“So, you took the bus up. That must have been a wild ride, huh?” He was smiling, like he had taken the bus himself at some point. His smile was warm, not mocking.
“Yeah, it was wild.”
He led me through the equipment rental process, where I was issued one boot, one ski, and two outriggers.
“Only the most accomplished one-legged skiers use ski poles,” he explained. “They can rely solely on their one leg for balance. When you’re learning, though, outriggers provide stability as you navigate down the mountain.”
Outriggers, I learned, were the “amputee ski poles.” Attached to the bottom of a waist-high metal pole is a mini ski, about twelve inches long. I would use a traditional ski on my good leg, giving me three “skis” to balance on, hence the term “three-track skiing.” The top of the metal poles ended in metal armbands that fit around my forearms just below my elbows. My hands grasped the poles midway down; the handgrips stuck out like bike handles, though they faced forward instead of off to the side. Directly below the hand-grips were taut cotton strings that attached to the ski tips at the base of the poles. Davin demonstrated how it worked. He pulled up on the string, and the ski tip flipped up. A serrated edge on the back end of the ski provided traction, rendering the outrigger a crutch again, allowing me to get around the lodge or the flat areas outside. He pulled on the string again, put weight on the serrated edge, and the ski tip flipped back down so it could glide over the snow.
When I left the hospital five years ago, I used Canadian crutches, which were similar to outriggers, just without the ski tip, while I hobbled around waiting for my first prosthesis to be made. When I saw how the outriggers worked, I felt a little deflated, like I was taking a step backward. I didn’t like the stigma or the inconvenience of crutches. I equated crutches with being poky. Little did I know how much they would help me fly.
I saw Davin’s other students, two women, sitting farther down the bench in the crowded rental shop. They each had only one leg, too. On the bus ride up, all I could think about was wanting to meet other amputees, but seeing them sitting there, all I could think was, No wonder people are compelled to stare at me. Their stumps looked unnatural, even a little revolting. Like me, the other two amputees appeared to be in their early twenties. They were chatting quietly. I saw them occasionally look up at someone who was staring at them and return their gaze with a look I had given a million times over the years; the one that says, “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. I’m normal like you.” The scene only made me wonder again if I’d done the right thing by coming up there.
After Davin made adjustments to my boot and I stowed the bottom half of my peg leg behind the rental desk, he made introductions.
“Linda and Becky, this is Colleen, the third musketeer!”
“Hi, I’m Linda. I hope ya’ll know what you’re doin’, ’cause Becky and I are certain we’re gonna be on our butts all day.” Her velvety Southern accent warmed my heart immediately.
“Speak for yourself,” said Becky good-naturedly. “I’m going to fly down the mountain and leave you in the dust.” Linda smiled broadly.
“I don’t know. I think I’ll be on my butt with you, Linda,” I said.
I was curious to know these women’s stories, but Davin shepherded us into action before I could ask. Socializing would have to wait. We were in business mode.
Davin carried our skis as we crutched our way out to the snow. He set them down, one in front of each of us, and demonstrated how to step into the binding. We followed his instructions. Easy enough. Though Davin was wearing two ski boots, he used only one ski so he could demonstrate how we were to do things.
“Great! Now we’re going to practice moving on these things. Follow me.” He planted his outriggers into the snow, tips up in crutch form, pushed against them, and glided on his one ski. He kept his non-skiing leg bent. We all followed. The ground was fairly level, so this was easy. “Come on, keep going.” People were watching us, smiles on their faces. Their enthusiasm and the sunny day made my heart leap with excitement. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe here on the mountain I would find just what I needed to get myself reoriented after leaving school and breaking up with Rob. There were other people in the world, after all. He wasn’t the only person who could make me feel worthwhile.
Davin stopped. Directly in front of us was a slight slope. “Okay, ladies, let’s start huffing up. I want you to be comfortable going down a hill before I take you up in a chairlift.” He crutched up the incline with ease and speed. I followed, assuming I would be equally adept. This incline was smaller than a traditional bunny hill, yet I tired quickly. I planted my outriggers and slid my ski up to meet them. So I didn’t lose ground, I quickly moved my outriggers farther up the incline—which was fast becoming a large hill—and rushed to push my ski forward to meet them.
“Damn, this is hard. I think I’d rather be on my butt!” Linda said, laughing at herself, which made me laugh. I had to stop and catch my breath before moving on. When we all met Davin at the top, we were huffing and puffing.
“Harder than it looks, isn’t it? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Okay, now comes the fun part. Watch how I use my outriggers for support, and the stance I use as I go down the hill.”
Davin pulled on the outrigger strings, and the ski tips flipped down. He pushed off and headed down the hill, keeping his non-skiing leg bent. “Keep your knee slightly bent, ladies,” he yelled as he turned his head uphill. “Keep your butt in. And relax.”
It looked easy. The ground leveled out, and he eventually stopped. He flipped his ski tips up by pulling on the outrigger string and crutched back up the hill.
“Okay, now it’s your turn. Go for it!”
I fumbled to find the string on my outrigger through my thick gloves. I pulled the string up, and my ski tips dropped flat. I started gliding before I was ready, and my ski leg got ahead of me. I fell down instantly. Becky fell down next to me, and we both started laughing. I was surprised at how hard this was, but it had been a long time since I’d laughed at myself. Davin showed us how to get up, which was another laborious physical task. Before I tried skiing again, I placed the outriggers slightly ahead of me. I glided down the hill, trying to remember to bend my knee. “Keep your butt in!” yelled Davin. I straightened my knee a little. “Good, now straighten your back!”
My hair wasn’t blowing behind me as I’d envisioned when I signed up for these lessons, but I was skiing! I was giddy with delight. The slope eventually evened out, and I came to a stop. I found my outrigger strings, pulled on them, and my ski tips flipped up. I turned around and started hiking up the hill again. We all met at the top, and Davin gave us feedback about our form. When he demonstrated again, he made it look so easy.
After numerous times skiing down and hiking up, we finally mastered the anthill; a small success, but we were beaming and quite proud of ourselves. I, for one, felt a glorious lightness that I hadn’t felt in years. Since the lesson had started, I hadn’t felt guilty or angry or sorry for myself. The strenuous, physical effort I was putting in overshadowed the darker realities of my life.
“That was fun!” shrieked Becky.
“I can’t imagine what a bona fide ski run will feel like.” I squinted as I looked around for the next-highest hill, feeling a little nervous.
“Okay, so what’s next?” asked Linda, looking around with me.
“Well, two-legged skiers would start with the rope tow,” Davin explained, “but it’s too difficult to navigate with your outriggers, so you’re instantly graduating to the chairlift.” Davin paused. “How many of you have been on a chairlift before?” Becky was the only one who hadn’t. “Okay, Becky, I’ll ride with you. Colleen and Linda, you ride together. We’re going right over there to the smallest chair-lift,” he said, pointing to a lift off to our right. I followed the length of the lift up with my eyes, noting that it dumped out at the top of a small ridge. The hill we’d be skiing down was a beginner’s hill, slightly steeper t
han a bunny hill, but for us one-legged newbies, it was the equivalent of a diamond-level expert’s slope. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I can do this.
Davin continued. “When we get there, I’ll ask the lift operator to slow the lift waaaayyyy down. You’ll plop your butt down on the chair and flip your outriggers to the ski position. Then when we get to the top, they’ll slow it down again. When you get off the chair, just stand up and glide down the hill the same way we’ve just been doing. Any questions?”
Of course, we had a million of them. “What if I don’t sit down in time?” “How do I hold my outriggers while I’m sitting?” “Do we stop at the top or just go straight down?” “What do we do if we drop an outrigger?” He patiently answered our questions until we were convinced we might actually be able to do this. “All right, ladies,” he yelled, “let’s ski!”
We were allowed to take cuts to the front of the line, which made me feel conspicuous, but I appreciated the perk; my right leg was starting to tire from standing on it for so long.
“So, you’ve skied before?” Linda asked me, as we slowly shuffled to the front of the line.
“Yeah, I was in seventh grade and had two legs then. What about you?”
“I was in grade school, before I had cancer. That’s how I lost my leg.” She was matter-of-fact.
“Oh. Wow.” I was stunned into silence. I didn’t know anyone who had survived cancer. I never thought about people losing their limbs that way. What was it like, I wondered, to know in advance it would happen? How did she and her parents make that decision? What was it like to go into surgery knowing you would come out with a part of your body missing? I wondered if I would have adjusted better to life with one leg if I’d had a little time to prepare instead of the way it had happened: one minute watching a green Pacer coming at me, the next minute watching my sister pointing at my leg, which was already separated from my body.
“Here comes the chair,” Linda announced, pulling me away from my thoughts. The chairlift hummed as it slowed to a crawl. Davin and Becky simply plopped their butts down when the chair hit the back of their legs. That looked simple enough. Linda and I followed, crutching up to the red line that looked hazy under a layer of snow and ice. The chair slowly crept toward us. The lift operator courteously indicated when we were supposed to sit, which we did easily. I held onto the chair bar for dear life, remembering how much I didn’t like heights. The nerve endings in my missing limb always went crazy, like when I moved a part of my body that had fallen asleep, only the feeling was a hundred times more intense.
“Don’t forget to put your ski tips down,” Linda reminded me, smiling.
Maneuvering the outrigger tips was much harder to do sitting down. We laughed nervously as we pressed them against our ski. The fir and hemlock trees, laden with snow, turned the hillside below into a winter wonderland.
“So, where do you live?” I asked.
“I live in Puyallup. How about you?”
Well, that’s disappointing. She lives forty-five minutes from me. Too far away to get together for a quick lunch.
“I live in Seattle. So, what happens if we get stuck on this slope?” I laughed, but I wasn’t entirely convinced I could get myself down the mountain on my own.
She laughed, too. “I was thinking the same thing. I suppose they could always call the ski patrol to get us down.”
We crested a hill and saw the end of the lift just in front of us. Davin and Becky got off, and neither one of them fell. Linda and I scooted our butts forward as Davin had instructed, and we put our outriggers in the ready position. When we reached the top of the lift, Linda and I stood up to exit, and my stomach did a somersault. I did not want to fall while getting off! We tipped our skis down and glided down the short snowy ramp without eating it. We looked at each other with huge grins, unabashedly proud of ourselves. I felt like a little kid again, pleased with such a small accomplishment. We gathered as a group at the top of the lift and waited for Davin’s instructions. Occasionally, someone looked at one of us and said, “Great job!” or “Good for you.”
From where we stood above the slope, the hill looked long and steep. I felt like I was looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.
“Okay, ladies, you can do this,” Davin encouraged, a huge can-do smile on his face. “You’re already skiers!” I felt myself enamored with his positive, supportive attitude. Since Rob, I hadn’t really felt an attraction worth noting. This was a nice feeling.
Davin had us practice how to stop—by bearing weight on our ski so it swished perpendicular to the slope, stopping our descent. We started out slow, and it was surprisingly easy to stop. I felt like my leg naturally knew what to do, and though I thought the outriggers would be cumbersome, they were a godsend.
“Since you’ve all mastered stopping, I want you to take that same movement a step further and make it into a turn.” As he demonstrated turning, I yearned to give it a try—more excited than scared—knowing I could do it. He gave us each a few opportunities to practice a turn on a small incline before the hill turned steep. Just as I thought, my body knew just what to do. Becky and Linda were naturals, too. The three of us were concentrating and trying hard. This was the first time since the accident I had shared a physical success with someone in my situation. It wasn’t like going on a hike with Rob, where I always had to keep up. I wasn’t keeping up with these women; I was one of them. All of a sudden, I felt a new kind of normal.
“Ladies, let’s ski down the mountain!” Davin announced excitedly. “I’m right here, following you the whole way. The left side of the run has a gentler slope, so we’re going to stick to that side.”
We all looked at each other, waiting to see who would go first. Once we were at this juncture, we were all scared. I wanted to get it over with, so I scooted my ski tip downhill and pushed off. I gained speed immediately. I was going so fast, I couldn’t think about what to do. “Turn, Colleen, turn!” Davin called from behind me. I could hear Becky and Linda whooping and hollering, and the next thing I knew, I was on my butt, sliding down the hill, embarrassed and disappointed. Davin quickly skied down to me. “Way to go!” he encouraged. “Now, on your next try, keep your butt in, straighten your back, and carve a turn.”
I reached a hand up, hoping he would help me.
“Sorry, but you’re on your own. You remember how to get up, right? I’m not always going to be right here, so you gotta get used to it. Believe me, after today, you’ll be a pro at getting back up.”
“Thanks a lot. That’s a true vote of confidence,” I said with a smile and an edge of sarcasm.
“Well, I always tell my students, you’re not learning if you’re not falling.”
Davin left to crutch back up the hill to Becky and Linda, and I managed to get back up. I was sweating by the time I got up, so I took off my hat and stuffed it in my jacket pocket.
I waited for Becky and Linda to take their turns; they fell, too. We all ended up in roughly the same place and regrouped for another pep talk from Davin.
“Okay, you’re all doing the same thing. Get those butts in, ladies. Stay relaxed. And this time, carve a turn. Show me what you can do!”
Davin was clearly an expert at teaching three-track skiing, so if he said I could do it, I believed him. He reminded me of Anne, my physical therapist, and the confidence she had in me. His words energized me. I pointed my ski downhill and pushed off. I attempted a turn right away, so I didn’t gain speed too quickly. With my knee bent, I bore weight on my heel and turned my knee hillside. Whoosh! I did it. I made a turn. I felt a rush of relief and joy.
“Go, baby, go!” Davin yelled. The other girls were yelling, too. I looked up and smiled at them as I traversed the hillside. I fell again. Laughing at myself, I lay in the snow for half a minute and felt the expansiveness of my chest, ready to burst from the glow of happiness, before I hoisted myself back up. Linda was now coming down, but she immediately fell.
It took us a full hour
to get down the run. If Rob were here, I would have been snapping at him in frustration every time I fell, but there was no one there I could take out my frustration on. Instead, I managed each fall as it came, taking a short rest and then hoisting myself up. I started to recognize able-bodied skiers who, during the course of my one trip down the run, had taken multiple trips down. Many of them were encouraging; some asked if I needed help getting up. I always refused. Davin was right: I needed to get used to getting up on my own. Others cheered me on as I practiced a turn. “Great job!” I heard often. Their comments felt good, because I recognized what I was doing was hard and novel. When I’d last skied ten years before, I never saw a one-legged skier.
Linda, Becky, and I offered each other encouragement all the way down: “Way to go! You can do it!” “Woo-hoo, look at you!” “You’re doing great!” Those were the most valuable words I heard all day, because they knew just how hard this was—not just the skiing itself, but putting ourselves out here in the first place, in spite of feeling self-conscious or different. We gave one another courage.
As the afternoon wore on, we did several more runs, and I imprinted on my brain how to make the turns, how to bend my knee, and how to get up after falling down. There was an old body memory from when I skied in seventh grade resurfacing on my way down each run. I skied long enough and gained enough speed to send my hair whipping behind me.
My heart was nearly bursting. I found myself skiing—truly skiing—fast enough so the wind whistled in my ears. And I felt no pain. No phantom pain. No pain from my prosthesis rubbing against my stump. The only pain I felt was on my butt, from falling down so much.
A whole new world was opening up to me. I had just been told I could do anything. And at least on that day I believed it.
9
SOCCER
A Leg to Stand On Page 8