Crazy For The Storm Part 17

In the morning my dad waxed my skis with the hotel iron.

They keep talking about this kid, he said. Lance McCloud. They say he's the best. Everybody tells me about him.

How old is he?

I don't know. He's a Junior 4 like you. Sometimes he races J3 to test himself against the older kids.

I do that too, right?

Yep. Anything to help you qualify for the Southern Cal Championship race.

When's that? I said.

Little over two months. President's weekend, he said.

Does Uncle Joe still own this hotel? I said.

Yeah.

He ran the iron up and down the base of my skis.

You got to go fast today, he said.

I will.

Why talk about beating the best kid when I have never even beaten the second or third best? I thought.

I don't weigh enough, I said.

He stopped ironing my skis.

Use your technique, he said.

What difference does it make on the flats?

Hey. That's not an excuse.

But I can't go fast 'cause of my weight.

Tuck the flats. Do anything you can.

Tuck slalom gates?

Don't worry about going fast, okay.

But you told me to.

I know, but the wax will take care of that, Ollestad.

He moved the iron onto the second ski.

Why do I pee in my pants every time? I said.

You get excited. Don't worry about that.

But the other kids don't pee in their pants.

How do you know?

Dad put down the iron and set the skis against the wall.

You really want me to beat that kid. Don't you? I said.

He looked at me, his mouth parted. Naw, he said. Don't worry about him.

Why'd you talk about him then?

I don't know. I'm just sick of hearing about him I guess.

Then why talk about him?

Just...to get it off my chest, Norman.

He got the sc.r.a.per out of his bag and shaved the top layer of wax off my bases.

Fourth place, tenth place, first place, he said. That's not what it's about.

But everybody's trying to win, I said.

I know. But we're not. We're just out here to make some good turns. Get a little better each time. We're just out here for the h.e.l.l of it.

His mustache was unruly, bushing out in all directions, and his eyes looked groggy. He watched me closely, searching my face. I gazed right through him to some place beyond his eyes where his explanations might make sense. I couldn't really understand what he meant by for the h.e.l.l of it for the h.e.l.l of it.

You don't care? I said.

All I care about is that you keep going, Boy Wonder. Don't get stuck on how you finished last time or the turn you just made. Go after the next one with all you've got.

We signed in with the Heavenly Valley race department and the race official asked where the h.e.l.l Mount Waterman was.

Los Angeles, said my dad.

That's a long way from Lake Tahoe, said the official. He smiled and handed me a bib. Good luck, he said through his smile.

I was the sole representative of my team so my dad and I slipped the course together, with him acting as my coach. It was a gentle slope with pretty tight gates and powdery snow.

You got 'em in the powder, he said.

I felt the pressure again and it was confusing. It was clear that he wanted me to win no matter what he claimed. He was trying to be sneaky about it-tease me into winning without feeling any stress. I was onto him.

It'll probably stop snowing, I said with spite. No more powder.

Then the ruts will get big, he said. That's no problem for you. You got 'em in the ruts.

I scoffed. Maybe I don't.

He gave me a long look. I had made my point so I kept my mouth shut.

A quarter of the way down he insisted on getting real close to the Heavenly Valley ski team in front of us. My dad would repeat to me what the Heavenly coach told his team and finally the coach addressed my dad.

Excuse me sir. What team are you from?

Mount Waterman, said my dad. The coach couldn't make it so we were hoping to pick up a few pointers.

These kids' families pay a lot of money for ski team. I don't think it's fair for you to get advice for free. Do you?

My dad's jaw muscle flinched. Then he smiled.

I'll pay for it, he said.

You'll have to go work that out with the team president, said the coach.

But you're the coach. You must have authority to decide who can train with the team, said my dad.

No sir.

Let's go, I said.

My dad looked at his watch.

The race is going to start soon, my dad said to the coach.

The coach raised his head as if to get a better look at my dad. My dad leaned onto his poles, settling in. The team behind us appeared at our rear. Then the Heavenly coach shook his head and turned away, addressing his racers.

My dad told me to listen closely to the coach's inside info inside info. My head was bent toward the ground and I nodded.

The wind picked up and the snow fell hard and it was difficult to see by the time we got to the bottom. A voice came over the speakers mounted on the night-skiing lampposts.

Due to diminishing visibility the race is delayed until further notice, said the voice.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h, said my dad.

He was p.i.s.sed, I knew, because he believed I had the advantage in these stormy conditions.

Well. Let's go powder skiing, he said.

I pointed my head into the wind and we rode several chairs before he led me into the trees. We hiked and he whistled and sang a Tyrolean song I remembered from our trips to St. Anton. We skied a long ridge-spine and the snow was thick and heavy, Sierra Cement they called it because the storms. .h.i.tting the Sierra Mountains had too much moisture. Every few turns my dad hooted and sang as if it was perfectly light Alta powder.

I followed him down a gully and the snow was awful. I was exhausted by the time we made it to the comeback trail.

One more, said my dad as we schussed along the trail.

No way, I said.

Why not?

The other kids aren't going out of bounds looking for powder, I said. We might miss the race.

Ollestad-we can do it all, he said.

He opened his arms as if offering me the valley and the forest, maybe the entire world.

It was snowing hard and the nightlights finally reached full glow when the course setter announced that the gates would be loosened up a bit because of the conditions. My dad groaned. Among the coaches and parents gathered around the race department, he was the only person unhappy with the decision. My chances were whittling away.

I heard Lance McCloud's name when I got to the starting tent and I circ.u.mvented the crowd and finally saw him. He was a small boy like myself and he wore a spiffy ski team suit and all his teammates listened intently as he spoke. His coach sharpened his edges and waxed his skis and I watched him stretching and joking with his friends, comfortable and relaxed. My dad kneeled beside me and reviewed the gates with me, then he looked over my skis like he was going to tune them up but we didn't have any files or wax with us.

Lance raced second and n.o.body else was close to his time. Finally they called my number and I poled nervously into the starting gate. The starter counted down-five-four-three-two-one-Go!-and I kicked off the pad and broke the wand. Instinctively I banked on two skis into my first turn, powder style. The rut was filled with snow and I felt my skis spring me into the next turn. I sailed through the pillowy ruts as if skiing powder b.u.mps. It was not something I had planned and I questioned what the h.e.l.l I was doing. But I didn't have to jam the edges and the skis sliced right through each turn, running well.

I crossed the red dye of the finish line and the first thing I saw was Lance McCloud's face, twisted with envy. I knew I had beaten him. Checking the board I had the best time by half of a second. My dad appeared and waved me over.

Pretty good, Ollestad, he said in front of the leering crowd. And we skied away.

We waited in the starting tent for the second run to begin. Lance's team kept their backs to us and whispered to each other. A couple boys from Squaw Valley and Incline Village congratulated me and I thanked them. My dad didn't say a word. The kid who finished twentieth went first. I would go last. My dad hiked over to the starting gate and when he came back he was shaking his head.

What? I said.

They got a whole team of people sc.r.a.ping away the snow in the ruts.

Why?

Why do you think?

Oh, I said, understanding that it was for Lance. He must not like powder.