STOWE, VT — A funny thing happens every November in the Boston Globe newsroom. My editor mentions that our annual ski issue is coming up, and I make like one of David Copperfield’s rabbits and magically disappear.
I bear no ill will toward skiing. I have fond memories of sitting in ski lodges and eating nachos, as one does on a ski weekend. But the problem with going skiing is that eventually I’m expected to clip horribly uncomfortable boots to a pair of waxed up planks and go down a hill in the frostbite-inducing cold. I’m convinced this sport is the brainchild of some sort of Arctic Marquis de Sade.
I’m not saying this as a passive observer. I was a member of my high school ski club, which meant that I climbed on a bus every Monday night, snowplowed my way through a couple of rounds on the bunny hill, and then retired to the lodge with a plate of nachos while watching “Designing Women.” Like a peacock in a parka, I left every ski tag on my jacket through the season, hoping the paper plumage gave the colorful illusion that I was tearing up the slopes.
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