Some Much-Kneeded Time Off

My left knee hates me. We go back a long way together, and I thought we were past that little “episode”. Apparently not.

My family is taking a ski trip for Spring Break. (The word “break” already having a dual meaning.) I had resisted such a trip, since a time when both knees loved me equally and I went to Colorado with two college friends. We were 25 and stupid, which may be redundant.

They told me it’d be fun to drive cross country, which the way we figured, was just under 7,000 miles. And they insisted it’d be fun to ski, “ESPECIALLY if I’d never done it”. The logic in this – and I use that term loosely – is that basically anything, such as sticking a hot needle in your armpit would be fun, ESPECIALLY if you’ve never done it. I oddly never questioned it, nor readied my body for the trip.

I was in “reasonable” shape and took care of myself. As a bachelor, this means Cheet-O’s are one of the major food groups, along with coffee and Slim Jims. I was limber enough to touch my toes, provided my toes were 18 inches long, so I had that going for me. And I could watch someone on TV work out for hours without even breaking a sweat. With this rigorous training, we headed to Colorado.

After a month of solid driving, we arrived. The first day we went to “Hit the slopes” (ski lingo for “accelerate down a mountain with no provision for brakes”) but wisely decided to get our skis first.

The guy who rented me skis and poles (also known as the “Weed Technician”) must’ve instinctively assessed my powerful a) experience level b) physical prowess and c) fear of ramming a pine tree, because he skipped all those dumb “aptitude” questions and merely asked, “MasterCard or Visa?”

Soon after, all three of us, dressed and looking like overserved Michelin Men waddled off, chafing madly toward the ski lift. If you’ve never skied, the ski lift is basically a proctologist on a conveyer belt.

Everybody else knew how to “ride” it gracefully to the top of – I think it was Mount Vesuvius – while sipping bubbly and chatting about moguls. We however, all peered nervously over our shoulders braced for a highly personal trip up Witch Mountain. Soon as realize your skis dangling far above the earths’ atmosphere, you must “dismount”.

Again, the bubbly-sippers eased out, shooshing gaily away. There’s not really an “Exit” sign per se. You’re suddenly aware, “Hey, this stupid thing is turning around, and I’ll be the only doofus in all of Mountain Time Zone riding it BACK downhill if I don’t jump out NNNNOOWWWW!” and you do. Two of us busted it, while the third looked like the Tin Man in a windstorm.

So, we stood atop Mount McKinley, peering down. One by one, we descended. Except I called a cab. Not really, but just before I went, I had an “epiphany” (where you realize how stupid you were a moment ago): Once high atop the mountain air, I understood why people would trudge 7 or 8 miles vertically up a frozen mountain, then strap long, thin strips of metal coated in Z-Max to their feet and let gravity, ice and a rather large rock do whatever it wanted to you for several terrifying, defenseless minutes. Makes perfect sense. So I did it…more than once, sort of.

My second trip down Mount Saint Helens was even more exhilarating. I exited the proctologist with ease, and not wanting to look like a “newcomer” (since I HAD been down once) I turned left instead of right. Soon I saw a different sign. “Golly, a Black Diamond Slope. That must be the pet name of this fun hill” I thought, much in same way a slaughter-house pig says, “Hey, let’s follow Larry into that fun barn!”

For those not in the know, a “Black Diamond” is technically not a slope since it has “0” angle. It’s a gigantic, ice-encrusted fireman’s pole that’s several miles tall. The easiest – and perhaps only - way down it is by helicopter. My “weed technician” failed to mention this option.

I did however see others heading down it, in an ever-speedier parade of death. I joined them, since my brake pads must’ve fallen off. As I picked up speed, I noticed various 12- year-olds, smiling and shooshing their overly-agile selves, not even realizing the horrific fate ahead. Once I hit the speed of sound, my only option was to jump the children or forever impale them in sort a ‘kid kabob.’ This would’ve been very difficult to explain to horrified parents at the bottom of Mount Rainier.

Yet, I needed ballast, and I needed it now.

So in an act of heroics, I took an intentional fall at roughly 700 mph. This caused whatever held my left knee together to go shooting over the next mountain and land in Montana. I never looked for it, but I’ll bet it caused a stir in some quaint shopping village. Once I came to a halt, I felt lucky I didn’t burst into flames re-entering the atmosphere. Plus, though most of my clothes and ski garb were scattered over the mountain, my left ski was still firmly in place! You sure don’t want that baby coming off when you’re doing a nuclear pirouette!

To be honest, it hurt. And I’ll never ever forget it. Pain does that.

You’ve got two ligaments per knee (or should) called the interior and anterior “cruciate” ligaments. From this, we get the word “excruciating”, so they were well-named. I’ve had a great recovery, actually enjoying stretching exercises ever since.

Yet as soon as we began “thinking” about going skiing, my left knee started tugging at forever-shortened cruciates, saying “Remember Mount Everest?” That’s all I needed to hear. Plus, something’s wrong if you keep up a conversation with your knee.

Plus, it reminded me that the world’s best marketing message is “Absence of pain.” Pain, and the avoidance thereof, has a long memory.

We’re going to Park City, Utah. My athletic kids and my dear healthy wife will have a great time skiing. I will be an easy sale of anything my knee wants. I plan to enjoy a few hours of marketing study on my iPod, a book, a few car magazines and may even take a day trip to a quaint Montana village, just to um, look around.

Have fun in your business.

http://www.hudsonink.com/