Words by Dylan Nord Pictures by James Nord
I don’t remember learning how to walk, and maybe that’s why I can’t tell you the finer points in form and method. In the morning, I just swing my legs in front of me and stand. Then, I am ready. I’ve probably improved since I first began practicing - tripping on my blanket, or wobbling towards a kneeling parent, but I don’t remember any of my great milestones of progress.
I also don’t remember learning how to ride a bike. I’m sure I was scared at first; I’m sure I was eager to learn and show my older brothers I was just like them. I imagine my father held on to my seat post or put an arm around my shoulder as I gritted my teeth and leaned forward over my bars adopting that wonderful look of a terribly determined and focused child. I still ride, more days than not, but I don’t quite know how it all started.
These sort of actions become a part of ourselves, a second nature. Like a smile towards an old friend, or a particular curl in your sleep, we performed these actions expertly and without conscience thought.
Last year, when I was teaching my girlfriend, Kathy, how to snowboard it occurred to me that I didn’t remember any instruction that I had been given or trials that I faced when learning although I knew there must be many. I still can’t easily explain how to turn or even stop. The actions have become native; I get off the ski lift and I am on my way.
And it is in the moments between trips on the ski lift that I am happiest. Because, when I’m on the mountain, I’m not concentrating on my form or instruction. Snowboarding, I let my mind focus on the crunch of the snow under my edge; I can absorb myself in the chill on my face, the rush of air against my ears, the quiet fog inside of my goggles, and the weightlessness of speed.
It’s in my nature to learn new skills, challenge myself, and collect new experiences, but it is in my second nature to forget my form and lack of ability, my upcoming deadlines or inbox and listen to the air against my ear.
