Page 53 of I Blame the Alcohol

The day goes by in a blur of wind-bitten cheeks and fresh tracks. Instead of stopping for lunch, we decide to eat our packed sandwiches in the gondola and maximize the number of runs we hit today. I’m the only snowboarder in our trio, but Stella and Mo remained surprisingly patient every time I had to clip back in after riding the chairlift.

On Stella’s part, I think she was just relieved my skills were good enough to keep up with the aggressive terrain the sibling pair loved to attack.

Unused to the deeper powder and longer runs, my legs started to burn two hours ago, but the O’Brien’s have yet to show any sign of slowing down. I will be surprised if I can walk tonight, never mind getting out of bed tomorrow.

We slide off the Olympic chair just as a sign goes up signaling last call of the day. I send up a silent prayer of thanks for the early closing time and follow Stella’s pink puff jacket off to the side.

I flop down, quickly buckling in my boots as Stella uses one of her poles to draw a diagram in the snow.

“Alright boys, listen up. This year’s race is going to be down the lift line, making it easy for the rookie,” She nods her equally bright helmet in my direction, “To stay on course. Rules are simple: Whoever gets to the bottom first wins. Sabotage and shortcuts are welcome as long as the Olympic chair remains in your line of sight. Are there any questions?”

I raise a gloved hand.

“Could I get a five-minute head start since I’m the only one who doesn’t know the terrain?”

“No. Any other questions?”

My hand goes back up.

Stella sighs, “Yes, Cody?”

“Are you sure about the head start?”

“Positive.”

Mo smirks as I lower my hand. With his helmet and goggles on, Mo bears a striking resemblance to his father with his wide and intimidating build. The sleek material of Mo’s black Arcteryx coat stretches tight along his shoulders, making the guy look built even under layers of ski gear.

Stella, on the other hand, looks like a cotton candy machine exploded and buried her under layers of pink fluff.

“The trick is to straight line it. Don’t think, just go.” Mo shrugs casually, as if his suggestion wasn’t borderline suicidal.

“What do you mean by straight line? Like don’t turn?”

The question sounds stupid even to my own ears, but I want to make sure I understand him correctly. Because the last time I checked, letting my board run free down the side of a mountain is not a recipe for success.

Stella pushes her goggles up on her forehead and gives me a smile. Platinum wisps fly across her face, the loose strands coated in a thin layer of ice.

“He means just go as fast as you can. Mo and I have a bad habit of not turning when the race gets tight, but that’s probably because we grew up racing.” She smirks, her dark blue eyes shining brightly in the cold mountain air.

“You used to race?”

“Pfft, like ten years ago. We were only in the racing program for a couple of years before we veered into backpacking and avalanche training.”

I can’t remember the last time my odds of winning were so low.

“And you’re still not giving me a head start?”

“Come on, Cody. The only way to be the best is to beat the best. And you can’t do that with a five-second head start.” She gives me a cheerful smile before pushing her goggles back into position, “The loser has to buy a round of hot chocolate.”

“What does the winner get?”

Mo grins, flashing a set of perfect teeth, “The only thing that matters in the O’Brien household. Bragging rights.”

Stella

“Ready… And go!”

As per tradition, a recruited stranger starts us off to eliminate any possible advantages. The three of us immediately split, Cody making a beeline for the smooth groomed section directly under the chairlift, Mo veering right to avoid a cluster of skiers, and I take a sharp left and disappear into the trees.

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