One With Goofy

by John Christmann

I recently took up snowboarding under the mistaken impression that I could enjoy a day on the slopes together with my twelve-year-old son. I’m not sure, but I think this qualifies me for the Darwin awards, right along side the guy who pulled a vending machine on top of himself trying to retrieve a bag of Cheese Doodles. If you believe, like I do, that there are certain things that middle-aged men should not do—like wearing a thong or playing air guitar in public—then snowboarding should be right up there on the list.

Nevertheless, I felt compelled to try boarding under the guise of being a “hip” and “with it” Dad. This sketchy rationale should have been a warning, but the male ego is seldom fueled by common sense, especially when adrenaline pumping activities and the potential for broken bones are involved.

My introduction to snowboarding came at the rental shop where I confidently announced to the twenty-something clerk with a large hunk of metal in his lip that I had been skiing for over fifteen years and was now ready to try snowboarding. He was wearing a ripped T-shirt and a green knit stocking cap and was methodically attaching ominous looking straps to a snowboard with a screwdriver.
“Are you goofy?” he asked without looking up. Given that I was twice his age and dressed in a bright red ski suit with racing stripes, I assumed this was a rhetorical question.
“No, I am serious.” I replied, completely serious.

It turns out the term “goofy” refers to a stance on the board—whether you stand left foot forward (regular) or right foot forward (goofy). The clerk told me this could be determined by which foot I prefer to kick with. Still not sure, I ran across the room aiming for an imaginary football, tripped over a ski boot, and knocked over a rack full of ski poles.
“You are definitely goofy,” the clerk assessed quickly.

A few minutes later and a several dollars lighter I found myself standing in a group of other men without common sense waiting for our snowboard instructor. I stood apprehensively clutching the front of the upright board while the tail rested on the snow. Or maybe I was clutching the tail. I really had no idea. This was why I was taking a lesson I reminded myself.

The last time I took a ski lesson my instructor was an Austrian hunk that invited all of our wives to an après ski fondue party. I was inspired by his accent, and I soaked in the words that would guide me elegantly down the mountain and perhaps enable me to attend the fondue party too.
“Be one wiss zee mountain,” he yodeled as I tumbled in the snow far behind him.

Our snowboard instructor was nineteen. His name was Zack. He was from Australia. He was young, wild, ruggedly handsome, and sported his own unique hunk of metal through his eyebrow. Zack politely informed us that there was an après ski Rave that evening, and if we had teenaged daughters, they were welcome to attend. Then he inspired us with his Crocodile Dundee delivery: “Dudes, todai you will become intimate with the ground. For those of you too old to remembeh, it is cold and hahd.”

Under Zack’s skillful tutelage, I finally understood what it meant to be one with the mountain, and I had the bruises to prove it. But despite spending most of the day melting snow with my gluteus humongous, by the end of the lesson I was able to timidly seesaw like a falling leaf down all the way to the bottom of the bunny slope where I imagined the lodge paparazzi were swarming to capture me for America’s Funniest Home Videos. I felt ready. It was time to board with my son.
“Let’s thread, Dude” I said.
“It’s shred, Dad. Let’s shred.”

There is nothing quite so exhilarating as looking out from atop a mountain, mentally preparing yourself for the challenge that lays beyond the crest while soaking in the natural beauty of the surroundings. With my heart pumping, I took one last glance at the scenery before lashing myself to my snowboard, which I proudly christened, Moby Dick.
“Hey Dad,” my son called out to me, “you know what the hardest thing about snowboarding is?”
“Everything?” I answered, optimistically.
“The ground!” he yelled. And then he launched himself down the mountain, laughing.

This is when I discovered the real test for goofiness, which I will share with you now. To determine if you are goofy, imagine yourself hurtling out of control down the mountain with your feet lashed to the lid of a grand piano. Then ask yourself which foot you would rather have forward given the choice of being one with the mountain or one with a tree. If you answered “my right foot” you are goofy. If you answered “my left foot” you are equally goofy. And if you answered “somebody else’s foot” you are an Austrian girly man who probably hits on some poor guy’s wife at a fondue party while he recuperates in the hospital.

But in the end it was worth it. Short of threading a decorative ski pole into my face and holding my ski pants together with duct tape, I can now claim to be a snowboarder. And my son thinks I am about as cool as a middle-aged man can possible be.
“Wow Dad, you just did a tail-side 720 and ollied a tree!”
“Yeah,” I replied cleaning the snow out from my goggles, “it was sweet.”

That’s snowboard-speak for being one with my son.