There is a magic in skiing when all is going well that transcends anything I have experienced in other sports. As I soar down a mountainside letting my body find its own balance in turn after turn, my mind as clear as the cold air against my face, my heart feels as warm as the sun, and I attain a level of experience which compels me to return to the snow for more and more of the same.
But too often this magic turns to misery. Apprehensive thoughts intrude and I lose natural rhythm, repeat old mistakes, and fall needlessly. I pick myself up cold, wet, and discouraged, wondering if skiing is worth the trouble after all. Will I ever get off the seemingly endless plateau in my progress and ski the way I’d like to? Will I ever soar again? Something tells me not to count on it, but another voice urges me to try.
The purpose of Inner Skiing is to increase the magic of skiing and decrease the misery—to bypass the frustrations that inhibit its joy and freedom, and to learn how to reach that state of mind in which we not only appreciate the sport but perform at our best. The premise of this approach is that primarily it is neither external conditions nor lack of technical expertise that prevents us from experiencing skiing at its best, but the doubts, fears, and thoughts within our own heads. The Inner Skier comes to recognize that his greatest challenge, and consequently his greatest possibilities, lies in overcoming the self-imposed mental limitations that prevent the full expression of his physical potential.
The fears and doubts in the mind are automatically transferred to the body in the form of tension, rigidity, and awkwardness, preventing us not only from moving fluidly, but also from seeing the terrain clearly. Inner Skiing aims to develop the skills necessary to recognize and overcome these inner obstacles. Using this approach, the skier learns the art of relaxed concentration and to trust his body’s potential to learn and perform. He discovers that the secret to success in skiing lies in not trying too hard, and that his best teacher is his own experience. He develops a true sense of self-confidence that allows him to view falls and mistakes as learning opportunities rather than reasons for anger and frustration.
The Inner Game approach is hardly new. It is similar to the natural way that, as children, we learned to walk, talk, or throw a ball. It uses the unconscious, rather than the deliberately self-conscious, mind. This process doesn’t have to be learned; we already know it. All that is needed is to unlearn the habits and concepts that interfere with our natural learning ability, and to trust the innate intelligence of our bodies.
The principles of the Inner Game approach to learning and to maximum performance are basically the same for most sports and other activities, but each sport presents its own unique inner and outer challenges. Tennis requires sustained visual concentration during long periods of physical exertion. Distance running offers special opportunities to overcome boredom and develop endurance. Golf demands the subtlest kind of mental concentration and kinesthetic control. Team sports teach us cooperation and how to sacrifice individual egos for the benefit of the team. The remainder of this chapter concerns the often-neglected opportunities offered by the special nature of skiing to learn some things more universally applicable than how to make a parallel turn. The parallel turn is not difficult once we rediscover how to learn.
Remember how strange and awkward it felt the first time you stepped into ski boots and strapped those long boards onto your feet? Remember how frightened and out of control you felt when you tried to move?
Most sports have one characteristic in common. Whether it is baseball, basketball, tennis, golf, hiking, climbing, or boxing, the way we move on the earth is by walking or running. Even as beginners ignorant of the rudiments of these sports, we at least know how to move. But in skiing we must slide rather than walk or run, and so we relate to the ground and move on it in an entirely different way. When we first stand on a pair of skis we lose that feeling of having a firm foothold on solid ground. A slight shift of weight can cause us to lose our balance and fall.
Thus, in skiing we must confront a basic fear: loss of the familiar.
This feeling of uncertainty is similar to the first time we put our feet on the pedals of a bicycle, pushed off the wall of an ice-skating rink or tried to stay afloat in water. Just as in these other activities, learning to ski requires first being willing to let go of one known sense of control in order to gain another. In trying to do so, few of us escape a sense of panic. Learning to swim, we flail around in the water desperately trying to stay afloat. In skiing we hold our bodies rigid, hoping to prevent ourselves from falling. But our struggle to maintain control in a new medium usually interferes with more than it helps the effort to achieve that goal. Fighting the new element prevents us from adapting to it.
Our situation as a beginning skier is similar to being in a room when the lights go out. In pitch-blackness our eyes—the primary means for gathering information about our world—are useless; we are literally in the dark. If we panic and grope blindly for the light, inevitably we will bump into objects and damage them or ourselves. On the other hand, if we allow our eyes to adjust to the dark, shapes will start to emerge and we will again feel secure. Similarly, in trying to ski, if we don’t panic and fight the experience of sliding, our bodies soon grow accustomed to this new form of locomotion and we gain a sense of confidence.
Not having his basic references for moving his body, the frightened beginning skier tries to cling to his old and familiar ways. When trying to slow down or stop, his first reaction is to lean back and dig in his heels, just as he would when walking or running. In trying to prevent himself from falling down, he leans uphill. But in skiing, the laws of movement are different, and leaning back only makes you go faster, while leaning uphill causes the skis to slide out from under you. To the beginner, this reaction of his skis is as confusing as if he had stepped on the brakes of his car, only to find it accelerating. He panics even more and leans back still further in a desperate attempt to stop, which causes him to increase speed, lose balance, and fall.
I will always remember my first time on skis. I rode a rope tow to the top of a small hill, positioned myself in a basic snowplow as I had seen other beginners do, and pushed off. As soon as I began moving I became petrified at not knowing how to stop or slow down. My body, bent almost in half, was stiff with fear; I felt that if I relaxed one tightened muscle I would crash to the ground. In effect, I was a sliding statue. At first, whenever I began going too fast or reached the bottom, I would fall backward, the only way I knew to stop. After a few runs, when I began to descend less slowly, the falls became more spectacular. Looking for a less painful way to stop, I tried unsuccessfully to stab my poles into the snow in front of me. My frustration only made me more determined to try still harder, biting my tongue and tensing my jaw. But the more I tried, the tighter I became, and the more I fell.
Finally I said to myself, The hell with it. I’m going to stop fighting the hill and just ski. If I fall, I fall. I can’t do any worse than I’m doing now. With this I felt a little more relaxed, and though it was scary to just let myself slide down, and though I still felt out of control, I didn’t fall as frequently. After a few more runs, I started feeling my skis and noticing what happened when I leaned to one side or the other, or backward and forward. Gradually, by going with this new sliding motion, I began to gain a little control. Though I knew I wasn’t turning properly, I was soon able to get where I wanted and to stop without falling. I was going to learn to ski after all!
Like anything else, learning to ski is a process of discovery that comes primarily from the experience itself. As we let go of our preconceived notions about how to move, we feel what it is like to slide on the snow. Without straining, our body learns from its experience, just as it did when learning to swim or ride a bike. By not resisting this new experience as we negotiate a slope we can learn far more than simply a new form of locomotion; we learn how to deal with the unexpected wherever we encounter it. We discover that we can adapt to strange or different experiences only when we are willing to let go of our dependence on old concepts.
As he improves, the skier naturally wants to ski faster and take more difficult runs, to leave the slopes on which he is comfortable and try something new. But while taking his first chair to the top of the mountain or attempting a harder trail is exciting, it is also frightening.
Exceeding previous limits always involves risk and usually some fear, but it is the natural growth process that started when we first left the comfort and safety of the womb. The first time we attempt a more difficult slope, we take a chance on losing control; we may fall and get hurt or fail and be humiliated. Risk is like a pendulum: at one end of the swing is the excitement of growth and discovery; at the other end is fear.
Fear, which is probably the biggest obstacle to any learning process, is a repressive force. It exists in the mind, and almost always it is based on something that might happen in the future, rather than what is happening now. As Don Juan, the Yaqui Indian sorcerer, says, it is “the first of man’s natural enemies … a terrible enemy, treacherous and difficult to overcome … If the man terrified in its presence runs away, his enemy will have put an end to his quest … he will never learn.”
Learning to confront and overcome fear is one of the biggest challenges and opportunities in skiing. But it is not easy; in fact, it is often more difficult to overcome fear than to actually ski the slope itself. Yet as Don Juan says, “He must not run away, he must defy his fear … and take the next step in learning … and a moment will come when this enemy will retreat.”
A skier may resist this challenge, saying, “I just want to learn to ski, not to overcome fear.” But fear will slow his learning, and if and when he does improve despite remaining fearful, the skills he has mastered will be limited to the slopes. The Inner Skier chooses to confront and overcome fear. As a result, he improves not only his skiing, but also the quality of his life. Chapter 4, “Fear of Falling, Failing, and Flying,” will treat this subject more comprehensively.
Watch an expert skier descend a trail: he flows like water in a mountain stream. He shifts weight to one side, then another, producing a series of smooth looping turns. By the slightest move of his legs his direction changes. It seems so simple and natural; in contrast to the beginner’s movements his seem effortless.
Skiing is similar to riding a bicycle downhill. Both acts require less physical and mental effort than we imagine. On a bike we need only sit, hold the handlebars, and let the hill take us. As we pick up speed the bike responds to subtle movements of our hands with nearly no effort on our part. We lean slightly into each turn; balance is maintained without conscious thought, and the power is supplied by gravity. Skiing, too, can be effortless when we cooperate with gravity’s forces instead of fighting them.
In most sports we rely on our own power to run or jump, throw a ball, or swing a racket. But in skiing, gravity provides the power and pulls us down the slope. The only exertion necessary is to play with the pull—checking, turning, slowing, and directing our movement.
Learning to play with this natural force is a useful experience in everyday living. From it we can learn to act in harmony with our changing surroundings, other people, and ourselves. Relying on gravity clearly demonstrates the advantages of blending with and using existing forces to move toward a chosen goal.
During an off-mountain session of an Inner Skiing workshop I asked for two volunteers of about the same size. Keith, a young, bearded psychologist, and Arnie, a rugged-looking real estate entrepreneur in his forties, came forward. “Stand facing each other and hold your hands out shoulder height so that you are touching palms,” I instructed. “Now the goal of this exercise is to get the other person off balance. You can move your hands any way you want. The only rule is that you can’t move your feet, and that your hands must keep touching the other person’s with the palms open. Okay, begin.”
All became quiet as Keith and Arnie started moving their hands in big circles, giving a push here, a feint there. Then Arnie gave a hard shove forward, almost knocking Keith over backward. Recovering, Keith also started pushing in earnest. For the next few minutes the only sounds were the grunts of the two participants as they strained for an advantage.
Suddenly it seemed as if Keith was winning. Using his superior strength, he was slowly pushing Arnie’s arms backward. All looked lost for Arnie, until abruptly he relaxed his arms, causing Keith to lurch forward.
“Perfect,” I said as everybody clapped and the two men sat down. “When Keith and Arnie tried to resist each other’s strength, they used a lot of energy and tired quickly. But eventually Arnie won by blending with Keith’s force and using it to his advantage. Blending, a basic principle in the martial arts, can also be used in skiing, teaching us when to flow with the force of gravity and when to resist it.”
Later that morning I could feel fear in the air as a group of us stood at the top of a steep, moguled slope. “Maybe we should try another slope,” Kerry said hesitantly. “This looks like crash city.” A few others agreed.
“Let’s try looking at the bumps in a different way,” I suggested, trying to ease the tension. “Look at the slope as if it were an opponent in the ‘push hands’ game. Let’s try to use the moguls to help us turn, instead of fighting against them the way most of us usually do.”
The others in the group were hesitant, but Diane, who had been quite silent all week, suddenly came alive. “We can even thank them for helping us,” she suggested.
“Fine,” said Keith. “Let’s thank every mogul we use,” and he started off.
Everybody followed, and it was comical to hear eight skiers going down this difficult slope yelling out “Thank you.” Everyone seemed more relaxed and skied better, and those who fell didn’t seem to mind. At the bottom, they all were laughing and wanted to do it again. Befriending our enemy had been fun and also had done much to improve our skiing.
Skiing is a sport of changes; no two runs are ever the same. Snow that is soft and smooth in the morning becomes rutted and packed down later in the day. Moguls increase in size as skiers keep pushing snow into them. The texture of the surface itself changes with shifts in temperature or exposure to the sun.
“Skiing is a sport of diversity, of differences,” says Jean-Claude Killy, the Olympic triple gold medal winner. “To get more out of the mountain and from ourselves, it is important to learn to adjust to these different situations.” In powder we sit back slightly on the tails of our skis, whereas if we did this on hardpack we would lose balance.
Many times I have skied a slope that I had taken only a few hours before. Thinking that I know it well enough, I will take it for granted and let my mind wander, when suddenly I’ll hit the unexpected—a patch of ice, a bare spot or a new mogul—and be thrown off balance, lose my rhythm, perhaps even fall. When you have preconceived notions about a slope, you won’t truly experience it. You see the slope as you think it is, or as it was before, rather than as it is now. When you hit something, it comes as a surprise. This is the mountain’s way of saying “Pay attention.”
With an awareness that each run is different, we tend to concentrate more. Taking less for granted, we are more alert, our feeling for our skis and the snow increases, and our sensitivity to any changes in the terrain heightens. When the mind is in this state of alertness, the body is poised and ready to respond to any situation. Not only does our skiing improve, but we also have more fun.
The more we realize that nothing in this world ever stays the same, and that change is the only constant, the more acute our perceptions will be. We begin to see the world as it is, rather than through the screen of past concepts. The present seems alive and fresh, and we are more able to respond appropriately to the novelty and difference inherent in each moment.
When I lived in New York City, I remember longing to spend a few days in the country away from the cement, fumes, and frantic rush. I’d dream about walking through the woods, feeling the earth under my feet, seeing the sky overhead. Then I’d get away for a weekend and be in such a hurry I’d never even notice where I was.
What was I doing on these trips? Frantic skiing, of course. My friends and I would leave the city on Friday evening, drive for five hours and arrive exhausted. Nevertheless, we’d awaken at dawn, gulp down breakfast, and rush to the mountain, where we’d ski all day, not stopping even for lunch. The only chance we had to relax was in the lift lines, but of course we were tense there as well, moaning about how slowly the lines were moving. Whenever the chair stopped, the delay was like death.
For all the nature I took in on those weekends, I might as well have been skiing in the Manhattan subway. Sure, I’d be looking out at my surroundings, but mostly to gauge how long the lift line was going to be, or on which slope the snow was best.
Then one Saturday I was coming alone down a big bowl, only to find, after thirty yards, that it was crusty and unskiable. I was too far down to return to the top, so I had to cross over and hike uphill to reach an adjoining slope. I was really annoyed; precious skiing time was being wasted. When I reached the top of the slope, I was out of breath and stopped to rest. At this moment the light on a patch of snow caught my eye. It looked as if the snow was bursting with all the colors of the spectrum. Suddenly it occurred to me that in all my years of skiing in some of the most beautiful places in the world, I had never really opened my eyes. I looked around, seeing as if for the first time the colors of the trees, the snow, the sky, and the shapes of the mountains on the horizon.
That evening, still moved by this encounter with nature, I decided to stay in our lodge rather than go partying with my friends. Watching the fire dance in the hearth, I realized that the way I had been skiing was a reflection of my life. Everything was done in a rush; I worked, came home, changed clothes, and went out again. I thought I had to move fast or I’d be left behind.
Seeing that light reflecting off the snow changed my approach and attitude not just to skiing, but to life in general. Today I would rather take my time feeling the exhilaration of my body in motion, and observing the beauty of my surroundings, than rush down the mountain in order to get in a few more runs. I also see the futility of thinking that more is necessarily better, whether in ski runs or possessions. I have begun to pay more attention to the quality of what I am doing rather than to the quantity.
When we participate in a sport in which the object is winning or reaching a destination point, we tend to think about the score, the goal, the end of the journey. Our efforts are concentrated on what we must do to beat our opponent, and if we aren’t winning, we aren’t enjoying. But the pleasures of skiing lie in being totally involved, in the way we feel when the body is in motion—the delight in a turn skillfully executed, the sense of our own natural rhythm and flow. The goal is a feeling of harmony both with ourselves and with our environment. The prize is in the process itself. Hence, skiing can teach us something that is often overlooked in our goal-oriented daily activities: the importance of enjoying the process. From it we can learn that without appreciating the path, reaching the goal is often meaningless. Moreover, we discover that games of all kinds are more often won when first they are enjoyed.
So there is more to skiing than learning parallel turns. For the skier who recognizes the further possibilities his sport offers for learning how to learn, for overcoming fears and self-doubt, for gaining concentration and appreciation for nature, skiing becomes re-creation in the original sense of the word: an opportunity to discover something important about oneself and to learn skills that improve not only one’s skiing but the quality of one’s life.