One More Try

“The only thing that separates success from failure is one last attempt. Try one more time and you will get lucky.” – Apoorve Dubey, author of The Flight of Ambition

My husband Alan grew up in Penticton, B.C.. His hometown’s proximity to the mountains necessarily means that he’s an excellent skier.

As a youngster, a good part of Alan’s Sundays were spent on the ski hill. His mother was religious (never mind that his father wasn’t), so he and his older sister would have to first attend Sunday school. After that, the family headed to Apex, a nearby ski resort. Gradually, over time, church attendance waned and Sundays were spent exclusively worshipping the God of Snow.

My ski background, on the other hand, consisted of a lone phys. ed. class on cross-country skiing, taught on the slush of our high school’s football field, during an unseasonably warm winter.

Now relationships are all about compromise. So when our first winter together arrived, I knew I’d be on a mountain. It was just a matter of whether I’d be on skis or a snowboard. Foolishly reasoning that it would be easier, I opted for the snowboard.

If you’ve never tried snowboarding, know this: You will fall. A LOT. On your butt, and on your knees. It will hurt. A LOT.

Alan and I would spend one or two weekends every year at Marmot Basin, a ski resort in Jasper, Alberta. In the mornings, he’d ski the difficult black diamond runs with his ski patrol buddies while I joined other newbies in a group snowboarding lesson. After lunch, Alan would switch to his snowboard and the two of us would ride the chair lift together to a green run (a beginner trail). He’d do his best to be encouraging while I fell my way down the mountain. Our time together was brief – I’d inevitably quit after a couple of runs and head for the warmth and comfort of the chalet.

At the end of one particularly rough trip (for me at least), Alan suggested we take the t-bar lift part way up the hill to the nearby lot where we were parked. I scoffed at the suggestion.

“No, I’ll just walk up the hill and carry my board.”
“Are you serious?”
“I HATE that stupid t-bar. I’m tired of falling. And I always end up veering toward that pole. I’ll walk.”
“Come on, try it one more time!”
“No.”
“Come on. One more try!”
“No!”

 This battle of wills went on for a few minutes until one of us finally caved in.

“Okay!” I blurted out, exasperated. “But what do I get if I make it up?!”
“What do you want?”
“A present!”
“Fine. What kind of present?”

I paused for a minute to think. It’s funny what you can conjure up when you’re physically exhausted and mentally drained.

“I want personal congratulations from Olympic snowboarding gold medallist Ross Rebagliati.”

Alan looked at me, mouth agape.

“If I make it up, I want Ross to congratulate me on my achievement – because it will be an achievement. And he needs to specifically reference the t-bar, in order for the congratulations to be personal.”

Alan looked at me silently for a few seconds, processing my ludicrous request. Judging by what he said next, he must not have been very confident about my chances of success. Neither was I for the matter.

“Okay. Let’s go,” he said.

What happened next was nothing short of a miracle. I somehow managed to keep my balance on the first half of the hill and turned my head to look back at Alan, waiting for him to cue me to let go of the t-bar to detour to the parking lot. Instead, he furiously waved me on and the next thing I knew, I was at the top of the hill!

Some months later, when the elation of my snowboarding achievement had worn off, I received an unexpected surprise in the mail. An envelope, postmarked from Kelowna, contained the following…