Dealing with low-speed terror.
SLOW DOWN! Whether screeched by a scared passenger, shouted by a nervous parent, or whispered within one’s own mind, this admonition is all too familiar in life. Around here, it’s particularly common, as the faster one skis, bikes, or paddles, the more frightening it is. With velocity comes adrenaline, though, and so we onward we go, careering headlong toward the danger zone, high-flying harbingers of obliterating impact. Eventually a limit is reached, either by oneself or a companion. We reduce our speed and reduce the fear.
But there’s another kind of danger, one that lies on the opposite end of the speed spectrum. It’s the sound of cracking as you stroll toward your ice-fishing hole. It’s the gut-clenching intensity of crossing a narrow snowbridge below an alpine summit. It’s that deep, guttural huff coming from the trees as you’re hiking in bear country. Rather than a high-heat sizzle, this is the slow burn of disquietude, the simmering crockpot of deadly suspense.
And this plodding distress, this sluggish foreboding, can be even more horrifying than its high-speed counterpart, as you have time to contemplate the consequences, to consider your awful fate in lurid detail. The imagination runs wild. It’s like Egar Allen Poe’s “Telltale Heart”: the soft, steady beat of grim eventuality. Of dread. It’s the sharks circling your leaky life-raft.
Yep, this is Low-Speed Terror, a condition known among outdoor athletes, psychologists, and orthopedic surgeons practicing above the 45th Parallel. It takes many forms and can happen in any season; here are a few of winter’s finest—or rather, most fearsome.
Trail of Fears. On a slippery downslope, with no room to turn, a slow-moving skier fears many things, not least of which is a blown-out ACL—particularly when hauling a pack full of climbing or camping gear. There’s also the risk of gaining speed and losing control, forcing an emergency exit of the icy luge—which might end abruptly at an unforgiving tree trunk.
Slippery Cycling. Few slow-motion activities instill the fear of ice beneath a bike tire. You pick your way along, hands clenched on the bars, stomach in a knot, hoping—nay, praying to any god that will listen—to remain upright. ‘Cause when you go down, you go down hard, and odds are, something’s gonna break.
Narrow Escape. Maybe it’s slick, maybe it’s rickety, whatever—if you slide off or it breaks beneath you, you’re going in the drink, and ice-cold water in the middle of winter means some serious suffering. Maybe even frostbite and hypothermia, if you break a bone or aren’t close to the car. Either way, every second seems like an hour as you inch across, holding your breath the entire way.
Cliffhanger. One careful side-step after another, your heart in your throat, you ascend away from certain death. But the snow is deep, the slope is steep, and with each step, you slide right back to your starting position. A larger step will give you the gain you need, but will also put you off-balance, risking a tumble over the edge. Easy. Go easy. Stay calm.
Nordic Nightmare. Any adversity on skinny sticks is frightening, as the tiny toe-pins give a skier little control over his or her fate. Throw in a steep pitch and tight confines, and the terror intensifies. Neither parallel turn nor pizza wedge offers succor as you hang on, barely keeping it together, doing your damnedest to avoid the skull-cracking, knee-twisting pirouette of doom.
