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Pique n' your interest

Rediscovering skiing

Last week I put on skis for the first time in more than 18 years. Technically speaking I guess I had skied one day at Horseshoe Valley in Ontario in the last three years. And I guess there was one day at Mont Ste. Anne in high school (a ski trip more renowned for feats with a funnel than on a slope). But in all reality my skiing days ended when the whole family upped and moved to Scotland when I was 10.

Up until then my family skied most weekends on a little hill called Snow Valley in between my cottage and my house in Toronto.

So naturally I assumed that when I put on skis again it would just be like riding a bike. And that’s actually what I said to former World Champion Freeskier Stephanie Sloan just before joining a Women on the Edge clinic last week. I was eating those words throughout my terrified snowplow down to the Jersey Cream chair the next day.

Sure, after a couple of turns, and I use the word "turns" very loosely, I had warmed up a little and the long-forgotten motions came back. I fell once. I got up. I lost control a few times. I regained it. I thought longingly of my snowboard and having to only worry about one piece of equipment instead of four.

Getting back on my skis was definitely not like riding a bike. Gone were the days of bombing straight down the hill with no fear. This time I was scared.

And a big part of me was ashamed that I had given up completely on this sport. If I wanted to move back to skis now I’d have to spend a good long time relearning how to ski and getting comfortable again.

I thought of all the time and the money that went into teaching me how to ski from age four upwards. The lift tickets bought every weekend and the new ski gear every year and the lessons to help me get better.

And now look at me.

Last week’s debacle on skis made me think about all the other things I did as a kid, some things that cost a lot of money, others that took up big chunks of my time, and now, I have nothing much to show for it.

Here’s a little sampling.

HIGHLAND DANCING – Living so far away from the Mother Country, my mother felt it necessary to inundate us with Scottish folklore, custom, traditional food (anything deep fried) and of course, traditional dance. I begged and pleaded relentlessly to take tap or jazz like all my other friends. But my mother was determined to see me in a kilt, dancing around a sword, all to the drones of the bagpipes. I can’t even remember how many levels I passed. Not too many because my heart was never really into it.

And what’s the end result after all those hours spent dancing? I can do the Highland Fling on request but that particular talent doesn’t really get me anywhere.

Although I didn’t much like those Highland dancing lessons, it was nothing compared to the sheer loathing I had for my piano lessons.

PIANO LESSONS – It was apparent right away that a Mozart-like child prodigy I was not. Still, I was forced to sit at the piano every day for half an hour doing endless scales and practising pieces. It was always the longest half hour of any day. Then there was all that guilt at my weekly piano lessons when it was so obvious I hadn’t opened my books since the last lesson. I would play on sight, hoping against hope that it didn’t sound like I was looking at it for the first time. Who was I kidding? And then there would be no star or smiley face sticker on my lesson book for yet another week. After six years of misery I begged and begged to end my piano career and my parents always said that I would regret it – that one day I would want to be able to walk into a room and entertain a crowd with a melody or two.

And though it pains me to say it, they were right. Part of me wishes I had stuck it out because all I’ve got to show for it now is an energetic rendition of Chopsticks and I can also bang out a screechy version of Beethoven’s Fur Elise when push comes to shove. But I’m still totally tone deaf.

THE BROWNIES & GIRL GUIDES – There was no getting around this one. My mum wanted to be Brown Owl more than I wanted to be a Brownie. But let’s be fair, it’s hard not to enjoy these organizations. We cooked for our cooking badge, sewed for our sewing badge, and I think we also made a birdcage out of old popsicle sticks at one point. Moving on to the Girl Guides it got a little more serious with their motto to "Be Prepared." I never fully grasped that first basic concept of the organization. I am generally wholly unprepared for most things, whether it’s buying Christmas presents, sending birthday cards, filling my water bottle before a two-hour bike ride.

There are many other examples of childhood sports and activities taken up in complete excitement and discarded almost as quickly. There was figure skating and gymnastics, guitar lessons and computer classes. The list goes on.

But not all the childhood activities were in vain. There was soccer. I loved soccer. I played as a five-year-old, where our team followed the ball in a roving pack, and continued through to my high school team. The sport taught me how to work as a team, pass the ball, think ahead, and have fun. It brought out my competitive edge and taught me how to deal gracefully with defeat... sometimes.

I haven’t played soccer since high school. But it’s gotta be just like riding a bike, right?