That Is All: Phat Air

Feb. 18, 2002

I want to snowboard.

I want to catch some phat air.

I want to tame the vicious Olympic half-pipe into a whimpering poodle by racing at break-neck speed toward the wall, clipping the ridge skyward and launching into the most bodacious, gargantuan amplitude ever.

I want more air than a scuba diver.

I want to double bonk the pipe's lip and execute a wretchedly sick crippler, then grind and jib my ride along the flat bottom, and finally bone the board and blast off achieving gold-medal caliber Swiss Cheese Air.

And I want to do it all while the public address system blares Metallica's "Enter Sandman," cranked up so loud it knocks the snow off the roof of the judge's stand.

I want to snowboard until it hurts -- and it would at my age.

I am afraid I'd look pretty pitiful if I really tried.

Let the shames begin!

I'm out of shape, out of sync and out of breath.

As I watched the young athletes compete in the Winter Games in Salt Lake City, my first inclination was to be annoyed as I discovered yet another exciting physical feat I could no longer do, even if I had money.

It appeared as though I would be left to look on in bittersweet reverence.

But the truth is I've been able to shed my selfishness a bit and pull the plug on my pity party.

I can't help getting personally involved in these spectacular games and the thrills provided by the engaging athletes.

So now I'm having fun living vicariously through these young competitors from around the world. In fact I'm having a blast.

Consider Simon Ammann, 20, the Swedish skier with the face of a Cabbage Patch Kid. He came out of nowhere to win two gold medals in ski jumping. The big bad veteran jumpers from Poland, Germany and Japan planned to take home all the medals. Not to be. The kid, looking a little like Harry Potter on stilts, kicked their behinds in grand style.

Listen: These games are inspiring and empowering.

If I were 12, knew how to stand on my head, and owned a skateboard, I'd be strapping on a snowboard and moving to Buffalo today.

It's contagious.

I want to luge like it's nobody's business.

I want to go insanely fast, on my back, as the ice cold wind races over my Spandexed torso, and my shaking and vibrating toes are all I can see.

I want to cross-country ski until my legs and lungs burn like a new furnace, my arms droop like old rubber bands and my frost-encrusted goatee weighs more than my head.

I want to race a bobsled at a gazillion miles an hour, until the frigid air peels the paint off its nose, until I can hear the ice creak and moan and beg for mercy.

I want to strap on some Alpine skis and spank the mountain as I roar down the giant slalom course.

I want to bronco bust the moguls. I want to bump-bump-bump and sail, bump-bump-bump and fly, punishing the powder all the way down.

And I want to skate.

I want to stake my ankles off, land a lutz, plant a quad, orbit the rink and spin like a gyroscope in a pan of hot oil.

I want to accomplish the perfect program, only to be robbed of the gold by some misguided foreign judge with a debt to pay.

But it's all good. I'll settle for any medal. The closest thing I have to a medal is the steel plate in my head.

Ladies, I'm looking for a pairs partner?

I promise I won't drop you ... well, you know, after we practice and stuff.

That is all.

John Charles Robbins is a Sentinel staff writer.