I’ve never kayaked down the side of a mountain. I’ve never braved the rapids with nothing more than a child’s inner tube and a pair of flippers for survival. I’ve never climbed Everest, trained for the Ironman competition or run a mega-marathon. I’ve never even seen a black diamond on a ski mountain, let alone ripped down one at warp speed.
Gasp! I know.
I don’t have stories of injury or bodily abuse suffered through encounters with either nature or equipment. Even before cancer came calling and left me with some rather bothersome medical issues and a bit more fear, I was not an athletic risk-taker. And in Colorado, that makes me something of a freak.
Moving here 17 years ago was a dream come true. I had always loved Colorado, with its majestic mountains and perpetually sunny disposition. I admit that the first few years of “never-a-cloudy-day” life took some getting used to. There actually were days where I wanted to be lazy, stay in my pajamas and do nothing. Ha! Not with the sun out and mocking me.
So I did what other Coloradans do: I went to the mountains! I hiked and snowshoed and cross-country skied (on a groomed trail), all things that had a prerequisite skill of basically being able to walk. Not exactly daring feats.
When asked what I did for exercise, I would list these simple outings and be met with … blank stares. Did I hike a fourteener? Nope, just a twelve-er. Ish. And not even all the way up.
Did I rollerblade up the mountain while carrying a 70-pound pack? Uh-uh. Again, blinks and stares.
It appeared that everyone else in Colorado was in a contest to see who could do something more extreme in sports. My wariness and a healthy aversion to bodily injury made me a wimp.
So I had to learn a few tricks to get by in social situations where the talk always seemed to lead to stories of cartoonish adventures in the wilds of Colorado.
I learned to use wide and expansive gestures when in the midst of these sports extremists. They may have known how to risk life and limb but I had them beat when it came to hamming it up about snowshoe wipeouts or walking mishaps. Body language makes up 60 percent of the impression we create, so using exaggerated motions, distorted facial gestures and flailing arms made the story worth telling — even one about slipping on loose gravel while hiking. It seemed more daring when told with bulging eyes.
Another good tool was an inexpensive bottle of self-tanning lotion. I coat myself in number 50 sunscreen whenever I am outside for any length of time. Pale and freckled tends to be a dead giveaway that I am not out scaling mountains in my bare skin and bare feet all day, simultaneously braving melanoma and the elements. A generous dollop of self-tanning lotion gave me the color I needed to pull off the stories I’d tell. Never underestimate the power of good cosmetics.
Finally, there was the simple shock effect. This “stop-’em-dead-in-their-tracks” method worked well in groups of bragging sports extremists. Following a litany of near-death experiences involving raging rapids, high-speed mogul descents and over-the-handlebars wipeouts, I would inevitably be asked, “So what do you do?”
Two words sufficed: I hike. Stunned silence. It was as if I’d announced that I’d killed someone yesterday. Eyes were averted and throats cleared as they waited for me to clarify the dangerous conditions of this hike. Nope, it was a sunny day and I walked slowly. The befuddled stares of my audience were highly entertaining. I then topped each extreme story with a non-threatening tale of my own. I walked in the park. I road my bike on a paved trail. I trekked up a small hill.
It takes a sense of humor to survive in Colorado’s world of outlandish risk. It is not for the faint of heart, but I learned to do it. Also, battling cancer helps. No one seems to be as freaked out by my feeble athletic attempts anymore. Or maybe I’m just getting old.
Siobhan Sprecace lives in Englewood.
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