Cross-country skiing class.
Back when I was in Forestry school I had to take a couple of semesters of PE. One of the options was cross-country skiing, an activity I had been doing since I was about ten, so I happily signed up.

As expected, most of the class had never been on skis before- we had a lot of Japanese students, among other things- but another guy was so proficient on his skis that he could skate on them and go like a bat outta hell. So the teacher put him in the lead while she took the middle of the line and I brought up the rear, as I could help out anyone who was having problems with it.

There were some interesting moments, such as when the 90 lb Japanese girl went down a hill and around a curve out of my sight, then proceeded to stand there and chatter with another Japanese girl so that when I followed down a lot faster than her (I weighed about 185) I almost slammed into her and barely managed to dodge by heading straight for a very large yellow birch tree instead. But mostly it was reasonably uneventful, and I had fun.

Then came the day when we were to learn about going down a hill. The day before had been very warm and melted things, followed by a -20 degree night that turned it all into crunchy glassy stuff that was not fun to fall on. The teacher informed the class that she was willing to let us skip out on this part as conditions were far too icy for comfort, but the other guy and I decided to go do it anyway.

I saw Dave take off down the hill enthusiastically, blazing down that hill with both skis parallel for maximum speed. I saw Dave hit the ramp someone had built in the middle of the hill that was invisible to us at the top. I saw Dave explode into the air, then land flat on his back and not move at all.

"Dave? DAVE!" No response. SHIT! No choice, got to make sure he's okay. I went down the side of the hill instead, and the ice chattering beneath me gradually threw me off balance enough that I fell- but at least I was close to where he was still lying. I got off the boots and ran over in time to hear him cough and groan. I helped him to sit up as he swore feebly at the bastards who had built that ramp, then helped him get to his feet (without skis) and trudge up the hill. We made it to the top just as everyone else arrived, and I told the teacher what had happened. She chuckled. "Yeah, a couple of the dorms were out here yesterday. I didn't know they built a jump, though."

"Well, it's not too bad as long as you go down the side. Do I get extra credit for doing it?"

"Sure, why not. Just don't kill yourself, okay?"

I went over to the side, determined to make it this time. I got on my skis, put my feet well apart and started down. Faster and faster the ice chattered under me, and finally I lost balance and fell on my side as one should to keep the skis from getting crossed. Only thing was, I kept sliding on the ice, skis first, at a hellacious clip.

BAM! The edges of my skis caught as I was lying on my side and my heels hit my arse, sending me into a barrel roll for a couple of revolutions. On the second roll I managed to get my feet out far enough that my legs slammed against the ground and I slid to a stop. "Aww, FUCK..." I got the skis off and stood.

All of them stood at the top of the hill and cheered and laughed and applauded.

Bastards.

(I was black and blue for a week and walked with a limp for a couple of days, but otherwise I was pretty much intact. Nothing much worse than a bruised pride...)
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 23 Dec 2009, 23:33, Reply)