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There I was, barreling down the titanic slope at breakneck speed, soaring off the long ski jump like a fearless Scandinavian. I landed, tipped over, and giggled with delight. It was my first attempt at skiing, at the tender age of seven.

My buddies and I took turns skiing down that little hill and springing vast inches off the bump with my mom’s old leather boots and wooden skis. The ski boots didn’t fit but we stuffed them with woolen socks and spent the day throwing caution to the wind. We didn’t get Olympic medals that day, a steaming cup of hot cocoa and marshmallows was all the reward we needed.

The cycle of life

The following year, I got my first pair of ski boots. They were the fancy new ones made with molded plastic shells and metal clasps that squeezed my feet so tight they went numb. They were black as coal and rigid as my resolve. Years passed, my feet grew, and old boots were cast aside to make way for newer, better boots. They came in rainbows of colors with high backs, adjustable flex, canting, and lean. The cycle of new ski boots turned like a water wheel, never contemplating the future. That is, until last weekend when I bought my next new pair.

“My old ones lasted over fifteen years,” I bragged to the tan and sinewy salesman. He probably buys a new pair every year or two like I did when I was his age.

“These will probably last just as long,” I continued, “so let’s get some good ones.” We settled on a pair of mid-level boots that were appropriate for the style of an older, more brittle man — slow and cautious.

Fifteen more years, I thought, as I walked out with the cardboard boot box by my side. I’ll be pushing 80 by then and it’s possible, even likely, that I won’t be skiing then. My 75-year-old friend Benny fell on an icy slope and shattered his scapula and shoulder. They had to rebuild the socket and now he can’t raise his left arm above his ear. “No way I’m going skiing again,” he told me. “You don’t want this,” he warned, waggling his arm at me like a mace.

I realize I’ve aged past my prime and now I’m on the bunny slope of life. I take smoother runs with fewer bumps and rarely catch any air on purpose. My muscle memory is forgetful, and I carve turns like a rubber knife.

I guess I just bought my last pair of ski boots.

Firsts

My first bicycle was a blue Schwinn that magically appeared beside the Christmas tree on a day so snowy I couldn’t ride it. My friends got them too. We used to clamp playing cards to the risers with wooden clothespins so they’d make rat-a-tat noises like a motorcycle engine. We were the badass punks of the neighborhood you didn’t want to mess with. Until it was dusk because that’s when we had to go home for supper.

My first baseball game was at Sicks Stadium watching the Seattle Pilots. We wore our baseball mitts the entire game in case of errant fouls. None came our way, but we wouldn’t have caught them anyway.

My first car was a 1956 Volkswagen bug. I remember every nut and bolt on that car, probably because I had to tighten them constantly. I got my first kiss in that little gray bug from my first girlfriend who had long curly hair and a peculiar sneer. The bug lasted longer than the girlfriend, both of which required more adjustments than I cared for.

My first paycheck was from the local Dairy Queen. It was minimum wage of course but we got free Dilly Bars when the owner wasn’t around.

My first day at college, the first pot I threw, my first scuba dive— I remember them all and more. They were new and exciting, kindling for the bonfire of my future.

Lasts

For every first, there will be a last.

In some cases, they’re one and the same. I was arrested and tossed in jail for a few hours one night in Mexico (a long and irrelevant story). It was a first for me, and I vow that it shall also be my last. Consider a marriage, a public speech, a social gaffe, a racist encounter — all might be firsts that we hope are lasts. Until they aren’t.

Some lasts are heartrending. Like the last time I saw my father — a moment that I would sell my soul to revisit again and again.

But most lasts are like a lost penny, unnoticed without the feel of an empty pocket. I’ll buy my last car one day, and I won’t know it’s the last. I’ll see my last concert and I won’t realize there’ll be no more music for me. I may have already played my last game of soccer, ridden my last motorcycle, or dived my last shipwreck, but I can’t admit it for now. Lasts are just so … final. 

Which holds more meaning?

Honestly, were those firsts really so magnificent? Falling off a bicycle every possible way until there was nothing left but to stay upright? Cruising in an ugly car with so much rust you could see the asphalt through the floor? Was it the experience, or the memory of what you wanted the experience to be? Are firsts anything more than a box of new crayons?

Lasts are compilations of their firsts and everything thereafter. My last bicycle will be the embodiment of a lifetime of cycling with thousands of memories packed tightly inside its frame. My last car will carry a precious cargo of friends, adventures, and stories that will delight and entertain me for an eternity.

In most cases, I won’t know a last until long after it’s passed, and that saddens me. But I do know of one, a shiny new pair of ski boots that I just bought, the last ones I’ll ever wear. And it’s okay that they’re the last because I know they fit as snug as a lifetime of dreams.