Chris Hanna on ski streaks, and life in Capeline.
Last winter, I skied 74 consecutive days; hold your applause. I never intended to have a streak, and I wasn’t aware it was happening until it was. It was my daughter, Elise, who pointed it out last January. We were drinking coffee and recapping a fun- filled, two-week holiday break when she said, “You’re a ski bum. You skied every day over break.”
I was vaguely attuned to my consecutive days, as I’m frequently sliding on skis of varying disciplines all winter long, but for some reason, this particular 14-day stretch felt like the perfect springboard to embark on a little streak.
I need to emphasize that in the realm of ski bummery, a streak of 74 consecutive days is neither impressive nor pioneering. It didn’t qualify me for the Olympics, and it certainly hasn’t helped to heal the wounds of our world. But in its purest form, I found it invigorating as a guy who’s increasing in age and decreasing in flexibility. I’m in the prime of my fifth decade, and at this point, after 26 winters here in the valley, a ski streak feels more like an experience of privilege than anything of true meaning.
Streaks are everywhere in our lives. In today’s world of phone apps, games like The New York Times’ Wordle or crossword puzzles use streaks as a way to captivate players and create continuity, keeping their users engaged. There are also fitness apps, like Strava and Peloton, or language apps like Duolingo, that encourage streaks to improve performance through repetition. But often our streaks are ordinary. Do you brush your teeth? Chances are you’re on a serious streak. They have as much meaning as we assign them; some are meaningless, while others can be a catalyst for change. I would argue that brushing your teeth every day is not nearly as impressive as Cal Ripken Jr. playing in 2,632 consecutive Major League Baseball games or Edwin Moses’ 122 consecutive 400-meter hurdle race wins.
For me, it was the ritual that made the streak meaningful. That’s what really got me hooked. I do have a job and life to tend to, but my mind wandered incessantly to that streaky ritual. What will I ski tomorrow? What will I ski today, and when? How much time do I have? What kind of skiing should I do? Are my skis waxed for cold conditions? Maybe a morning uphill before work? Should I Nordic ski (yes, always say yes to Nordic skiing), hit the resort, or go for a tour? What’s the forecast today? Has it snowed? Will it snow? This musing factored into all of my decisions and spawned some incredible days.
I leaned way in. I began dressing to ski instead of dressing to work. I did actually work, just in Capeline.
The daily commute to my office by bike became a complex balancing act of utilitarian-ski-gear-transport. I left in the morning with a pack on my back and skis in one hand, and in the other: my coffee, which I carefully shepherded to the safety of my desk. Not once did I crash (another streak!). I found myself always poised to ski, often taking meetings or running errands in my ski gear. One morning, I bumped into my daughter at Camp 4, as she chirped, “Hey, don’t you ever wear normal clothes anymore?” No, I did not. I went two and a half months without wearing civilian clothes, and it was glorious — another streak!
With so many recreation options, keeping the streak alive became easy. Lunchtime Nordic Masters clinics on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Afternoons on Snodgrass. Weekends doubled up with long hours of Nordic skiing, then up to the resort, or a peaceful ski tour following around my blossoming love interest, wondering how she makes it look so easy. I was in a serious groove, a deep trough of contentment, happiness, gratitude, exercise, accomplishment, and love. Love for the life I was experiencing and for those I was experiencing it with. I was having a lot of fun.
After the initial 14 days, I thought I might as well make it 30, a solid month, I could do that. Once I hit 30 days, 60 seemed reasonable. After all, we live in a ski town. Even a mid-winter skin cancer excision on my arm didn’t stop me. In fact, before making the morning drive to Montrose for the procedure, I skied by headlamp and determination so I wouldn’t miss my day. Any day sliding on snow counted, so, post-op, I skate-skied flat laps on the town ranch with no poles while the 12 stitches in my arm healed. After a week of keeping my heart rate low, I was back at it, still feeling boyishly giddy as I spent time sliding through the mountains so close to my heart.
Most of the days were great fun (it’s skiing, let’s keep things in perspective), but some days were just arduous, and it wasn’t always fun. Undesirable conditions made it difficult to think about layering up in coats, only to take them off and start an activity cold. There were many days when I struggled to shake a bad mood brought on by being human. And there were days when I found it a real challenge just to exist in our snow globe of razor-sharp air and dwindling daylight, where warmth felt like a luxury only to be achieved by standing in a hot shower. But the thing I learned from these tricky days was that once I actually set myself in motion, like simply putting on sunscreen, everything worked out, and my mood improved. I just had to get moving. Even on days when my effort was minimal and the duration was short, a small effort beat no effort, every time.
As the days progressed, it became clear that my streak would be disrupted by a long-planned trip out of the valley to warmer climes. In the end, it would be 74 days, because like it or not, there was no skiing where I was headed. I felt a sense of sadness for the inevitable break-up. The streak occupied space in my life. I talked about it like a revered pet, as it was almost always a pleasure to interact with. My streak reminded me of the importance of consistency and longevity, and it rebooted my ability to adapt to (and hit) the curveballs thrown at me by the universe. I felt a sense of connection to the very thought of it, and to the many different emotions that enveloped me during its 74-day succession.
The fear of losing it became a stronger pull than the allure of recording another day in my journal, and I realized the streak itself became “the” thing more than the skiing — a sort of enriching sub-plot to my quotidian winter pursuits. It kept me on task and brought novelty to my world, an adult world where the anchors of responsibility and duty are as ever-present as the unavoidability of change.
I humbly accepted these greater life-lessons with an open mind. This experience was poignant. It affected me as a person. I was grateful to have such an opportunity to ski so many days throughout the entire winter, even beyond my streak. It reminded me of why I live here and why immediate access to a healthy, outdoor lifestyle is so important to me. It has proven to me over and over again that my mental state benefits greatly from exercise and spending time outdoors.
As I streaked through last winter, it also reminded me how fast 74 days can go. How quickly another winter slips through our fingers and hands us off to mud season (Google spring). It reminded me that life happens fast and the only reliable streak is change. Change happens with or without our blessing, regardless of how hard we resist. But change has beautifully gifted me moments of real difficulty, stripping away my perceived control over normalcy and routine. My desire for change created this streak, while my fear of it sustained it. I would have never guessed that something as spontaneous, simple, and silly as a ski streak would teach me so much.