Silhouetted against a cold winter sky, I stood poised on top of the ski slope. For the umpteenth time, I checked my boot fittings, settled my helmet once more and grasped my poles a bit tighter. I was determined not to neglect anything I had been taught.
I peered down the snowy terrain, its end already being slowly enveloped in the coming dusk. I squinted. Were those spectators milling about at the bottom or just tree-branch shadows dancing about in the wind?
I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. I knew this would be my last chance for this run. The weather was warming and soon the slope would be too mushy.
Thoughts raced. I must not forget the ugly bump in the center. I had seen many a skier go flying off in one direction and skis in another. And I wished Elaine, the girl next door, could see me now. I looked about and crouched.
And at the moment a piercing voice split the silence: ”Eddyyy, supper`s ready.” I flung my young body out into space.
In two seconds I reached the bottom of my run. After all, how long does it take for a 7-year-old to negotiate down a homemade, 10-foot snow pile in one`s back yard?
I landed in a heap-arms, legs and equipment in a jumbled mess. I had forgotten the bump.
