In the morning, I wake up while it’s still dark and make strong coffee and a big pan of oatmeal and a protein shake made with Ovaltine, both of which I brought with me. The Ovaltine is a habit left over from when I was ten, but now it’s part of training breakfasts. Fortified with food, I slide into the performance wear, the long underwear and long-sleeved shirt, a second layer on top, then ski pants, wool socks. The whole time I’m getting dressed, there’s a rustle of nerves and anticipation running up and down my spine. Flashes of old training runs pop in an out of my mind, powder and blue sky, heat under my clothes, air so cold it blisters running over my lips and nose. And flying. Sky and snow and board hanging in a whirl. Not today. My phone rings and I grab it off the table, hoping it’s Jess, realizing only as I say “Yo,” that it can’t be, won’t be. “Hi, son,” my dad says. I glance at the clock. It’s got to be freaking early where he is. “Headed out?” “Got my socks on.
