Eddie is my Hero of the Snow, the Icon of Ice, my Star of the Slopes. He is my god. Not as in, "Our Father, who art in Heaven," but "MY GOD, HAS HE KILLED HIMSELF YET? AND IF NOT, WHY NOT?"
Oh, yes, i remember Eddie. Last weekend, I transcended into the Twilight Zone, attacking the ski slopes of Emmet County, courtesy of my friend Oly and Harbor Springs' Nub Nob.
And like Eddie, I faced the adversity with a gleam in my eye. A lump in my throat. Plenty of medical insurance to boot.
Please understand: at least eddie, despite his awkwardness and self-admitted limited talent, had the shot at Olympic gory, I mean glory.
I ain't even close.
It's been 16 years since I clomped around in a pair of ski boots and locked the heel into those contraptions which glide and slide through and over snow.
But there I was, next to Oly, waiting in line. Not for the tow rope, like I used to back at Milford's Alpine Village. But the chair lift.
The chair lift is skiing's version of a carnival ride. It takes skill and coordination to properly sit down at just the right moment and angle the ski poles upwards so you don't clip the ground.
It also takes good balance, because - unlike the Tilt-A-Whirl and other carnival-type rides - there's no crossbar to keep you from falling forward, off the bench and into the snow.
And, contrary to popular belief, light, fluffy snow is not always sufficient for a soft fall.
"Voyage to the Top of the Nob" only takes about five minutes, which is cool ... because this is my first time in this contraption, and my nerves are shot.
Ah, the top. Finally. We get off the bench. Easy does it. Down the snow ramp, and PRESTO! I am calm, cool and collected. Full of confidence. After all, I did not fall over, despite my paranoia.
Oly sings a Van Halen lyric: "Standing on top of the world!" He's right. From where we're standing now, the skiers are the bottom - the ones we can make out - look like frantic little ants, scurrying around the lodge.
I fumble around with the poles, making sure they feel great. Slide my goggles over the glasses - what, you think I want to break them? - and follow Oly toward the beginner course.
Of course, Oly has no business being in this area. In Colorado, it would probably be illegal for someone of his experience to be in this area.
But that's OK, because frankly, I'm still worried. Not because I'll run into a flock of trees. or because I'll trip into a power transmission line and recreated July 4th fireworks. No, I'm worried that I'll embarrass myself in front of good-looking, single babes who will giggle uncontrollably and make comments like, "Where's the camcorder? Let's send this one off to America's Most Suicidal Home Videos!"
Here we are. Top of the world, for a little while. Oly leads, I follow. Hey, I'm doing this. Slight turn, turn again, pick up a little speed, straighten out, down the chute, bingo! Rockin' good time! Party on, Oly!
"Party on, Paul!"
Hey, Eddie the Eagle, eat your heart out. This is child's play. Ain't nothing to it. Piece of cake.
OK. Here I am. Top of the world, looking down again. I am off. Off and skiing. Soaring down the mountain, 90 miles an hour, poles angled behind me, teeth gritted, knees bent, body down. More speed. I have the need for speed. A cold, hard wind whips into my face. I do not mind. I barely notice. I have left Eddie behind. He is nothing. I am superior. I am the greatest. I am God. I am Rickey Henderson, the greatest man in the world! Hell, I AM ALBERTO TOMBO! IA AM ...
Spinning, face down, 90 miles an hour, toward a large snow bank and 20 thick trees. I am helpless. I am cold.
I am humiliated.
"You are Alberto? NOT!" Oly looks down on me, laughing his blonde, curly head off. He has seen through my deception.
I am not Alberto. I am not Oly. I am not even Eddie. Eagles don't fall. Not this way.
Maybe next time. Let's do it again.
This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.
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