While many fears are based upon irrational beliefs, my fear of skiing was built upon dozens of falls and an inability to stop.  As a midwesterner, I went into the sport with a cocky attitude.  If people could ski down Aspen Mountain at over 100mph, how difficult could it possibly be for me to skill down a hill? 

A lot harder than I ever thought.

I made my first mistake at check-in. When asked to identify myself as a skier I chose class III advanced even though I had never skied before in my life.  After all, this was just a damn hill, how hard could it be?

The rental guy handed me a pair of long, narrow and unwieldy skis that towered over my head.  Next I headed over to the learning center for some lessons.  While the other five in my group struggled with the basics like how to stand, I quickly grew bored.  Finally after an hour the instructor demonstrated the snowplow method of turning and stopping for us.  We each tried it out. It sure seemed easy enough on the bunny slope.

But on the real downhill? A more foul method of stopping and turning than the snow plow has yet to be invented. The method is unwieldy, cumbersome and when viewed from above on the chair lift as graceful as a Master P two-step on Dancing With the Stars.

 I chalked up my first day's failure to growing pains. I figured everything would magically sink in by my next trip and I would be skiing like a sober Bode Miller. I even invited a girl I had a crush on to go skiing with me.

She accepted.

Unfortunately.

If anything, my skiing actually grew worse. I even managed to ram into a pole. No injuries were suffered except a bruised ego and no second date.

After these twin debacles, I stayed off the slopes for five years. I always planned to give skiing another try but the excuses kept piling up.  The thought of being cold and miserable plus the distinct possibility of breaking one's leg while uninsured kept my ass planted firmly on the sofa during those crisp Midwestern winter afternoons.

I finally worked up the courage to give skiing another try last month.  It was a decidedly spur of the moment decision. We got a rare snow (our area averages 18 inches a year, the rest is man-made) so I decided, what the hell, I'll give the fresh powder a try. I popped in an instructional DVD I bought several years ago, watched about ten minutes of it, got bored, then left.

But those ten minutes were all I needed.  Any more than that would have crammed my brain with too much info.

Keep your skis parallel and turn with your hips.

I repeated it like a mantra during my ninety minute drive, begrudingly identified myself as a I-beginner on the rental form and accepted the short, baby skis that barely grazed my chin with a frown.

I even practiced on the baby slope before heading for the big time.

By the end of the day, I had worked myself up to Black Diamond level with nary a fall.

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But still? I was only skiing on a hill.  I needed a bigger challenge. Like an actual mountain for starters.  Jackson Hole lured me like a siren with its ski-in, ski-out package. I could fly there for $269, take a shuttle to the resort and at the end of the day literally ski right down to my hostel.

But to go from a 300' vertical drop to a 4,160' drop?  That would be like going from stock-boy to CEO in one fell swoop. I needed an in-between.

That's when I discovered Snowshoe Mountain.  The east coast was enjoying an epic snow year so why not go somewhere within driving distance? I could always sleep in my car to save on lodging.

I arrived last Thursday afternoon.  The more successful I became, the more my fears grew. I somehow skied down 1,500' vertical drops with moguls and steeps of52% and lived to tell the tale.

Not a single crash. How could this be?  The sensation of hurtling down a mountain on a pair of narrow skis is one of impending doom.  There is danger at every turn. First from the skiers down below one must dodge.  A mother had the bright idea of filming her five year-old on a slope called the Black Widow. Did the name not suggest this might be a bad idea?

I successfully dodged them both, thank God.

Ever see videos of bicycle delivery guys weaving in and out of city traffic? That's what skiing feels like to me, only multiply the speed by a factor of four, replace the cars with skiers and put the street on a 45 degree angle.

The laws of physics dictate a crash.  But one never came so it seemed as though I were tempting fate somehow. 

Visions of broken legs and high speed crashes filled my dreams at night.

Until yesterday.

When I had my first humdinger of a crash.  It was an Olympic worthy roll down a mountain replete with flying ski.

And I survived it unbruised.

Through failing I overcame my fear.  While ski crashes look horrific on your television screen, I can honestly say they feel no worse than a paper cut. It may sound odd and counter-intuitive, but much like quantum physics, it is true.

And might I add, that I am now hopelessly addicted to the downhill? This year's beginner is next year's ski bum.