are connected to the ski only at the toe. The wider the connection point, the more control you’ll have over your ski.”
“So why would anyone buy one of these?” He picked up a boot with a narrow connection point.
“For racing. Which you don’t want to do.”
“I don’t?”
“No. You’re tall. If you fell at high speed, you’d break your head.” Not, of course, that it would make any difference to me.
“Then I could be the Headless Skier of Manitou. I could haunt my own house.”
I decided to just ignore him. I took the boot from his hand, returned it to the shelf, and picked up a different one. “You’ll want to check the torsion of the boot.” I handed it to him.
He took it by the toe and the heel and twisted. Or tried to.
“A rigid boot will also give you more control.”
“Then I’ll try it.”
“What size?”
“Twelve.” He sat down on the bench and slid his feet out of their Birkenstocks. “Socks?”
“Under the bench.” We kept a basket filled with them. No one in Manitou wore socks in the summer.
He tried them on. Stood up. Walked a few paces. “I don’t know.” He turned toward the display and grabbed another boot. Twisted. “How about this one? It’s lightweight.”
“It’s injection molded, but it’s not so good with metal edges. If you decide you want metal in your edges, try one of these.” I took a box from the shelf and opened it. Handed him a stitch-soled purple-and-black boot.
He sat back down and tried it on. Stood. Walked a few steps. Then paced the length of the store. Came back. “These feel great.”
“You’ll want them to be a little big.”
“They are. But not too big. I’ll take them.”
Once he’d taken them off, I took the box up to the counter. “Did you want the bindings now?”
“Might as well.”
I went behind the counter and into the storeroom. I grabbed several bindings and walked back to Joe. “You’ll have to make a choice. You’ll definitely want a reinforced brace like this.” I held one of the selections up. “But if you’ll be doing a lot of off-trail exploring, then you’ll probably want a riveted brace so you won’t get stuck in the back country with a broken binding. It’s an extra level of safety.”
“Where do you ski?”
“Pardon me?”
“When you ski, do you ski trails or do you explore?”
“Grandmother and I skied trails. That we made up. Mostly.”
He pushed the riveted brace bindings toward the box. “Then I’ll take these.”
“Not, of course, that I’ve skied in the last ten years. Or that I ever will again.” Although if I ever did, it would be nice to do it with someone like Joe.
He just smiled. “You never know. So, what else do I need?”
“Besides skis? How about poles? Over there.” I pointed toward a stand in the corner of the store.
He strode over and grabbed a set. “How about these?”
I shrugged. “Aluminum? They’re sexy, but the fiberglass have better shock absorption.”
While he looked at the poles, I gave directions to the Barr Trail to a different customer. “Turn left on Ruxton, drive past the Cog Railway. Take a right past the old steam plant. Park at the top of the hill in the gravel lot. They’ll tow you if you park at the railway station.” I’ve often thought about just posting the directions on the door to the store. And highlighting the part about being towed.
Eventually Joe came back with a set of poles in hand.
“Ah. The telescoping, jam-them-together-and-use-as-an-avalanche-probe poles. They’re our best sellers.”
“Really?”
“Psychology. No one wants to be in an avalanche, but everyone wants to imagine they’re the kind of person who can ski into places where they could start one.”
“Are you calling me a wannabe?”
“Are you?”
“No. I’m an am one.”
I just looked at him.
“I am. You should ski downhill with me.”
“No, thanks. Especially not now, Mr. Am One. I’d like to remain among the living for a couple more
“So why would anyone buy one of these?” He picked up a boot with a narrow connection point.
“For racing. Which you don’t want to do.”
“I don’t?”
“No. You’re tall. If you fell at high speed, you’d break your head.” Not, of course, that it would make any difference to me.
“Then I could be the Headless Skier of Manitou. I could haunt my own house.”
I decided to just ignore him. I took the boot from his hand, returned it to the shelf, and picked up a different one. “You’ll want to check the torsion of the boot.” I handed it to him.
He took it by the toe and the heel and twisted. Or tried to.
“A rigid boot will also give you more control.”
“Then I’ll try it.”
“What size?”
“Twelve.” He sat down on the bench and slid his feet out of their Birkenstocks. “Socks?”
“Under the bench.” We kept a basket filled with them. No one in Manitou wore socks in the summer.
He tried them on. Stood up. Walked a few paces. “I don’t know.” He turned toward the display and grabbed another boot. Twisted. “How about this one? It’s lightweight.”
“It’s injection molded, but it’s not so good with metal edges. If you decide you want metal in your edges, try one of these.” I took a box from the shelf and opened it. Handed him a stitch-soled purple-and-black boot.
He sat back down and tried it on. Stood. Walked a few steps. Then paced the length of the store. Came back. “These feel great.”
“You’ll want them to be a little big.”
“They are. But not too big. I’ll take them.”
Once he’d taken them off, I took the box up to the counter. “Did you want the bindings now?”
“Might as well.”
I went behind the counter and into the storeroom. I grabbed several bindings and walked back to Joe. “You’ll have to make a choice. You’ll definitely want a reinforced brace like this.” I held one of the selections up. “But if you’ll be doing a lot of off-trail exploring, then you’ll probably want a riveted brace so you won’t get stuck in the back country with a broken binding. It’s an extra level of safety.”
“Where do you ski?”
“Pardon me?”
“When you ski, do you ski trails or do you explore?”
“Grandmother and I skied trails. That we made up. Mostly.”
He pushed the riveted brace bindings toward the box. “Then I’ll take these.”
“Not, of course, that I’ve skied in the last ten years. Or that I ever will again.” Although if I ever did, it would be nice to do it with someone like Joe.
He just smiled. “You never know. So, what else do I need?”
“Besides skis? How about poles? Over there.” I pointed toward a stand in the corner of the store.
He strode over and grabbed a set. “How about these?”
I shrugged. “Aluminum? They’re sexy, but the fiberglass have better shock absorption.”
While he looked at the poles, I gave directions to the Barr Trail to a different customer. “Turn left on Ruxton, drive past the Cog Railway. Take a right past the old steam plant. Park at the top of the hill in the gravel lot. They’ll tow you if you park at the railway station.” I’ve often thought about just posting the directions on the door to the store. And highlighting the part about being towed.
Eventually Joe came back with a set of poles in hand.
“Ah. The telescoping, jam-them-together-and-use-as-an-avalanche-probe poles. They’re our best sellers.”
“Really?”
“Psychology. No one wants to be in an avalanche, but everyone wants to imagine they’re the kind of person who can ski into places where they could start one.”
“Are you calling me a wannabe?”
“Are you?”
“No. I’m an am one.”
I just looked at him.
“I am. You should ski downhill with me.”
“No, thanks. Especially not now, Mr. Am One. I’d like to remain among the living for a couple more
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