You'd think I would have seen him coming--him wearing a one-piece purple and pink ski suit with a jester-style, leopard-print hat. The thing was, I didn't. Instead, all 200 pounds of him hit me from behind, slamming me down-hill onto my right hip. We slid at least 10 meters, me his Gortex-clad sledge. My head bounced and I heard my neck crack as his skis popped off along with one of mine. When we finally came to a stop, all I could manage to say was @#$%!
The thing was, he wasn't one of the testosterone crazed youth who pepper a hill like Les Gets every Sunday. He was just an ordinary 50-something man on a pitch a tad too steep for his abilities. And as for me--a classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a nasty accident my butt won't soon forget and, by the look on the man's face, nor will he.
But here's the upside: he didn't hit one of the girls who were 10 and 20 meters behind me; I was wearing a helmet; and we both skied away.
Play safe, everyone!