Vermont is for Masochists

THE cruel and sadistic manipulation of vulnerable parts of the human anatomy constitutes physical torture. Mental torture, on the other hand, eats away at the human will, humiliates the spirit and causes eventual submission. The use of the rack during the Spanish Inquisition exemplifies the first type of torture, while political brainwashing is a common example of the latter.

The worst tortures, however, are both physical and mental; I can think of no better example than the so called "sport" of skiing. Having finally recovered from my first ski trip, I have garnered enough strength to warn potential first-time skiers of the devastating risks of such a destructive activity.

The first danger arises even before the sight of snow; in the ski rental room, also known as the "room from hell," pain is brought to new and incomprehensible levels of meaning.

Ski boots, for example, are designed to cut off all blood circulation below the shin. They are so efficient at this purpose that campers routinely take them on nature hikes in case of snake bites, as in, "No need to get a tourniquet, dear, just slip on this ski boot."

Ski headbands are guaranteed to cause headaches, ski poles are the perfect length and sharpness to gouge out the eyes of innocent children and the skis themselves are professionally adjusted to rip apart the skier's knee should he or she fall.

MY roommates may try to tell you I'm a little bitter about this entire activity because I failed my first ski lesson--learning to stop. They'll utter something about how 90 percent of my group passed the screening test and were allowed onto the slopes, while I was kept back for four hours on a one degree incline practicing the snowshoestop position.

These are unadulterated lies. It took me a mere three hours and forty-five minutes to progress to stage two, and I have a happy face on my ski jacket to prove it.

To be fair, skiing is more than the endurance of intense physical pain; it is humiliating and tortuous mentally as well. Start with the names of the slopes. "Suicide Stretch," "The Outer Limits" and "Kamikaze Run" are advanced slopes with names that make adrenaline boil.

However, beginning slopes are more likely to be called "Drooling Baby Sister," "Kissing Cousin" or "Diapered Kitten." Believe me that it is impossible to boast, "I'm just raring to get out there and take on the challenge of `Drooling Baby Sister!'"

The ski instructors, like wise, are no help at all. My instructor, gleefully named "Bill!" had a vocabulary of two words, "Noooooo Problem."

"Bill, do you think I will ever learn to stop using this snowshoe position?" "Noooooo Problem." "Bill, am I advanced enough to go down `Kissing Cousin?'" "Noooooo Problem." "Bill, could you get a real life, beginning by wiping that self-satisified smirk off your sickeningly cheerful face?"

NOTHING in the world is more humiliating than being passed on the slopes by a five-year-old tot on skis with a sticker on the back of his jacket reading "Eat my exhaust, sucker!" Unless of course, you count the myriad pre-schoolers who sidle up to you in the ski lodge, look at your ski pass and yell to their moms, "He's only a novice! He's only a novice!"

After my first ski trip, I calculated the amount of money I would have to spend to become an adequate skier: $50,000. $500 for equipment, $500 for lessons from "Bill!", $500 for lift tickets and the remainder for confidence rebuilding by psychiatric professionals.

But skiing, my friends still tell me, is worth the effort. It's not just a sport, they say, it's an art form. And they're right; skiing is the art of falling brutally at high speeds, eating several cubic meters of snow, screaming for dear life and being able to say at the bottom, "That was great. Another run?"