onto a country road.
Where’re we going? I said.
It’s a surprise.
A ghost town?
He nodded.
Cool.
The town of Bodie was scattered on a mild slope amongst sage, a pale lime in the dry cold of winter. We wandered the barren streets. A lone brick facade seemed to waver in the wind. The other structures were steepled shacks and my dad said up to 10,000 people once lived in this place. I asked all the same questions I always asked when we came to ghost towns.
The gold ran out, Ollestad. They moved on.
Why do we like ghost towns so much, Dad?
He shrugged.
No traffic, he said.
In the morning my dad waxed my skis with the hotel iron.
They keep talking about this kid, he said. Lance McCloud. They say he’s the best. Everybody tells me about him.
How old is he?
I don’t know. He’s a Junior 4 like you. Sometimes he races J3 to test himself against the older kids.
I do that too, right?
Yep. Anything to help you qualify for the Southern Cal Championship race.
When’s that? I said.
Little over two months. President’s weekend, he said.
Does Uncle Joe still own this hotel? I said.
Yeah.
He ran the iron up and down the base of my skis.
You got to go fast today, he said.
I will.
Why talk about beating the best kid when I have never even beaten the second or third best? I thought.
I don’t weigh enough, I said.
He stopped ironing my skis.
Use your technique, he said.
What difference does it make on the flats?
Hey. That’s not an excuse.
But I can’t go fast ’cause of my weight.
Tuck the flats. Do anything you can.
Tuck slalom gates?
Don’t worry about going fast, okay.
But you told me to.
I know, but the wax will take care of that, Ollestad.
He moved the iron onto the second ski.
Why do I pee in my pants every time? I said.
You get excited. Don’t worry about that.
But the other kids don’t pee in their pants.
How do you know?
Dad put down the iron and set the skis against the wall.
You really want me to beat that kid. Don’t you? I said.
He looked at me, his mouth parted. Naw, he said. Don’t worry about him.
Why’d you talk about him then?
I don’t know. I’m just sick of hearing about him I guess.
Then why talk about him?
Just…to get it off my chest, Norman.
He got the scraper out of his bag and shaved the top layer of wax off my bases.
Fourth place, tenth place, first place, he said. That’s not what it’s about.
But everybody’s trying to win, I said.
I know. But we’re not. We’re just out here to make some good turns. Get a little better each time. We’re just out here for the hell of it.
His mustache was unruly, bushing out in all directions, and his eyes looked groggy. He watched me closely, searching my face. I gazed right through him to some place beyond his eyes where his explanations might make sense. I couldn’t really understand what he meant by
You don’t care? I said.
All I care about is that you keep going, Boy Wonder. Don’t get stuck on how you finished last time or the turn you just made. Go after the next one with all you’ve got.
We signed in with the Heavenly Valley race department and the race official asked where the hell Mount Waterman was.
Los Angeles, said my dad.
That’s a long way from Lake Tahoe, said the official. He smiled and handed me a bib. Good luck, he said through his smile.
I was the sole representative of my team so my dad and I slipped the course together, with him acting as my coach. It was a gentle slope with pretty tight gates and powdery snow.
You got ’em in the powder, he said.
I felt the pressure again and it was confusing. It was clear that he wanted me to win no matter what he claimed. He was trying to be sneaky about it—tease me into winning without feeling any stress. I was onto him.
It’ll probably stop snowing, I said with spite. No more powder.
Then the ruts will get big, he said. That’s no problem for you. You got ’em in the ruts.
I scoffed. Maybe I don’t.
He gave me a long look. I had made my point so I kept my mouth shut.
A quarter of the way down he insisted on getting real close to the Heavenly Valley ski team in front of us. My dad would repeat to me what the Heavenly coach told his team and finally the coach addressed my dad.
Excuse me sir. What team are you from?
Mount Waterman, said my dad. The coach couldn’t make it so we were hoping to pick up a few pointers.
These kids’ families pay a lot of money for ski team. I don’t think it’s fair for you to get advice for free. Do you?
My dad’s jaw muscle flinched. Then he smiled.
I’ll pay for it, he said.
You’ll have to go work that out with the team president, said the coach.
But you’re the coach. You must have authority to decide who can train with the team, said my dad.
No sir.
Let’s go, I said.
My dad looked at his watch.
The race is going to start soon, my dad said to the coach.
The coach raised his head as if to get a better look at my dad. My dad leaned onto his poles, settling in. The team behind us appeared at our rear. Then the Heavenly coach shook his head and turned away, addressing his racers.
My dad told me to listen closely to the coach’s
