Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing

June 25th, 2011

Disc Golf - Vanderyacht Park: Ferndale, WA

Croquet - Hovander Homestead: Ferndale, WA

Boche Ball - Zuanich Park: Bellingham, WA

Random: Chainlink

Bellingham, Washington

Near the Freeway

I'm going to a Mariners game today. The weather is clear and sunny, 80+ degrees. Also, the ticket is free. Today is a good day. Today is a day that should happen more often than it doesn't happen.

Sunset: Jonny Sunami

Lake Whatcom: North Shore

Bellingham, Wa

Camp of Champions

Whistler, BC

Whistler Village

To be honest, I don't know what the Camp of Champions is and or was. All I know is youngsters rode bikes off jumps and landed on an oversized, pillowy soft, inflatable mattress. Quite frankly, all it did was remind me of the great elephant in my own personal Whistler room. That elephant being the figurative representation of the great torn ACL of the winter of 2005, the last time, prior to this past weekend, I had set foot on Whistlers fine Canadian soil. You see, it was 6 years ago that I traveled north with friends for a post Christmas weekend of skiing on the world famous Whistler/Blackcomb Mountains. It was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be safe. It was neither. Except for the fun part. It was mostly fun. But safe? Sadly no. And I only have myself to blame. I hadn't been skiing in at least 4 years. Yet when my compatriots decided it was time to hit the black diamond rated Whistler Bowl, I dutifully followed along. Worst decision of my life. Within 10 seconds of embarking down the run, my ski got stuck in thick powder. When my upper body turned to make a cut, my right knee acted like a whiny 5 year old who didn't get his way and decided not to follow. I heard, felt and fully experienced the ensuing pop from deep within the nether region of my right knee. End of my day on the slopes. On the bright side, it was only my first run so I made sure to get next to no value out of the ski pass I had purchased not even a half hour earlier. Long story short, I somehow skied/hobbled/fell/crumbled down the mountain, hit up the hospital, was told to get lost since my insurance didn't cover in Canada and waited out the rest of the afternoon until my friends were done enjoying the beautifully overcast day. Two and a half years later I was surgically repaired by the great Dr. Thorp, endured weeks of physical rehabilitation and now sit here as healthy and strong as ever. So this past weekend, when I was given another chance to face the nonexistent and completely made up emotional and physical scars that were Whistler/Blackcomb, I accepted the invitation. Consider those demons exercised.

Whistler/Blackcomb

Whistler B.C.

Canada

Whistler is like your really good friend who you had a lot of fun with growing up. You threw snowballs at unsuspecting cars, egged the houses of ex-girlfriends, drank a gallon of milk just to see if it was possible. You jumped in the near freezing lake in mid-December, bombed the local streets on longboards and killed entire nights battling it out on the MarioKart racetrack. You and Whistler did everything together, everything you could possible do without having any money. Eventually you both grew up and did your own things, but stayed fairly good friends. You got a job as a sales manager at the local brewery. Good job, descent money. Whistler on the other hand struck it rich. He started his own solar energy company then sold it off for big money. He then started a 100% compostable shoe company and sold that off for even more money. On top of that, Whistler started a software company that created 6 of the current top 10 best selling games on the Apple app store. Naturally, he sold that off as well for unspeakable amounts of greenbacks. Whistler now owns cars you never knew existed, smokes the finest tobacco rolled in hundred doller bills and wears polar bear fur lined silk underwear. He only eats at restaurants that don't print prices, hires workout trainers who cater to Hollywood stars and considers a $400 bottle of 1992 White Meritage whine to be low class. Even with all this new found money though, you can honestly look your mother in the eye and say Whistler hasn't changed where it matters. He finds time to hang out, shares all his sweet toys with you and will still be seen late at night racing as Mario on the Starcup circuit with an empty carton of extra large eggs sitting beside him on the couch.