The Skis Are Not Going Anywhere

Sometimes the things we keep aren’t useful anymore. They’re just part of the story.

There comes a time in every man’s life when he has to confront the hard truths.

Not taxes.

Not mortality.

Not the fact that the basement somehow became the final resting place for things he hasn’t used in years.

No.

I’m talking about the skis.

My skis are still here.

So are the boots.

And the poles.

And all the other ski equipment that apparently has no intention of leaving the premises.

I haven’t used any of it in years.

But I still keep it.

And there is actually a pretty good reason.

I Don’t Ski Anymore

My brain injury and stroke have everything to do with that.

Skiing isn’t just putting two boards on your feet and pointing yourself downhill. It takes balance, coordination, reaction time, body control and the ability to make quick decisions when things don’t go according to plan.

Those things matter.

And after my brain injury and stroke, skiing isn’t the same proposition it once was.

There was a time when I could put on my boots, click into my bindings and head down the mountain without giving much thought to whether my brain and body were going to cooperate.

That’s not where I am anymore.

So I don’t ski.

It’s not because I suddenly decided skiing wasn’t fun.

It’s because the equation changed.

And I’m not okay with that.

Mostly.

But the Skis Are Still Here

This is where things get weird.

Not the garage.

Not some storage unit halfway across Colorado.

The basement.

It’s sitting down there like a tiny museum dedicated to a sport I no longer participate in.

Every once in a while I see it and think:

“I really should get rid of this stuff.”

Then another thought shows up:

“But what if I go skiing?”

That’s ridiculous.

I know it’s ridiculous.

I haven’t skied in years.

I’m not secretly training for a comeback.

I’m not checking the snow report every morning.

I’m not sitting around waiting for the next powder day.

Yet somehow, the possibility remains.

Maybe I’m not really keeping the skis because I think I’m going skiing again.

Maybe I’m keeping them because they remind me that I used to.

The Equipment Became History

At some point, equipment stops being equipment and becomes history.

That’s what my skis are now.

They’re evidence.

Evidence that I once skied.

Evidence that I once expected to keep skiing.

Evidence that there was a version of me who didn’t have to think twice about whether skiing was a good idea.

That version of me isn’t completely gone.

But he has different rules now.

And that’s one of the strange things about getting older and having life throw a few unexpected chapters at you.

You don’t necessarily lose every part of your old life.

Sometimes you just stop doing certain things.

The skis remain.

The skiing doesn’t.

The Basement Museum

I’ve decided there is something strangely comforting about that.

The skis aren’t demanding anything from me.

They aren’t asking me to ski.

They aren’t judging me for not skiing.

They aren’t standing there saying, “Come on, coward, let’s hit the mountain.”

They’re just sitting there.

Quietly.

Patiently.

Taking up a little space.

Which makes them pretty damn good roommates.

I’ve started thinking of the basement as the Bates Ski Museum.

Admission is free.

There are no guided tours.

The exhibits are slightly dusty.

The boots are retired.

The skis are permanently off the clock.

And the museum’s primary exhibit is titled:

“Things I Used To Do Before My Brain Had Other Ideas.”

It’s a very exclusive collection.

Why Don’t I Just Throw Them Away?

That’s the question.

If I’m not going to ski anymore, why keep them?

Because they cost money?

Because they’re still perfectly good?

Because I might someday change my mind?

Maybe.

But I think there’s something else going on.

I don’t think every object has to justify its existence by being useful.

Some things can simply remind us where we’ve been.

Those skis represent a part of my life.

I don’t have to use them again to appreciate what they meant.

I don’t have to prove that I’m still the same person I was before my brain injury and stroke.

I’m not.

And that’s okay.

Life changes.

People change.

Bodies change.

Brains change.

Plans change.

Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is recognize that something you once loved isn’t something you should be doing anymore.

That doesn’t erase the memories.

So the Skis Stay

Maybe someday I’ll look at the skis and decide it’s finally time to let them go.

Maybe I won’t.

For now, they’re staying in the basement.

They’re not waiting for me to ski again.

They’re not expecting a comeback.

They’re just sitting there, quietly reminding me that there was a time when I could point two skis downhill and trust my body to figure out what happened next.

Today, I don’t ski.

And that’s okay.

The skis have earned their retirement.

The boots have earned theirs too.

And apparently, I’ve become the curator of the world’s smallest ski museum.

So if somebody asks me why I’m still keeping ski equipment I haven’t used in years, I’ll give them the honest answer:

Because I used to ski.

And sometimes you don’t throw away the things that remind you who you were.

You put them in the basement.

You walk past them every once in a while.

And you keep moving forward.