dear wally 64 skiing

Dear Wally-
The New York Times just ran an article talking in part about the current state of pampering afforded to modern day alpine skiers. How come we have become so soft? It’s ridiculous. What happened? Please, speak to the grace of the old days.
-Outraged

Dear Outraged:
Agreed. I know I sound like Grandpa Geezer Wally but I remember a time when the sport of downhill skiing involved some risk. The fact that you could freeze to death at any moment, or sustain a crushing head injury, or slip through the chairlift’s generous safety gaps to your death made the sport that much more exhilarating and made it dance with the thrill. The thrill that frankly, is gone.
There was once a direct connection to nature and survivalism* that has now been lacquered over with safety features like helmets, parkas and, get this, heated gondolas. What the f&#%…
*This is not a word but it should be.
In my day we skied with no gloves. Sometimes naked. You went home when you lost a finger or nose tip (or worse, your pecker) to frostbite. Those were the steely days…
You kept rhythm to the sound of your chattering teeth, not an Ipod.
You warmed your hands on your privates or in your girlfriend's armpits, not on a chemical pack cowardly hidden in your little mitten.
You didn’t ski on something shaped like an Italian ice spoon and whatever it was you skied on, there were two of them, not one deformed, obese ‘ski’ like all these snowboarding punks use today.
You skied on old fashioned lumber (preferably 2x4s) that was lashed to your leather boots (or bare feet) with dried out cat gut and you worked damn hard to turn those boards. Those who succeeded enjoyed a beer in the lodge afterwards. Those who didn't ate tree bark or the paint on the snow cat’s fender and didn't reproduce.
(That said I wish I had paid attention in high school geometry when they were teaching us about parabolas. (x=2y?? Crap, I can’t remember**). That would have led to me inventing the parabolic ski that made one person rich and everyone else able to get out their wallets and ski black diamonds with no fear).
In my day, you walked up the mountain with your skis on your back like a man (or ran up it if you wanted two rides in a day). There were no lodge bunnies in matching snowsuits. And NO fluffy white 'Apres Ski' boots. There was no Cherry flavored Chapstick hanging from a cord around your neck. Cracked lips were treated with good old fashioned, rendered horse lard from a tub.
Before heated gondolas, you held onto a rope tow driven by an unforgiving, creatively jigged Ford tractor motor. If you got your hand caught, well, off it went and you didn’t make that mistake again, by god! Leather gloves gripped whizzing rope until you smelled burning cow skin. Now that was a tow lift!! Some spazo fall down in front of you on the rope tow? You skied right over them and left your mark (Rossignol, Vokle ‘Tiger’ or Olin Mark III trick skis, or what have you) right on their backside.
When the chairlift was invented, we marveled at the suspiciously thin wire above from the 1/2" poorly welded tube framed 'chair' that would (sometimes and sometimes not) suspend us over a 200’ ravine. Didn’t like it? You were free to jump.
And we bounced those mothers, too. Tried to get them to jump the tracks of those little wheels and make all 300 people perish. Now that was good clean fun! In a post 9-11 world you just can’t do that anymore.
Then came gondolas and high speed quads and with them the fair weather fans with Gucci snow suits, Versace luggage and matching Volvos in the valet serviced parking lot. And that was the beginning of the end because someone had to pay for those gondola seat heaters. That someone was you (and me) to the tune of $80/day.
You could buy a ski mountain for $80 when I learned how to ski.
Heated Gondolas? For real? What happened to eating chili and good old fashioned flatulence in the gondola to keep warm. Or smoking a fatty ** and giggling straight through the hypothermia? Those were the days...
Today belongs to the wimp and I’m afraid that’s what this is all about, as the NYT seems to imply. I wish I could help you, or change this course, but I can’t. That first class train with its leather back captain seats and its plush, heated, bar car has left the station.
But we still can discuss with disgust like grumpy old men. Meet me in the lodge. I’ll be in the white fluffy boots and hanging out by the fireplace.

-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to hear him spout off about the absurdity of Olympic ice curling? Email him at cwn4@aol.com