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.
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.
