Nothing here in the mountains but blue skies, white snow and my burning thighs.

Every time I stopped on the mountain today, I would look down at my legs, expecting to see flames and bits of exploding flesh flinging on to the side of the hill, but there was only my silent black ski pants looking back at me.

How can there be that much agony and no outward evidence?

And why were my legs protesting so much? Maybe, I thought, I need all new equipment.

But then I remembered the first time I rode a bike after years of it hanging around and taunting me in the garage…I went for about a 6-block ride, rode back up the slight incline to our house and pantingly explained to Kevin, “There’s something wrong with this bike. I think the bicycle seat needs to be changed, my butt is in serious pain.”

As it turns out, the bike was just fine. Apparently one needs to get in shape for each and every activity.

As for my ski equipment? Let’s just say that I don’t have to worry about outwitting thieves by separating my skis outside the Roundhouse. Odds are against any thieves stealing mine…not unless they had a special commission to hang them on the Retro wall at the museum.

Still, I’m going to guess it’s not really the equipment’s fault, after all, it’s not like it’s been used that often.

I’m sure it has plenty of runs in it yet…just not sure if I do.