to the hill.