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After a long battle, I finally admitted defeat with my road bike. I was determined to make it work, partly because I love the bike and partly because I really couldn’t afford to replace it. But even with the assistance of one kickass physiotherapist and three kickass bike fitters, I couldn’t fix the basic underlying issue that the frame was too big for me. We managed to dial in the fit enough that the crippling nerve pain in my shoulder kicked in at 70km rather than 20km, but now that I’m doing at least two rides a week at that length it wasn’t good enough.
So I resigned myself to selling the current road bike, and replacing it with something very similar but in a smaller size. The new bike would have to be funded primarily by the sale of the old bike, so I didn’t have a lot of scope for upgrades. I did know for sure that I wanted another Rocky Mountain, as I love their bikes and I really like that they’re a local company.
With budget limitations in mind, I started scouring the internet for the best possible deal. I’d heard rumours of fire sales on 2011 models in the States, and was really hoping that I might be able to find something too good to be true. It took a couple of months, but it happened. I found a full carbon frame Rocky Mountain – the same model I’d asked my local bike shop about, then sadly put out of my mind when I heard the price – for about $1,000 less than the RRSP.
So I bought the bike, only to discover that the store wouldn’t ship to a Canadian address (even though Rocky Mountain is a BC-based company.) I wasn’t willing to let go of the deal, so I ended up shipping it to a package receiving store in Sumas, Washington. The fates aligned and I was able to catch a ride down to the States with a friend this weekend; I liked the idea of riding it home so much more than just plunking it in the back of my truck and driving it over the back to Canada. We met up at 6am to beat the border lineups, and had time to go admire the snow and rock on Mount Baker before picking up the bike.
At the package receiving store, the first flaw in the plan emerged. In spite of the fact that the store made a big deal out of including a free bike build with any purchase, the box contained not a fully assembled bike but a beautiful carbon frame and a big pile of parts and components. An hour and a half later, I had a new appreciation for the versatility of a bike tool (and my friend R, who selflessly sacrificed her time to hold pieces in place while I bolted them together) and a reasonably secure-looking bike.
I took it out to ride around the block a couple of times; I wanted to be sure nothing would fall off before I set out on the long ride home. Kicking off was an eyeopener. It was like opening the gate for a racehorse waiting to charge, or a plane hitting takeoff speed; the bike is so light that it just wants to fly when you start moving. I was absolutely blown away; I had no idea cycling could feel like that.
By this time the clouds had closed in, rain was falling, and an ominous grey sky promised that things were only going to get worse. R tried hard to convince me that I should get a ride with her at least to Blaine, but I was too stubborn and too excited about the bike to think it through and waved her cheerfully away as I set out into the monsoon.
Within 40 minutes, the rain had intensified to a point where I couldn’t see more than a hundred yards in any direction and my waterproofs had given up the ghost. Water squelched out of my shoes with every turn of the pedals, poured down my back and out of my sleeves, and ran in a steady streaming torrent off my chin. My passport and iPhone were safe in a ziplock baggie in my backpack, but I didn’t dare take them out for fear the phone would instantly drown. With no access to Google Maps, I ended up figuring out my way to Blaine through trial, error and instinct. Fortunately the route was pretty direct, as I’m not known for having a stellar sense of direction.
The long stretch through rural Washington in the downpour was one of the more surreal rides of my life. I had absolutely no sense of where I was in the landscape, because I couldn’t see it. With a new bike under me, nothing on me but a handful of documentation, bike tool, phone and a couple of protein bars and the border approaching, I was very conscious of being in another country. The rain didn’t bother me enormously – it was wet, but not cold – and yet because it took away the scenery, it gave the ride a deeply eerie feel and made it seem a lot longer than it actually was.
When I finally hit Blaine, it came as a complete surprise: a scatter of houses emerging out of the grey and misty landscape, and then a surge of Canada-bound traffic. I followed the signs to the border, where the stop at customs was surprisingly straightforward. For some reason I’d assumed that a drenched cyclist with a brand-new bike and no baggage would be a problem.
Because I’d been so focused on the border crossing, what I’d forgotten was that I was only about a third of the way through the ride at this point, and that from here on in it was all hard going on the shoulder of busy highways. I got badly lost at both ends of the Alex Fraser Bridge, ending up on a golf course on the approach and at the wrong end of Annacis Island at the exit. As I turned off the New West Highway onto No. 7 road, the rain finally eased off and I was even able to shed the waterproofs on my way back into Vancouver.
It wasn’t the most fun ride I’ve ever done, and yet it was. I hacked the bike together in 90 minutes in the back room of a shipping company, but I didn’t have a single twinge from the problematic shoulder in 107km from Sumas back home. I rode for more than 5 hours in an epic downpour, and yet never once did I seriously consider putting the bike on the Skytrain or in a cab. The whole point of the adventure was to ride it home.
Every second I’ve spent on this bike so far has justified all of these ridiculous decisions. It’s so light; it wants to fly in a way that no other bike I’ve ever ridden has. It corners like it’s on rails; it wants to dip and lean into every curve. I can ride it without pain or discomfort, even though I haven’t dialed the fit in at all. I cannot wait to ride the Whistler GranFondo on this machine. It’s going to be a whole different experience.
And you know, I could have just gone to a bike shop and bought a bike the way a normal person does. But where would the fun have been in that?
Saturday was GranFondo day.
Between a family visit, temporary change of job and two tiny new foster kittens, it snuck up on me very quickly. Most of my training plans went out of the window, and I found myself on the road to Kelowna with a car full of people and bikes and very little of the preparation that I’d planned. It was only when we pulled up in front of the hotel and saw what could only be described as wall-to-wall bike porn that it really sank in that I was just 12 hours away from my first bike marathon.
After a nervous night’s sleep, I woke up at 5am to a bright and sunny morning in the Okanagan. The hotel opened its cafe early for a riders’ breakfast; my friend Cass and I joined the line at 5.30 and piled our plates high with oatmeal, pasta, egg whites, and in my case sausages and bacon. (Perhaps not the best cycling fuel, but I can never resist sausages and bacon.)
After breakfast we wheeled our bikes out of the hotel. The street outside was already bustling with riders stretching their legs, circling on bikes, snapping photos and doing last-minute mechanical checks in the early morning sunshine. We headed for the 5-6 hour starting corral, where by a happy coincidence I found my friend and training partner Jodi in the crowd. The three of us waited together as start time neared and the crowds and excitement built.
Just before 7am, the national anthem echoed around Water Street and then the gun sounded and the first riders poured over the start line. Those of us in the corrals further back edged forward a yard or two at a time for a few agonizing minutes. Then we too reached the start line, and I was able to swing a leg over my saddle and clip into my pedals and the ride was on.
The mass start was a whole new experience for me. (Because I was so badly injured during the Pacific Populaire, I started right at the back and didn’t ride as part of a big group.) There was such tremendous energy as the pack of cyclists flowed like water over the line and away down the street. I realised almost immediately that I’d placed myself in the wrong corral for the pace, so I moved to the left of the group and settled into a steady pedalling rhythm as we swung left onto Glenmore Road and headed out of the city.
It’s hard to describe how amazing those first 30 or so kilometres were. The morning air was fresh and cool, with the sunshine casting long shadows down from the rolling hills as we left the city behind us and cruised into lake country. The spectators were a total surprise to me: all along the way people lined the road, waving and cheering and clanging cowbells as the riders passed. With the lane dedicated to the event and traffic held back at every intersection, there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the ride. It was about as perfect as a cycling experience can possibly be. I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face; even the spectators I passed were shouting “Love the smile!” The pack began to stretch out as riders settled into their cycling rhythm, but I still found myself moving steadily forward.
At about 34km the road suddenly turned very sharply uphill, and a buzz began to spread among the cyclists: “Is this THE hill?” Eventually someone who knew the route answered, and the word spread back that we were on the climb to Predator Ridge. Climbing has never been a particularly strong point of mine, but I’d put in a fair bit of practice including laps on the UBC hill and a long slog up Mount Seymour about three weeks before the ride. I dropped into my easiest gear, gritted my teeth (apparently the spectators thought I was still smiling) and settled into a steady 10km/h climb with a cadence of about 80-90. The gradient was a lot steeper in certain stretches than my training hills, but I kept plugging away and trying not to let my cadence drop. Shortly before the summit, we also hit the Predator quasi-pavé – a stretch of loose sealed road strewn with gravel and potholes. I wasn’t entirely sure how my road bike with the skinny tires would handle it, but in fact as long as I steered around the bigger potholes it wasn’t bad at all. The biggest surprise was not how well I held my pace, but that I passed riders steadily the whole 7km of the climb.
After pushing hard all the way up the hill, I hit Predator Ridge on a screaming endorphin high. I jumped off my bike, snapped a couple of photos, refilled the water bottles I’d drained on the climb and threw an electrolyte tab in each, and gulped down a surprisingly tasty carb gel. I was probably stopped for less than three minutes, but all I wanted was to get back on the bike. As I set off on the downhill run beyond the aid station, it suddenly registered that it was only 9am and I’d just completed the hardest part of the course. This was the point when I realised I was in with a shot at a much better time than I’d planned.
The stretch from Predator Ridge to Vernon was glorious. Sweeping descents around hairpin curves interspersed with steady climbs through dusty farmlands and small lakes that glittered in the morning sun. There was a total, unconfined joy in the open road, and sweeping around the sharp downhill curves with the bike leaning far into the turn was as much of a rush as carving a hard, fast turn on skis.
For a natural risk-taker, I’m actually a very wary cyclist. I do most of my biking around town, and my level of caution is based on my days as a motorcycle commuter in London and the experience of being thrown headfirst into a tunnel wall by a truck driver who didn’t check his mirrors. I always assume that the cars around me have no idea I’m there, and unless I see a driver at an intersection look right at me I assume that they are going to proceed whether they have the right of way or not. The neatest thing about the GranFondo, apart from the route itself, was having the need for that caution and wariness taken away. It’s an amazing thing to have nothing on your mind but the bike and the landscape and the road beneath you.
As we raced down into Vernon the ride swung onto a small, multi-use trail, then looped through quiet suburban streets to the next aid station at the military camp – also the start point for the Medio riders. I didn’t stop at that one, but headed on to a steady climb out of town toward the highway. I suddenly caught sight of a flash of white-blonde hair on the hill ahead of me, and had time to wave a hello to Cass as I cycled on.
I wasn’t even watching my cycle computer by this time. As the highway curved down past the gorgeous turquoise waters of Kalamaka Lake, I could feel that my leg muscles were starting to get a little tired but my main thought was still that I really didn’t want this ride to end. Every now and then we’d pass a marker – 70km, 80km – and the few riders within earshot would shout encouragement to each other. It was a great combination of the cameraderie of a group ride, but also a solo experience where you could ride at your own pace and be alone with your thoughts and your bike for much of the time.
As we swept off the highway and down a steep descent, something snagged in my right eye. I still don’t know what it was, but it was excruciating. I rode the last couple of kilometres to the next aid station with one eye closed and little ability to anticipate bumps in the road. Once at the aid station I ducked into a washroom and doused the eye with water until it felt better. I got my bottles topped up with electrolyte mix again, and ate another carb gel. The stop was a bit longer than I’d intended, but by the time I started riding again my eye was back to normal.
Shortly after leaving the aid station we hit a brutal climb at about a 22% gradient. Spectators shouted encouragement and promised us it wouldn’t be long until we hit the top. By this time the same half-dozen riders had been trading positions for 20 or 30km (we were all going at quite a similar pace, but some of us did better on the climbs whereas others blew past on the descents) and we all grinned at each other as our tired quads pushed us slowly up the hill.
Even though we weren’t done with the climbs and still had another 20km to go, somehow after that hill it felt like the home stretch. The riders thinned right out as we headed back into Kelowna, and for the last couple of kilometres into the city I was on my own. As I swung around a line of traffic cones I could suddenly see the Delta Grand up ahead, and a spurt of energy caught me up to another couple of cyclists who invited me to join them as we headed for the finish line. Crossing the line was another amazing moment, as a small crowd cheered us in and cameras flashed.
I freewheeled to the dismount line, where I pulled my phone out to stop the Cyclemeter app and discovered that I’d come in at 4:42 – meaning that my official time had to be at least a couple of minutes faster, since I started the app running when our corral began moving. (My chip time ended up being 4:38.) I honestly thought the time was a mistake when I first saw it; I’d hoped to finish in under 6 hours, and never imagined that I would come in under 5. I’d been aware since early in the ride that I was making much better time than I’d anticipated, but didn’t think the difference would be that significant.
I hauled my bike over to the bike park area, and suspended it on a rack while I called J. While I was telling her that I was done and still trying to take in my time, someone hung a medal around my neck. I wandered into the Celebration Plaza in a complete daze. I ended up going back to the hotel to see J and change out of my sweat-soaked jersey and hideously uncomfortable bike shoes before heading back out to the plaza for food. I’d just finished the best pulled pork sandwich ever when I saw Cass pull in – she’d completed the Medio in just over four hours. The two of us got in line for the complimentary massage tent, and after very welcome massages found Jodi in the line as we were coming out. All three of us had made it to the finish line.
To be honest, I initially thought of the Kelowna GranFondo as a good training step for the Whistler GranFondo in September. It ended up becoming a very big deal to me for two reasons. The first is that it was another big test for my new knee: the furthest distance I’ve ridden since the accident, and as it turned out the fastest ride I’ve ever done. The second is because one of the hardest things I had to do as a result of last summer’s surgery was give up my registration to the inaugural Whistler GranFondo. There were a lot of very tough consequences to the surgery – 2.5 months off work, being completely dependent on J for the first couple of weeks, missing the first three months of the best ski season in history, rehab consuming my life for 8 months – but because the GranFondo registration was the very first thing I lost (I sold it when I got the surgery date and realized I’d be lucky to be back on a real bike by September, never mind riding 130km into the mountains) it’s always had an especially painful sting to it. I feel like I exorcised a few ghosts on Saturday, and I’m still stoked about my time – especially the fact that I placed 21st in my age group (30-39). The whole ride was an amazing experience, with great organization and a fabulous route. Now I can’t wait for Whistler.
And now it’s over.
My last day came and went in the blink of an eye. Every shade of spring green imaginable on the Sea to Sky; a breakfast stop at Galileo Coffee; the long trudge from Lot 4 to Village Square; and one final ride in the gondola over lower slopes that are now just grass and rocks. It came around so fast.
Up in the alpine, first runs were compromised by some truly awful grooming. I don’t know what’s going on with the spring grooming this year; it’s been appallingly bad ever since Whistler closed down and operations moved to Blackcomb. I don’t recall it ever being this poor at the end of other seasons, even the year they reopened Whistler into June. There were huge gouges and six-inch ridges every few feet across the runs, which wasn’t so bad once things softened up but made for a teeth-chattering ride first thing in the morning.
Once the runs softened up, conditions were actually pretty decent. To my amazement there was even fresh snow in the alpine – just a few centimetres – and I traversed over to the foot of the Spanky’s bootpack to steal a couple of slippery powder turns down to Crystal Traverse. It actually snowed heavily for parts of the morning, with the odd ray of sun breaking through the cloud.
Springboard and Ross’s Gold were definitely the runs of the day. Once the snow softened conditions were perfect for carving hard and fast. Armed with the knowledge gained from Brian’s photographs and quads hardened from 500km of training rides on the bike, I was charging harder and turning better than I have done this whole season. With the confidence to let the Shoguns run in the messy conditions, the rockered tips just flew over the crud and I was able to ride out the airs on the bigger bumps. It seemed so ironic: it finally started to come together again just in time for the end.
I found some decent snow on Rock ‘n’Roll, and took a run through Heavenly Basin that almost convinced me that I’m ready to deal with moguls again. Then it was back to an increasingly slushy Springboard and Jersey Cream for the last few runs, lapping the chairs as fast as I could as the clock ran down. Straightlining, carving hard, cruising the crud and wanting to hold onto that sensation and that speed for a moment or a day or a season longer. At Solar Coaster I skied on as the lifties swung the barrier into place, and stole one last run before time ran out on me.
I rode down alone on Excalibur, which gave me time to reflect on the strange season that was 2010/11. The season I wasn’t supposed to get; the season that was so much more than I expected, but nowhere near as much as I wanted. The hesitant, uneven start on the North Shore, and then the euphoria of that first day back at Whistler when it felt like I’d been given my soul back. The powder days and the first falls; the run through Blackcomb Glacier where I was yelling at the top of my lungs with sheer joy. The tumble on the cat track and the trip to the clinic; the spring days in the sunshine, with fast runs on slick snow and slush-busting on the Shoguns.
Sixteen days. Some of them – most of them, to be truthful – hesitant and unsure and so much more limited than I used to be. But there were a handful in there that were as perfect as I could have asked for; days that could have been ones from last season, before I blew my knee out and changed everything. These are the days that give me hope.
And so it ends for another year. But it ends on my terms this time, and I made it through with my knee intact. Everything I promised myself about taking it easy and not pushing it if I was lucky enough to ski at all this year was a lie. I pushed it from the day I went back to Whistler until I stepped out of my skis to download on Saturday. That’s something I learned this year. I can’t take it easy on skis; I don’t even know how. Skiing for me has always been about pushing the boundaries, about going a little bit faster and a little bit harder and venturing out onto that line that makes your hair stand on end when you first look down it. It’s about testing limits.
Now I have six long months until the snow flies again. Six months with one goal: to be in the shape of my life when next season starts. Bring on the summer.
Time is running out.
The last couple of weeks have been a bust. The days that I’ve had off work have been terrible days at Whistler: low cloud, socked in, rainy and windy on the mountain. Not worth making the trek up the Sea to Sky to ski on the limited terrain that’s still available on Blackcomb.
Meanwhile in the city, the air is warmer even though the rain is still hammering down and sunny days have been few and far between. The Kits Beach pool opened on the weekend, and I chased away the ghosts of last summer with my first swim. I’ve started training for the first of the two BC GranFondos, which is coming up in about six weeks. The Grind isn’t open yet, but it’s coming soon. Even my physiotherapy is moving on: for the first time today we didn’t talk about my knees once, but focused on an old shoulder injury that’s causing problems on the road bike.
I’m both ready and not ready for Monday to come. Ready because long days on the beach, ocean swimming and bike rides on the north shore mountains aren’t that far away, and I have a whole summer of lost days to make up for. Not ready because I never know how to be, and this year it’s even harder than normal because I feel like I never really got back up to full speed and capacity.
No matter what the forecast this weekend, I want to make it back to Blackcomb one last time this season. For all that I missed there have been some amazing moments, and I’m not sure that any day will ever match the euphoria of that first day back at Whistler. The reality is that I was lucky to ski at all this season, and I do know that. Let’s hope that my Gaper Day is a good one, and that the summer that comes afterwards makes up for lost time.
Last Friday was another beautiful spring day. A layer of cloud hovered high over the mountain in the morning, but did little to keep the temperature down as noon came and went. Conditions were pretty rough early on, with most of the upper slopes covered in sheet ice from the previous night’s freeze-thaw cycle. Grooming appears to be a low priority as the season draws to a close, and a lot of runs had been left to freeze into rock-hard chunks and icy bumps. But as the sun climbed in the sky and the clouds burned away, even though roughest slopes softened and turned to very skiable mush.
I was skiing for most likely the last time this season with my friend B. He’s a keen photographer (with an amazing eye) and brought his camera with him for the day. Among some incredible landscape shots he also took a sequence of pictures of me skiing on Springboard that were a bit of an eyeopener. I’ve been very aware that my turns aren’t even since the surgery, but the pictures gave a very precise visual summary of what’s going on. When I turn skier’s right, I’m rock solid – albeit more upright than I used to be – and the skis are in perfect parallel. When I turn skier’s left (with my bad leg on the inside) it’s obvious that I’m not getting the same pressure onto the inside ski. My body position is less stable and there’s a small but obvious amount of splay between the ski tips.
This is really interesting, as for the first time I’m completely aware of exactly how the aftermath of surgery is impacting my skiing. It’s too late to do much about it this year, but I’ll be interested to see if it’s still there in November a) now that I know about it and b) once I’ve had another six months to get back to full strength.
Photographic analysis aside, the day was pretty awesome. The snow softened up beautifully, and I was reminded how well the Shoguns cruise over piles of spring slush. Toward the end of the day I was even riding over the bumps fast enough to catch a foot or so of air. Not much – officially I’m under a strict “no air” policy this season – but enough to remind me how much I’ve missed the unique sensation of leaving the ground on skis. At lunchtime we found an outside seat the Glacier Creek barbecue, and ate smokies in the sunshine.
There’s a day or two left now; maybe not even that. Even though I don’t want to let it go, my thoughts are turning toward my bike and the GranFondos that are coming up. It’s that time of year, when every condition is borderline and every day is a gift. I had more this season than I expected, but I didn’t have anywhere near as much as I wanted. I hope that there’s a little bit more to come before it’s done.
I missed the last day at Whistler due to family commitments, but made it up to Blackcomb a week or so later. Spring is in the air now, and operations are winding down: Peak 2 Peak is no longer running, first chair isn’t till 10am, the Rendezvous is a ghost town, and the ski-out to the village looks like it’s one good rainfall away from washing away entirely.
It was the first time I’d parked in the village this season, and I soon learned that it’s a long trek in ski boots from Lot 4 to Village Square. I had time for breakfast on the Lift patio; sadly their menu seems to be missing most of the best items from last year, but it was still a lovely spot to sit in the sun with a coffee and watch snowboarders arrive at the gondola on bikes. The kind of thing you only see in Whistler in the spring.
Up on the mountain, it was a perfect day. Bright sunshine, barely a cloud in the sky, and hard-packed runs softening as the sun climbed higher. My leg muscles were tired after a week of rehab catch-up in the gym, so I took it fairly easy and spent the day cruising groomers around 7th Heaven and Solar Coaster.
Now that I’ve been back on the slopes for a while, I’m much more conscious of the gaps in my technique left by the surgery. Skiing’s demands exposes limitations that aren’t apparent in the gym or on the bike. There’s still a strength deficit on the left side, and a lag in reaction time that’s instantly exposed if I try and work my way around moguls or jump turn on steep terrain. There isn’t enough time left in this season for me to fix these issues – they’re going to take time and a lot of work – so for the few days I have left I’m enjoying the things I can do. Over the summer my goal is to get my leg strength and reaction back to 100%, and be in the best shape of my life when next ski season starts.
Toward the end of the day on Friday the slopes softened up considerably from mid-mountain down, but even so the skiing was fast and fun. The Shoguns are surprisingly effective on slushy spring snow, and I’m happy to have had a few good days on them this year. The warmth in the air and the muddy streaks on the ski-out spoke of a season drawing to a close; there are just three weeks left before Blackcomb shuts down for the summer. I hope they’ll be good ones.
My last few days at Whistler have been, to be honest, a somewhat mixed bag. Moments of glory mixed with an uneasy truce with conditions that, while incredible for April, have not been exactly what my knee needed. I’m still too wary of re-injury to really let go in fresh deep snow, although the moments when I do make it all worth it.
Friday was the first day that really felt like the spring skiing that I remember from 2008/9. Blue skies, sunshine and real warmth in the air from mid-morning onwards. 8cm of new snow, just enough for a light coating on the groomers and some deeper pockets in the trees. The first few runs on the easy stretch under Emerald felt like sliding on silk.
By mid-morning on Blackcomb the new snow was soft-packed and perfect. It was exactly what I needed: no wrestling with conditions or fear of a spill, just slopes and slopes of snow begging to be carved hard and fast. And carve hard and fast we did: by the end of the morning speed limits were forgotten, and we raced from Solar Coaster down to the village in a bare couple of minutes of adrenaline-charged flight. After lunch we hit up the aptly named Heavenly Basin, did the full run to the village again, and then headed back to Whistler for some easy cruising and a quick blast on Dave Murray before we took the slushy ski-out back to Creekside.
Friday was exactly the day I needed. I don’t know that I’ve ever skied that fast before; with conditions where I could trust myself completely, there was no holding back. It’s this that brings me back to the mountains, that makes it all worthwhile: that sensation of perfect speed, perfect connection to the snow, the wind on my face and a backdrop of towering mountains against a blue spring sky. There’s nothing else like it.
I want more. I want every day of my life to be like that one. Oh, my knee still creaked and twinged and reminded me that I have a ways to go to get back to being the skier I was, and further still to go to be the skier that I could become. But on Friday, like those first couple of days back at Whistler and the run through the glacier, I could actually touch it. I don’t want this to stop. I don’t want the season to end.
It’s April 13th today. When I arrived at Creekside, once again it looked like January. Fat, dime-sized flakes were falling over the gondola, and even the groomed runs were covered in a good 10cm of fresh snow.
Having learned a lesson last time, I took it very easy for the first few runs and didn’t somersault headlong into the powder until my legs were ready. But when Peak Chair opened, I couldn’t resist. Riding up, there wasn’t a single line on the Saddle. By the time I’d skied along the traverse, tracks had cut it into diamond shaped pockets of boot deep powder. I took a deep breath and plunged in, skidding out a little every now and again but mostly barreling through.
On the next run I headed for Peak to Creek. On the upper stretches the description of it as “run of the day” seemed grossly overstated; large, dust-crusted bumps and wind-scoured flats didn’t make for a pleasant skiing experience. I edged off toward West Bowl and carved two huge powder turns before once again failing to weight my skis correctly on the third turn. This time I had the forethought to fling my left leg out of the way as I fell. As as result I span into the air, landed on my back and then slid down the slope a ways with both legs sticking straight up. I’m sure it looked completely ridiculous, but at least I didn’t have to worry about falling on the bad leg again.
At this point I realized that my performance on powder was verging on the unacceptable. A little further down the hill I took a right into Bagel Bowl, where the snow was still untouched at the edges of the run. I took some speed into the clean powder and finally, finally got it – a run of pure, perfectly weighted turns, leaving beautiful s-tracks in the snow behind me.
Unfortunately in the excitement I missed Highway 86, and left myself on Lower Peak to Creek with no other options for the run out. This wouldn’t have mattered except that the run hadn’t been groomed, so it was large, gnarly moguls hidden beneath a layer of fresh snow. Given that I’m not supposed to be skiing moguls on the new knee, my heart sank when I saw the sign saying “Dusty’s 3.5km.” It was one of the more tiring runs of my life.
After lunch I headed over to Blackcomb and 7th Heaven. The visibility was variable, but I still got in some storming runs and felt like I was finally getting my soft snow mojo back. I also managed to catch the glass-floored Peak 2 Peak cabins both ways, which was a bonus.
The final run on Whistler was the stuff nightmares are made from. I’d just turned onto Dave Murray when the fog closed in. I couldn’t see a thing; nothing underfoot, nothing in front of me, nothing to the sides. I made my way to Midstation more by memory than recognition, and then made one final mistake in choosing to ski on instead of downloading. The fog stayed wrapped tight around me all the way to the final slope down to Creekside, where it changed to heavy rain. Still, it was a good day.
I also tried out the new WB Live app, and can report that I skied 10,808 vertical metres; travelled 46.2km; and had a top speed of 73.4 km/h. Not bad for a day when the visibility was variable at best and my knees were cranky as hell.
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