My amazing birthday card from/by my amazing husband - I couldn’t conjure up a better illustration of pure joy if I tried.

I just want to start by saying that all of this is Mike’s doing. He wanted to do something special to mark my big 5-0, and after so many years of listening to me sigh whenever I saw anyone skiing on the trails we were hiking, it was maybe/probably an act of self-preservation. Honestly, the last time we were out on freshly snowed trails, a little old lady gently bullied past us on her skis and it took everything in my power not to throw an elbow and commit schussicide. Walking back to the car, as I muttered on about how lucky she was to be on boards while I was just walking around on my two legs like an idiot, my irritation and envy coalesced into something that felt fierce but came out like a pathetic whine: “Wahhhh, everything is stupid! I miss skiing so much!” Mike just looked at me patiently and said “well, maybe we should get you skis for your birthday?”

Wait, what?

I grew up on skis. My parents taught me how to cross country across our front yard, when I was probably 3 or 4. Maybe earlier. My first hill was a little mound at the edge of the lawn that had a white pine sapling growing out of it; that tree is now 30, 40? feet high, the mound softened out by a landscaping project years ago. My first skis were extremely Scandi-coded; bright red, patterned with a line of white hearts and a tiny skiing polar bear at the tip. They were a gateway to my obsession with Scandinavian design, absolutely. I’d KILL to have them hanging on my wall, but as with most kids’ sports gear, they were loaned out to the neighbours, traded across the community, the first pair of skis to dozens of kids.

Dad wanted my brother and I to enjoy solo sports, the kind of pastimes that could develop over a lifetime. Growing up in a rural area meant that team sports were a bigger commitment of travel time and limited community resources (and like hell we were gonna become hockey kids) so I totally get why skiing became The family sport. Dad started us with downhill skiing when we were little, suspending us within his snow-plow as he taught us to balance and turn, straining his already sore back to keep us upright. Being from Toronto proper, Mom didn’t ski when we were first starting out but joined us not too long after, taking ski lessons and braving the chair lifts even with a significant fear of heights. My parents were incredibly busy, owning and running 2 businesses while my dad worked full time, so we managed to find family time night-skiing together; after the business and homework was done for the day, we carved out a few hours of solo-but-together family time under the sodium lights of the ski hills.

We were lucky to live near Camp Fortune, our hallowed ski stomping grounds. This is a contemporary image from campfortune.com, but it captures the magic of night skiing as I remember it.

Our country school taught us how to cross-country ski, first on beginner skis with weird rubber bindings that fit over our winter boots, progressing to ill-fitting, loaned boots and skis paired with mismatched poles with missing baskets. It was the mid 80s and the boots and bindings were the old type (now called NN, or Nordic Norm, or 3-Pin) that were torturous to put on and off, and even worse to fall in. Our elementary school sat at the edge of a massive provincial park known for its scenic parkways-turned-immaculately groomed ski trails and the cheapest, easiest field trip that could be arranged was a ski day, so off we went, accompanied by parent volunteers (including my folks, sporting their own cross country skis that they used maybe just once a year, like on said field trip, such had downhill skiing become their preference.)

While downhill continued to dominate our family’s scant free time during the week and became my weekend teenage hangout, cross country and I became better acquainted in high school. I joined a cross country ski team where I learned how to ski harder, better, faster, stronger…not really, but I did learn how to skate ski, and after years of fearlessly hurtling downhill, skate skiing felt like flying with control. And I was pretty good at it, blessed with stupidly strong legs from winters spent skiing, skating and fighting gravity as a generally fat kid. I did a few races, volunteered at a few loppets, and skied the local trails with the team, and as my highschool experience ended, I considered myself a real, bonafide skier.
And then I moved to southern Ontario.

A very snowing landscape featuring a woman in a red jacket and black pants on cross country skis is being towed by a fluffy orange cat wearing a harness and leash — Goals, tbh…

Too busy (and too poor) with student life, too far away from ski hills and hanging with a new crowd who never/didn’t/wouldn’t, my ski options became few and far between. I’d dick around on whatever skis I could get my hands on whenever I was back in Quebec visiting my parents, even hit the slopes with a few highschool friends once or twice in the first few years after I had moved to Oakville, but my ski life was sliding into the rearview. My brother and I, room-mates for the first 3 years that we lived in Oakville, often talked about heading up to a local crappy ski hill about 40 minutes away to rent some gear and find our ski legs, but we never did, the lift tickets and gear rental being prohibitively expensive for our student budget. He eventually moved out, my dear, non-skiing friend moved in, Mike and I were together and planning our life forward, and southern Ontario’s often grey and green winters sealed the deal – skiing was a part of a past life. With time, my heartbreak eased; my budget never seemed to.

All of that was like 25 years ago. And now, suddenly, the opportunity to be a skier again wasn’t just a distant, beloved memory, but a gift that was being offered to me in the parking lot of a provincial park, by the person I love the most who also isn’t a skier, like it was no big deal. Like it made the most sense ever. Like we could maybe afford to. And my brain absolutely shut off at the thought of it.

A day later, brain in overdrive, I was down the goddamn rabbit hole. So, skiing sure has changed a lot in the past 30 years, yes? Why, yes. Yes it had. I mean, the skiing part is still the same, but the gear!? The boots! The bindings! So easy! Spandex was barely a thing when I did this the first time, what the fuck do people even wear? Everything is different! Where do I start? And that quickly became the problem – where do I start, as a fifty year old, 5 foot 4 round lady who hasn’t done anything like this in years, and who is, I might remind you, still a fat kid.

Obligatory use of the Stupid Sexy Flanders meme because I mentioned spandex.

So, that’s why I’m writing this: I want to tell you how, for the past few weeks, I’ve had the spectacular, terrifying, surprisingly comfortable experience of becoming a skier again. And I specifically want to discuss the points of coming back to skiing as a fat person, because the internet will tell you two things if you want to come back to a sport you once loved, now as a bigger person: either “just get on with it and do the thing”, or, “you aren’t really welcome anymore, because you are too fat.” Both of these sentiments apply, but only one of them is sort of useful. I hope that by recounting my recent experience, future, fat, and/or wannabe skiers can join me on the trails instead of spending far too many hours wandering, and wondering, down the goddamn rabbit hole.

Getting the gear

Like most sports, the ski industry is pretty shit at including fat skiers in their plans. If you weigh over 185 lbs, you will likely not find yourself on any of the charts or data that ski companies publish online, as 185 lbs seems to be the far upper end of what they think is a skiable body. Naturally, you are left wondering “what size ski do I need?”, “do they even make them for me, a fat person?”, “where do I find these fat person skis?”, “will I need a second job to afford said skis?” and the like. This was me, I had these questions. Of course I ended up on Reddit where much of the discourse involved low-level shaming the fat skiers who dared ask questions about ski lengths and types, but always signed off with a cheery “don’t worry, Xskiing is such a great workout you’ll be skinnier in no time!” Jesus fucking christ. Some redditors were tall, big, heavier men looking for ski suggestions; these individuals were generally lauded for being superior specimens while simultaneously being pitied for having such a difficult time finding gear suited to their epic manliess. When heavier, rounder, shorter (often female) redditors asked for suggestions for gear, they were damn near laughed out of dodge, but always with that “good luck tho! You’ll lose a ton of weight doing Xski!” bullshit. I felt totally dazed. Not only was I at a loss for how to get started, I actually started wondering if I should even bother. Thankfully I saw one post that put me right: “just slap on some skis, any skis, and get out there. It may not be perfect, but who cares, you’re just trying to enjoy your life, not go to the Olympics…” A-fucking-men.

To give you an idea of the body I currently live in, I’ll tell you that I weigh north of 250 lbs and I am 5’5” on a good day (so, 5’4” apparently.) I do gentle yoga every morning, I walk every day, at least 3kms, generally 7000 - 10,000 steps, and I frequently swim 1000 to 1,500 meters at my local pool. Up until 3 years ago, I used to bellydance at a semi-professional level, and I weight lift from time to time. I’m telling you this to give you an idea of where I am starting from athletically, but whenever I describe my relationship to exercise, it always feels like I’m trying to justify my existence in a bigger body. I am “healthy fat”, no, really. I have been fat my whole life, have done every diet under the sun, have starved and restricted and shamed myself for 40 of my 50 years, and I don’t do that anymore, so I sure as hell won’t let ski culture do it. Anyhow, to sum up: I like exercise, and I am a reasonably active, generally achy, peri-menopausal 50 year old woman, size 20-22, kinda strong, kinda round, often feisty and totally out of fucks. And I needed some goddamn skis, please.

Me, after spending exactly 219.75 hours of my one precious life, on the internet trying to find helpful ski info…

One thing the “good” redditors suggested was going to an actual ski shop to talk to someone - actual advice! Our local ski shop only seemed to deal in alpine gear, so I went to Mountain Equipment Co-Op to get the story. The salesperson we worked with was insanely friendly, very encouraging, and completely realistic; he understood that I was new/old hat to this, that I was somewhat concerned about how my weight would factor into my options, and also that we were on a budget (Mike insisted that we weren’t; I insisted that we were.) Steve gave us a thorough education on the new norms of Nordic and a run-down of seemingly every ski option known to mankind, narrowing it down to what was currently available (our incredibly snowy winter meant that in-stock skis were much harder to come by this year. This was largely the reason I wasn’t able to find any used gear either, even after an exhaustive search.) It turned out that limited supply was the biggest obstacle, and one worth considering if you might be a harder-to-fit skier: buy your skis early in the season if you can, so that you have the widest variety to choose from. That said, Steve performed a miracle and found me a pair of Rossignol XC-5 boots in shop that were so Cinderella-perfect it was like they were made for me. And then a suggestion: he found a pair of skis and pre-mounted bindings at mec.ca that he felt would be a good choice all things considered, and they were on sale. So we left the shop, boots and item number in hand, and that evening we ordered them, and a pair of new poles, and the receipt for the dream achieved was sitting in my inbox. All I had to do was wait 10 days…

Here’s where I’ll shut up and give you the details of what I got:

Boots: Rossignol XC-5 Nordic touring boots, unisex size 41 - these were around $220. These boots were insanely comfortable right out of the box, and very warm too.

Skis & Bindings: Fischer Fibre Crown EF IFP Tour Step-In skis, 204 cm (more on this length in a minute) – these were on sale for $127.94 including the IFP bindings. I was so thrilled with this price point for such a popular ski. They are widely reviewed as a great “all-purpose” touring ski, stable enough for beginners but nimble enough to be fun for experienced skiers on packed, tracked and moderate ungroomed ground. I was a bit nostalgic about buying Fischers; my first pair of downhill skis were Fischers, circa 1982, probably.

Poles: Rossignol FT 500 poles, 140 cm – these were $60. I already have a pair of telescoping poles for snowshoeing, but they max out at about 135 cm, and I was eager to get a new, slightly longer, lightweight pair for skiing. For cross country poles you generally measure anywhere from your armpit to your shoulder for length; I chose the measurement between the two.

One of the key takeaways from my discussion with Steve was that skis were predominantly sized to a skier’s weight (rather than height) and ability, especially for touring or classic skis. Skating skies are a different beast altogether; skinnier and shorter. The heavier the skier, the longer the ski should be for glide and floatation, but a too-long ski can be a big challenge to a beginner. Considering the last pair of Nordic skis that I goofed around on 25 years ago were my Dad’s 205 cm long Rossignols from the 70s, I felt that going with a longer ski was a good compromise for my weight and the fact that I was hoping to use these skis most frequently on ungroomed/fresh trails and the occasional groomed track. In a perfect, size 8 world, I’d probably ski on 180-190 cm skis. In this world, I’m adding two dozen cms for good luck. Remember: “…It may not be perfect, but who cares, you’re just trying to enjoy your life, not go to the Olympics…”

10 long days waiting for the email, the big day came a week after my birthday – the skis had arrived! And in a box roughly 18” longer than would fit in my car! (The skis and poles were hastily unboxed in the parking lot, and fit into the Yaris, tucked between the front seats, extending over the back. The hatch-back closed with a few inches to spare. Whew.) I was so excited that I tried them on in my living room, wearing my ski boots and pyjamas, watching YouTubes on how to step into and out of the new, magically simple bindings. And then 2 days later, I was stepping in on snow.

Point of view of a woman's feet in cross country boots and skis, standing with her ski poles on the wood floor of her living room. — Just a grown-ass woman wearing her new skis in the living room, as you do…

The First Ski

With the snow pack of our local provincial park quickly dwindling in the brighter sun of March, I was able to get out for 4 trips in 6 days over the course of a week. 10 minutes into my first ski, I was surprised and relieved to discover that my muscle memory is stronger than my memory memory (see: perimenopause…) and that I was moving with an unusual, intuitive confidence that I didn’t recognize in my everyday life. Like, who was this girl, gliding with something approaching rhythm and grace, not falling down, stepping through corners with ease, completely out of breath in 10 mins…? I was low-key amazed. I’m not going to say that I didn’t have some wobbles, I’m not going to say that my calves weren’t absolutely on fire, I’m not gonna say that I was gripping my poles with an appropriate level of strength (days later my hands still ached…), but I couldn’t believe how natural it all felt once again. Mike was cheering me on, also low-key amazed (and probably relieved that I was managing to stay upright.)

That was the first trip out. It was about -3 and bright overcast, and the snow surface felt fast in the best way possible. I made a few trips around the field/meadow areas of the park where others had skied, doing my best to stay in their tracks, remember my posture, and practice my kick and glide.

No joke, this might be the happiest photo I’ve taken in the last 10 years.

Day 2

The second trip out, the next day, the weather had shifted; it was suddenly +4 and sunny – a blue bird day - and I was eager to get another practice session under my belt. This time the snow had more drag and I was very aware of how my skis floated, or sometimes didn’t, across snowpack that was now melting in spring warmth. It was a very satisfying workout, but man did I ever work; it was this trip that made me realize that I might need to do some research about ski wax. My skis are considered “waxless”, as they have a fish scale grip pattern on the bottom (underneath the binding, where the ski grips the snow as you push off, the “kick”) but waxing tips and tails can help improve glide in less-than-stellar conditions.

When you hear the term “blue bird day”, this is what we mean. The sky is so blue it feels like therapy…or drugs…

Ski #3

My third day out, a day later because I needed a rest, was worth the wait. An almost blue bird day, but this time cold (-7˚ C, -11 with the windchill), clear and sparkling with 5cm of freshly fallen snow that I had ordered overnight! The only challenge? That snow was sitting atop an icy crust, and I was reminded of two things: fresh snow on top of ice is fast as fuck, and, my new skis do not have metal edges! After watching YouTube videos of beginner ski tips on my day off (like the keener that I am), I spent day 3 mindfully working on my balance by keeping a hips-over-knees posture and stepping while gliding to better handle turns without metal edges to cut in. We found a circular section of the park, an old, unused roadway, that was untravelled and I did several laps, building up some speed as I went, navigating the super crunchy, icy bits, and stepping through the turns at each end (sometimes almost at speed, almost like skating!) I had a great time, my confidence soaring.

Big thanks to my official photog/hype man/ski coach for taking some decent photos of me without me knowing, and also telling me to go do another lap after I had completed a successful one.

Day 4

The fourth trip was a last minute decision. In true March fashion, the weather had swung warm again and over coffee that morning we decided to deke out of our workday for an extended ski lunch (a perk of self-employment.) It was bright and sunny, about 3˚ C and windy, but the snow was weird – both crunchy-icy and sloppy soft, and patches that had been deep with snow 2 days earlier were now showing bare ground beneath. Still, we found some sections of field where the snow had been drifting, and while the pack below was a bit icy, the surface snow was fluffy and glittery, making the most hypnotic swish with each glide. I closed my eyes and tried to commit it to memory, fully aware that this might be my last ski of the season.

In wooded areas, cross country feels a bit like canoeing, in that you can move quietly and pick along edges and terrain where you’re more likely to encounter wildlife. Or evidence of wildlife.

A Word about the Fits

As a PSA to my fellow newbies, I want to drop a quick note here about what I wore on these very different ski days. I wasn’t going to spend any more money on swanky outerwear after spending on ski gear, so my fits were assembled from my usual wardrobe, and frankly, it was fine. I know from experience how hung up people can get on looking the part, especially doing sports, especially as a fat person, but I want to assure you that you can just wear whatever the fuck you want. Aim for comfort. Aim for layers, ‘cause friend, you’re gonna sweat. I chose clothes that I often hike in, meaning track pants, and insulated lightweight jacket with a long sleeve cotton t-shirt underneath, merino wool trail socks, gloves with grippy palms (for a better hold on my poles) and a tuque or headband. I only chose track pants because I figured they are easier to move in than jeans, anticipating that I might be on my ass more than my skis the first few trips out, and they were a good choice for overall comfort and unfussiness. On the colder days I layered an extra sweatshirt under my jacket, and a pair of merino wool tights under my track pants and I was still breaking a sweat by the time we got back to the car.

The most spring-skiing photo ever: changing out of ski boots into hiking shoes for the drive home, standing on the only patch of snow left in the parking lot

As I write this (proof-reading for the zillionth time, as all my confidence is apparently reserved for the ski trail only), it has been 5 days since I was last out. The pivot into lousy Smarch weather has brought 4 days of rain, and the snow is all but gone here. If we get another day or 2 of colder weather, we might venture north to find some lingering trails, but if not, I am satisfied at what I was able to experience at the end of the season (although bummed that it will likely be 8+ months before I’m on my skis again.) Patience, grasshopper. It took you 25 years to come back to skiing, what’s another 8 months?
If you’ve managed to read this far, and you secretly long to come back to some forgotten hobby, sport or interest that life forced you shelve for a time, please consider this your invitation to get back at it, by hook or by crook. Life is too short and too fast and so frequently un-fun, and you deserve to feel the same way I did; sun on your face, skis in the track, and secretly overjoyed that you are actually a bit better, a bit happier, or a bit more excited about something than you expected to be, in whatever it is that you miss doing. It may not be perfect, but who cares, you’re just trying to enjoy your life…right?

What a gift, to turn 50, and to do so by stepping back into the shoes/boots of a cherished version of myself, while gliding forward with the mettle of who I am now. Somewhere, on a snowy trail in another sparkly timeline, 15 year old Erika and 50 year old Erika high five as they gleefully fly past each other.