Inner Monologue Of Douchebag Ski Dad

Also, what Donald Trump would be like if he were a skier

Right where I left her. PHOTO: Thomas Kleiven
Right where I left her. PHOTO: Thomas Kleiven

It hurts to breathe. Why does it hurt to breathe!? Could be the cold, could be the large Dunkaccino pulsing through my veins. Doc told me to lay off the black gold, but Doc didn’t herd three munchkins into the Range Rover at 5 a.m. this morning, now did he?

Wife says I’m crazy, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to blow out these Dr. Scholl’s boot inserts walking from the back of the parking lot. Today, first row. OK, second, but who’s counting? Not me.

Dropped the kids off at ski school with some stoner burnout named Johnny. Or was it Jimmy? Whatever, J-Bone, as long as you pump them up with enough hot chocolate to keep them from cryin’ you can keep the change, ya dirty hippy.

Look at these skis. I mean, look at ’em. Brand new, built for speed. Talked that chump at the shop down to a grand. Chump change. Literally. Even got a free tune out of it. And not just any tune, race tune. I don’t even race. Must have known what he was working with.

Is that liftie looking at me? Yeah, she’s looking at me. She likes the technical hard shell. One-of-a-kind. Instant classic. Even had it dry-cleaned. Twice. Hey lady, this wink is for you. She’s pickin’ up what I’m-a puttin’ down.

I think I could be the best skier in New York for my age. Next year I’m taking this show to Colorado. They won’t even know what hit ’em.

I don’t do the moguls. I’m a purist. I could hit jumps if I wanted to, but my wife would kill me if she knew I was getting airborne again. Not worth the trouble. But, still, I could.

Today is all about the bread and butta’. Lift line. Hollywood. Glad I wore the white pants. Time to show everyone how to lay ’em over. Carve Alert in full effect. Get out your notecards, suckers. This lesson is free!

I can feel the wind in my hair, but the gel is keeping everything right where it needs to be. Extra strength. And the cold? Doesn’t stand a chance against these new Oakleys. Ergonomic design. Sold out in two minutes on Black Friday. Grabbed the last pair at Sharper Image. Worth. Every. Penny.

The first few turns come easy. Riding a bike, baby. Swish, swish, butta’.

“If you don’t look fast, you don’t go fast.” Warren Miller said that.

Boy, do I look fast. I feel fast. Real fast. Too fast.

I’m cranking like Mach 100 here. Remember that time I pulled off the McKinley and Sons deal from a wifi hotspot in business class? The whole office called me Ace for a month.

What would Ace do? All right, just lean into the back of those boots—yeah, just like that. Throw the arms out wide, like a fighter jet coming in for the landing—that’s it. Ace is back in town, everybody!

There’s the Slow sign. Slow, ha, yeah right, not this guy. Look at all these damn kids. Are those my kids? J-Bone? That communist. It’s a blur. I think I’m sweatin’ Dunkaccino.

There’s my lady. Look at her giggling up a storm. Did she just point at me? Was that a wink? It was totally a wink.

Let’s tip these Oakleys up onto the forehead and send a return volley. Lookin’ good, Ace. Lookin’ good.

This story originally published in the October 2016 issue of POWDER (45.2). Subscribe to the magazine here.