Between the Snowy Mountains and the Pavement, Things I’m Thinking About

The Season of the Winter-Obsessed

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with skiing.
I mean, truly, hopelessly hooked.
Before I knew it, I’d bought two pairs of skis this season alone.

I sincerely apologize to all you bike freaks, but during the season, all that’s on my mind is making turns.

And on my well-earned days off, I’m out there practicing: repeating the motions of reading the snow, feeling how the skis glide, and learning how to apply and release my body weight.

By the end of the day, my legs feel delightfully heavy, and I find myself feeling a sense of pride in that fatigue. You can call me a winter fool if you want.

They say it’s been a warm winter, but it feels like the mountains are still packed with people. Maybe it’s the Olympic-year atmosphere. Regardless, there is a real heat to the mountains right now.

Those Coming Back

And what stands out are the people making a comeback.

“It’s been ten years.”
“Not since college.”

I hear those things often in the lift line or at the rest lodge.

Perhaps humans never truly let go of the things they once loved.

The Quiet Moment of a Turn

Personally, I think the true thrill of skiing is the carving turn. While the recent trends might be backcountry or freestyle, I come from a background of the basics, so I’m definitively obsessed with making big turns on the groomed runs.

I align my center of gravity so the edge catches the snow, then carefully feed my weight into the ski. I create tension, striving to draw the perfect arc.

I quietly release the pressure caught by my outside leg toward the inside, letting my knees lean in toward the snow. Trusting the contact of my legs with the snow, I don't rush, staying within that flex until the very end.

I don't rush the first half of the turn; I wait for the skis to react. And when I ride it out cleanly to the end, it feels less like the skis are cutting through the snow and more like I’m in dialogue with it.

Extra tension drains away, and my body, the skis, and the slope become connected by a single line. Surprisingly, that moment is quiet. Even though I’m moving fast, there’s no noise at all. I suspect that is the state of having your “weight in the right place.”

Where to Place Your Weight

Weight is typically thought of as a burden.
But when its position is aligned, it transforms into a driving force.

I’m not trying to erase my weight, but searching for where to place it.
Skiing might be teaching my body that lesson right on the slope.

Common Ground with Cycling

Cycling is similar in some ways.

Am I properly centered on the pedals?
Am I shifting too much weight to the handlebars?
Am I leaning too heavily on the saddle?
Is my center of gravity aimed toward the future?

When you’re riding well, the bike feels incredibly light.
It’s not that the actual weight has changed, but maybe you could say the meaning of that weight has shifted.

The performance of your gear is, of course, important.
The characteristics of the skis, the stiffness of the boots.
The flex of the frame, the rigidity of the wheels.

But in the end, I feel it’s your relationship with your body that makes the difference.

Hobbies might just be a sincere dialogue between your body and your gear.

A Decisive Difference

However, there is one decisive difference.

Skiing doesn’t start unless you head to the mountains.
You need snow, time, and the right conditions.

Cycling, on the other hand, starts the moment you step out your front door.

This difference is deeply related to the choices I’ve made in my life.

The Path Not Taken

When I was young, I seriously considered entering the ski industry.
Every winter, I lived in Nozawa Onsen, wishing only to get better.

But I wasn’t a pro athlete; I was just an enthusiast.
I don’t think I had the courage to jump into it entirely.

Even so, I couldn’t fully let go of the passion, so I headed to America.
When I was in Seattle, I skied by myself almost every day.

That time was pure, intense, and remains a precious memory today.

Thanks to that environment, I was able to learn English.
In the end, that has definitely led to the work I do now.

Perhaps the path not taken doesn’t have to be a waste.

A Vehicle Right Next to Daily Life

In the end, the family business I settled on was bicycles.
A pastime right next to my daily life.
A means of transport that’s continuous with the way I live.

I feel that the power of being able to start at any time is greater than I imagined.

Bicycles Coming Back

Recently, we’ve seen more people making a comeback at the shop, too.

Someone brought in a Surly I’d built 18 years ago.
They told me, a bit shyly, “I felt like riding it again.”

There are also young people who want to rebuild the Muddy Fox their parents used to ride with a modern feel.
Old frames with modern parts.

It’s a moment where memory and the present intersect.

People might keep the possibility of returning to what they once loved tucked away somewhere. And when they do return, they are a little different than before.

Their age, experience, and weight have changed.
But that’s not a bad thing; in fact, perhaps it’s because of that weight that they can enjoy it more deeply than before.

The Relationship Between Play and Work

When I’m in the mountains, I’m hardly thinking about work at all.
I’m highly unlikely to answer the phone.

I’m focused on the one line in front of me.
I’m practicing and reviewing for the next turn.

Perhaps because of that time, work flows surprisingly smoothly when I return.

I feel my decisions are faster than usual, and I’m less hesitant.

Play might not be an escape from work.
I’ve started to think of it more as time to organize my thoughts.

Playing seriously doesn’t contradict working seriously.
Rather, they probably support each other somewhere along the line.

Aligning your center of gravity on a slope and aligning your judgment in daily life—I feel there is a definite commonality between them.

Snowy Mountains and Pavement

Obviously, the snowy mountains and the pavement offer completely different scenery.

But in both, there are moments of drawing circles.
The arc of a carve.
The trajectory of a corner.

When you entrust your center of gravity to the future just a little bit ahead,
your body and your tools mesh perfectly.

I expect I’ll keep searching for that sensation from here on out.

Whether it’s on the snow or on the pavement.

And I also hope we can keep a place well-prepared for when someone decides to come back.

Living While Drawing Arcs

Life is never a straight line, but rather made of many arcs.

First, I’ll try to be conscious of one, and draw it carefully.
I believe that becomes the start of something.

And someday, those arcs will naturally connect,
and before you know it, they will become a grand trajectory.

Perhaps that’s how we live—by imagining such things.

The mountains are waiting for me again next week.
It will likely be the last of the season, but I intend to draw the most careful arc I can to finish it off.

Until next time, take care, and I’ll see you all next week.