The Chosen Onesie

I mentioned a few posts back that I have been trying out some new ski gear here at Broken River. Today I would like to introduce you to the most daunting and serious item of clothing I have ever worn. Around Broken River, it is known simply as “The Onesie”.

In my experience, the best things in life are rarely encountered as the result of any kind of deliberate search. Instead, greatness occurs when you put yourself in a position where it can find you. So it was with The Onesie, which came to me through a staff member at BR. Somehow we ended up discussing retro day at Red Mountain, and she claimed to have a onesie more awesome than both of the outfits I wore that day. I must admit that I passed this off as idle banter – everyone claims their onesie is the best. I was more than a little surprised when she delivered The Onesie in all its faded blue glory. I could tell straight away that this was no ordinary ski suit. It was, somehow, different. More...

Rad.

I tried it on and found that it fit like a glove. Snug around the thighs, ample in the shoulder and bust. Long enough through the body to not squash my man-parts, but not so long that the crotch prevented me from walking normally. Sleeve length, perfect. Legs tapered, but tastefully so. This was no mere fashion piece made to adorn an après ski bar or catch the eye in a cafe. This onesie was made for a real skier, for big mountains and epic runs. Wearing it I felt stronger, faster, more inclined to jump off things.

But there was something more. This onesie promised greatness, but beneath the incoming tide of confidence and control was a surging rip of fear. The Onesie demanded great skiing. It would not be content with mere tootling down the main basin, or cruising through the open bowls of Allan’s Basin. The onesie hungered for glory, and if I was to wear it, I had to deliver.

A crowd grew and thronged around me in White Star Chalet. They demanded to know: Who was I, where had I found The Onesie, would I wear it tomorrow? But I was daunted by the burden of expectation. Was I ready to don The Onesie? Could I satisfy its desires? Could I do it justice? I dodged their questions, took off The Onesie and made excuses.

I slept fitfully that night, tortured by visions of blue nylon, tight chutes, and big drops. As I sweated in my sleeping bag, the cold light of the moon cast through the windows of the hut and lit upon the onesie crumpled beside my bed. The fluoro pink highlights on the sleeves took on an eerie glow. I shuddered and turned my face towards the wall.

When the sun finally rose the next morning, it was the day after the day after a big storm. There were still plenty of fresh lines to be found and things to be jumped off. The snow would be powder, but stiff and heavy – perfect for skiing aggressively. But after the rigours of the previous day’s skiing, I wasn’t sure whether I could handle another hard day on the hill. I looked long and hard at The Onesie lying by my bed, but I didn’t have the courage to put it on. Sighing, I stuffed it into the bottom of my pack, threw on my normal ski gear and headed for the lifts.

In my first run, I tried a few jumps and stuck the landings. On my second, I opened up my turns and put on some speed. By the time I reached the bottom I was ready. I returned to the day lodge, stripped down to my inappropriately tight and hole-ridden thermal pants, and climbed into The Onesie. At once I felt the heady rush of power and expectation. I put Kanye West’s All Of the Lights on endless repeat, cranked up the volume, pulled down my goggles and got rad.

The rest of the day is a blur. I remember skiing lines I’d never had the courage to ski before, jumping off everything from medium sized rocks to small children and skied as fast and as hard as I could. At some stage I bumped into BR local, ski writer and photographer Joe Harrison who was also seduced by the power of The Onesie. He showed me some new chutes and got a few shots of The Onesie in action.

Picture courtesy of Joe Harrison. Don't go stealing it. Even if it is awesome.

I did everything that I could to satisfy The Onesie, and I probably skied better than I ever have before, and yet it still wasn’t enough. The Onesie knew what it wanted, but I couldn’t deliver. Again and again I stood below a line called “Ten to Five”, a tight chute that leads to a straight line exit with a mandatory cliff. The Onesie whispered constantly for succor. It wanted to ski the line, but I was too scared. Mostly because skiing that line would break lots of my bones and generally hurt a very large amount.

At the end of the day I returned to White Star, exhausted. Despite making a respectable effort wearing the ski suit, I had by no means satiated its infernal appetite. But I haven’t put The Onesie away. It sits in the corner of White Star on an unused bunk, waiting for the day when I’m ready to ski the line of death. And when conditions are right, and I’m more rad, I will put the onesie on and complete my end of the bargain.