Jean Claude notwithstanding, there are people who actually appear graceful while skiing crosscountry. This I know because some of those folks profess to being my friends. I do not believe them, however, because no real friend would cruise so blissfully and effortlessly away, leaving a member of their group behind to flail like two handcuffed spiders in a steeplechase.

It wouldn't be so bad if my fluid-drive "friends" would just go and let me flog along behind, following their twin tracks at my own sloth-like pace, maybe sending a taxi to pick me up when I stumble out to a road a couple of days later. But no! They pride themselves on pausing every so often to prop indolently on their ski poles until I heave (and I do mean "throw up" heave) into sight. Then they'll glide away, decoying me like an ignorant hound after a rabbit. Or worse, they'll ski back to check on me, arms and legs synchronized so beautifully they resemble the fine-meshed innards of a crafted Swiss watch. They usually find me in a crumpled heap, all solicitous about my well-being, apparently oblivious to muttered curses and baleful glare. And they won't even be breathing hard.

I'll tell them (gasp, gasp) that I just stopped to admire a (puff, puff) set of chipmunk tracks in the (wheeze, wheeze) snow. And to throw them off further, I'll (uhh, uhh) tell 'em I must've inadvertently mussed the tracks up when I laid face down to examine them more closely. But they were (pant, pant) clearly distinctive because this particular chipmunk had one (groan) toe missing on his left hind.

Naturally they'll glide away back up-trail, disappointed that they'd not been more observant. And they'll leave me red-faced and panting in the lurch once more.

They do it so easily! Snow never sticks to the bottoms of their skis. They never inadvertently thrust a ski pole into a deep hole left by the hoof of a blundering, trail-crossing moose. They never wear out, wind down, or give up. Whereas I do 'em all, in combination, usually several times during the same ski outing.

But (heh, heh) I've discovered their secret at long last:

It's in their attire. Most of the really good Nordic skiers I've observed looked as if they stepped right out of the fashion pages of Ski Magazine. The ladies are uniformly tall and willowy, with tanned faces and a healthy glow -- which certainly belied what I believe to be their anorexic dispositions. Their ensemble is close-knit stretch pants that hugs 'em like I'd like to if my wife Jane wasn't already one of their group. Their windbreakers all sport colorful racing stripes and both men and women are dressed in sportswear so tight my knobby knees would stand out like handlebars on kiddy trikes.

My problem, now that I've identified it, is I'm not dressed right. Most of time I wear Levi jeans, or, when it's downright chilly, baggy woolens. The only place my hip-huggers hug is around my middle. And from there the rest of my ensemble hangs like loose sails from a derelict's yardarm. On top of that, I stick to a checkered wool jacket because racing strips on me runs wrong to make me look thin and willowy. Ain't no wonder I encounter so much wind resistance with most of my apparel hanging like as if from a basketball with legs.

Now that I understand the problem, it's obvious most of the folks in my class on the ski trail are also in my class when it comes to their crosscountry trousseau. No wonder ain't none of us can ski even as good as a hog could skateboard through a mudhole!

You'd think a person would have enough taste and refinement not to take up a sport unless he can dress properly.

 

Next week? Another walk on the wild side.