After Sports Illustrated published a story on my comeback from injury, by Patti Putnicki, I’ve decided to recap my experience of participating in the Subaru Freeride Series — North America’s Premier big mountain challenge for skiers and snowboarders. You can read my first-hand account of competition No. 1 here. Competition No. 2 went as follows:
Walking to the medical center, I looked like a snowboard ninja. I didn’t want to startle anyone. For those chic cowboys holding their venti lattes on the sidewalk, and those women in fur boots wearing an extra layer of lipstick, it was too early for Halloween shenanigans.
With my entire face covered in blood, I kept my goggles on and my green face mask hiding any exposed skin. Underneath it all, I could feel the blood dripping from my nose, lip, and chin.
Taking an 8-minute ride from the crash site, cruising into town on my snowboard, and walking four blocks to Telluride’s “ER” was, in my book, way better than being ushered off the mountain by ski patrol. That’s not my style. I was the hidden accident, and I liked it that way.
Conveniently, there was a locker right outside of the sliding emergency room door, where I could store my snowboard. Clearly, this facility was ready for on-hill injuries.
Ready to take off my gear, I gave the front desk staff a warning because I felt like they deserved one. Immediately, I was taken to a curtained off room, where I stripped down to a sports bra.
While doctors assessed my facial wounds, I could overhear another patient discussing/debating his predicament with ski patrol and doctors. It was a middle-aged skier, who took a fall, knocked himself out cold, and couldn’t even remember what hotel he was staying in. He had to be carried off the mountain on a sled.
At least I wasn’t that guy, I thought.
To Air or Not to Air
After competing for a second time in the Subaru Freeride Series earlier that morning, you might assume that I did some impressive backflip off a cliff and landed on my face. Not so.
Breathing heavy from the start — a combination of glee and anticipation, I waited high up on the start line for the man with the radio to give me the 3…2…1 countdown. I wanted to start rider’s right in order to ride the fall line and jump off back-to-back cliffs right off the bat.
Telluride received over three feet of snow the week prior, and conditions were perfect for stomping some big airs. During the course inspection, I even jumped off the first cliff with precision and ease, and stuck the landing.
Confidence at just the right level and sun beating down on the sparkling course, I gunned it toward the first “launching pad,” grabbed the tail of my board high in the air, and unfortunately over-corrected to the point where I came down nose heavy. I toppled end-over-end a few times, but was lucky not to hit a rock.
Going down in this particular contest is grounds for a tremendously low score.
I was done before I had really begun, and I knew it.
With a fall like that at the top of the course, morale can melt faster than a snow cone in the Sahara.
I stood up as quickly as possible, hit the next cliff, and landed it. Trying to salvage the risk I took up top, I rode to a shaded hilly area at the bottom of the course, hoping to pop one last air closer to the judges’ table, but ended up falling at the takeoff. It was the equivalent of a popped car tire. My head wasn’t in the game.
Done. Defeated. Deflated.
I rode into the finish area to the tune of “Thanks for coming out today, Kim” from the announcers booth.
Taking It On The Chin
I was the sixth female rider in the starting order, so I sat at the bottom of the course to watch the final seven riders in my division.
In between the remaining riders, I went over to talk to the lead judge.
“You took a real difficult line,” he said. “If you had stomped your landings, you’d be right in the thick of it.”
At least I picked a good line this time, I thought.
Still disappointed with my result, I left the bottom of the course to try and enjoy the rest of my day on the hill.
As I rode down the rest of the mountain, I caught an edge on a double-black and crashed face first into a tree. That’s right. Mere minutes after I left the judge’s table, I crashed on a run that I could get down any day of the week.
Nobody saw it. How’s that for saving face? Oh, wait.
I pulled out my phone and flipped the camera to the reverse angle. The makeshift mirror revealed a bloody nose, a sliced lip, and a laceration on my chin. No time for a selfie. I covered the crime scene-like area with snow, hid my face, and took my run down to the medical center.
Owning It
On the cusp of needing stitches, I convinced the medical staff that the train track look on my face certainly was not in style, and that with a little help from some glue, my face would heal on its own time.
If I wasn’t going to win the Freeride Series on this stop, I was going to win that negotiation.
As for snowboarding, there will be another run. There always will be.
I took dead last that day, a first-time outcome for myself as an athlete. Owning it is the least I can do for myself and for others. Perhaps it will give more people permission to do the same.
The Freeride Series has taught me that this is an experience where it’s okay to figure it out as I go. Going in, I had no idea what I was doing, but I was open and committed to finding out. I’m staying the course.
Instead of letting the holes in my face define me, I continue to learn that I can be made whole by my efforts.
