Arriving at the lift, I gazed up at the front side runs. The skiers already up there were making slow, big turns. Oh no! This could only mean one thing. Ice!
But I was already there, so I got on a chair. The wind suddenly increased. Ice and wind? Still, how bad could it be?
I bumped my way down the run. The "grooming irregularities" threw me off. My turns were tentative. I caught an edge and fell, something I hadn't done in a long time. A mountain host skied up to me. "You must have won the boardercross yesterday," he said. Ha ha ha. I couldn't be mad, though; it was funny. I made myself do a few more runs, but it just wasn't my day.
Today, I slowly gathered my stuff, trying to talk myself out of it. It was a sunny Sunday, bound to be busy. It might be icy again; there hadn't been any new snow. I couldn't come up with a good excuse though, so I headed out to meet the ski bus.
Surprise. Hardly anyone was there. The snow was fast but soft. The slopes were wide open and I rode the lift by myself. I did more runs than I planned.
I often wonder why this happens. A three mile run can seem like 10 one day. Hills surveyors would miss seem difficult. A weight I can usually easily lift seems tough sometimes. A short hike feels like a death march. Conversely, on days I really, really don't want to run, the miles are effortless. Faced with a big mountain to climb and feeling uncertain, I end up being one of the strongest in the party.
Discounting any obvious reasons of illness, injury, or overtraining, I think it's nature's way of keeping you humble. Think you're all that? Well, here's a day when you count every minute of your run and can't wait for it to be over. And on the other hand, just when you're convinced you're no good at a sport and should give it up, here comes the best day ever.
Today was a good day. Who knows how tomorrow's run will go. But that's what keeps it interesting.