Ski Patrolled

"Seat Safety Switch" (seat-safety-switch)
11/20/2015 at 12:12 • Filed to: mazda, lq4, rx2

The snow fell and settled on my balcony railing, casting the world beyond like a glittering paradise of really cold water. I slid on the HANS device as I walked to the elevator.

Inside the A-framed faux maple ski lodge’s underground parking garage, the damp concrete blossomed with frost around uninsulated fastening bolts. I heard a low fan hum as the air conditioning system struggled in vain to dehumidify the sandstone tomb. I hit the remote unlock button in my pocket, and followed the glow of the courtesy lights to the stall.

A dim hologram of the car’s last voyage as shot from the foglight camera flickered beneath both mirrors, the courtesy lights repurposed to provide both convenient light and a threat display to anyone who paid attention to the contents of the recording.

I stepped inside the small Mazda, hoisting myself over the door bars. The key slid gently into the ignition cylinder and, with a twist, sprang the small block to life. Truth be told, I was always surprised how such a little action could produce such a huge reaction. Maybe I got hooked on that power. Maybe that’s why everything afterward happened the way it did. Lot of maybes in a man’s life.

Outside, the ski bums scatter for cover as I rip the RX2 completely sideways up the icy parking-garage ramp, all six of its immense knobby studded tires tearing at the concrete and ice simultaneously in a cacaphony of audiovisual terror. Pedestrian-safety warning displays flickered across the windshield HUD as I took hold of the bucking-bronco steering and forced it to obey its master with a deft hand and lead foot. For this drive, at least, we would have an agreement.

I tore up the ski hill like a man possessed, leaving behind a wake of deafened woodland animals and shattered hillside. At last I reached the summit, and leapt from the idling Mazda, smelling a whiff of methanol cooking off the fender-mounted exhaust as I did.

“Thank God you’re here,” screamed my partner, in a futile attempt to be heard over the sound of the LQ4s idle. “This man has sprained his ankle and needs an escort back down the mountain.” He gestured to a customer of the ski hill lying prone beside him, ducked-and-covered, a urine stain spreading slowly across his high-dollar specialty-purpose pants.

If you asked me what the most rewarding part of ski patrol was? I’d have to say it was meeting people. And then evacuating them off the ski hill while banging off the rev limiter in order to stay in front of the avalanche I had created.