Mission Possible

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It was a cold and windy day today on the mountain. It wasn't crowded, but there was as an abnormally large amount of tourists for a week day. Some of which looked like they semi-knew what they were doing, some of which didn't, all of which were in my way. I got frustrated and decided to head over to a run called Freeway, where the park crew had set up a number of different extra large features, including three jumps. The gaps of the jumps went from 45, to 55, to 65 feet. This is my first season skiing, and though I've so passionately wanted to do some big jumps, I just haven't been able to bring myself to do it. It kills me to watch my pro friends shred so comfortably you wouldn't know the difference if they were laying on their couch watching TV. I skiied to the top of the jump line and suddenly stopped, causing a spray of snow to cloud over my view. As the snow cleared something funny happened, and I felt like I was looking at the jumps for the first time from a different set of eyes.
"This is ridiculous," I thought to myself, "you can do this!"
I looked around and saw not a soul in sight. No one to save me if I were to fall and wreck myself, no one to witness if I were to land and ride away. I had absolutely nothing going for me, but I decided to go for it anyway. Without hesitation, without a second glace, I aimed my skis down the run, and went. It was only a few seconds later that I was safely on the ground on the other side, and only another few seconds for me to realize what I had done. That short moment I spent flying over a 45 foot gap would liberate me from any fear I ever had of heights for the rest of my life. I rode down the run with so much adrenaline I felt like I was glowing like a light bulb.
"My head was just above the trees, the treees!" I screamed out loud and laughed as I shook the ski poles violently in my hands.
I collected myself before I got to the bottom and played it cool, secretly hoping someone had saw. I quickly realized none of my friends were to be found, and if anyone had seen, it clearly didn't impress. As I was standing in the lift line waiting to go up again, life around me was going on as it normally does. No one could see the triumphant fireworks exploding in my eyes behind my goggles, or the silent celebration that was rattling my inner core. I suddenly didn't care whether anyone had saw. I suddenly didn't care what I could or couldn't do on skis, or that the mass proportion of my friends were better than me. I had a private victory that made me feel like I had made it; I had done something I never thought I would be able to do. I got on the chairlift with a hot young lad I had seen many times before, and I knew he was an incredible skier.
"I just stomped my first switch 9 off that jump, super stoked!" He said, with a tone meaning to impress, as he pointed to a jump that was barely pushing 30 feet.
"How's your day going?" He asked.
I politely grinned and responded, "Ohhhh, pretty good," and paused, "nothing spectacular."

It was my moment, and I no longer wanted to share.

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