X Games Weekend

In case ESPN hasn't already altered you, it's X Games Weekend here in Aspen. For you, that means four days worth of quality alternative sports programming on your television. For Lauren and I, it means we can't swing a dead cat in town without hitting some 5'5" sixteen year old sporting a double-XL jacket and a bandana around his neck. Good times.

To be fair, the games really are a spectacle worthy of seeing up close, but with Aspen nearly doubling in size for the four days of events, the logistics involved in getting to and from the venue have just become too much for Lauren and I to overcome.

As a result, this was a relatively lazy weekend for the Nitti family. On Saturday morning, I headed up to town to work for a few hours, and as I sat in my office, a storm blew in and dumped a foot of snow in less than three hours. Knowing that Ajax would be desolate with all the action unfolding on neighboring Buttermilk, I decided to head out for a quick afternoon ski in search of some powder.
There's the bike armed and ready to go.

The mountain, as expected, was deserted. I dropped into Last Dollar trees -- usually tarnished with tracks minutes after the first gondola of the day unloads -- and found no signs of recent human activity. It was such a rare sight, I decided to stop and snap a photo. The skiing, as you might presume from the image above, was sublime: perfectly spaced aspens and 12-18 inches of new.

On Sunday, I snuck out early in the morning to take Maci for a climb and ski. When we reached the top of Tiehack, we stumbled upon Ski Patrol digging out from Saturday night's storm.

Maci, as she's known to do, quickly befriended the female patroller and decided to participate in an impromptu yet carefully orchestrated game of toss and catch:

And a quick action still as well:

On the ski down, I thought I'd shoot a video to prove to my wife the level of insanity we're dealing with when it comes to our dog. Here's Maci, for the first 200 vertical feet or so of our descent, jousting with two 180cm skis armed with razor sharp edges. Despite my best efforts (as evidenced by the violent pole swinging in the video), she doesn't relax until a quarter of the way down the mountain, when she's burned off some of her excess exuberance.

If it seems like these pictures are suspiciously devoid of Lauren, that's because my wife took the weekend to relax around the house and knock out some report cards. You can't imagine how time consuming it can be trying to determine if little Jimmy deserves an Alligator or Giraffe in spelling.

Aside from the two quick trips discussed above, I was right there by my wife's side all weekend, partaking in my latest obsession: learning to play guitar.

I've always had a bit of OCD in my DNA, and the guitar is just the latest in a long line of life-consuming endeavors. Looking back, my 33 years can pretty accurately be summarized by the following "Ages," each identified by whatever unhealthy fixation dominated my days at the time.

Ages 0-5: Flinstone Vitamins. I once hid behind the couch and ate an entire bottle. In case you should find your own son/daugher in this predicament, worry not. It didn't kill me, but I did pee florescent green for a week. Thirty years later, a prominent neurosurgeon would inform me that this obsession was responsible for my super-human strength.*

Ages 5-11: The Hardy Boys. The adventures of Frank, Joe and, to a lesser extent, Chet kickstarted my love for the written word. I read every book multiple times, and in my earliest years, would give myself headaches by refusing to stop until I'd finished a book in one sitting. This period came to a crashing halt when my older brother Dave pointed out that the tales of my beloved sleuths were rife with homoerotic undertones.

Ages 12-18: Girls and soccer. Neither would bring me much success during this period.

Ages 18-22: Binge drinking. And thus ended the soccer obsession.

Ages 22-23: Self-loathing. Hating myself, nothing I did was ever good enough; standard early 20's post-college reaction really.

Ages 24-27: High protien diets, clean living, and exceedingly tight shirts.

Ages 28-30: Triathlon. Ironically, this age was identical to the self-loathing age, only I could run faster.

Ages 30-33: Skiing and mountaineering. This age was rudely interuppted by the short-lived "brain surgery" stage.

And that pretty much sums it up. I'm not sure how long this "guitar age" will last, but with a kid on the way, I imagine I'll at least make it a priority to learn enough to allow me to torture our offspring with unrelenting, nonsensical songs about him/her.

As I've discovered, the irony inherent in learning the guitar is that the songs that lend themselves to a beginner's skills may not be the songs you're yearning to play. For example, I was quite pleased when I learned how to play Green Day's "Time of Your Life" until it dawned on me that, you know, I have no desire to ever sing or play Green Day's "Time of Your Life."

Oh well, you've got to crawl before you walk.

*may not have happened

Reason #4,327 Why I Love This Town

If one were so inclined, one could drive from my office to the base of Aspen Highlands, ride two lifts, hike 850 vertical feet to the top of Highlands Bowl at 12,300 feet, ski down to the car and be back at work in a 1 hour and 15 minute round trip.

Now the way I look at it, that's a borderline-egregious lunch in most offices. Two hours? Definitely over the top. One hour? Standard. But an hour and a quarter falls neatly in that beloved gray area, so on Tuesday I thought I'd throw caution to the wind and take advantage of the nearby mountains.

Once off the lifts, I paused to affix skins to my skis for the climb up the ridge. Rare to this time of year, there were only two other guys preparing to do the same. This may have had something to do with the brutal winds that were scouring the exposed ridge line (see picture above. that's not a cloud, that's snow being transported off the ridge). These two guys could have been anyone: overzealous Texans, Argentinean seasonal employees, local ski bums...but today I got lucky. On this day, I would be climbing and skiing with two of my heroes.

Meet Ted Mahon and Neil Biedleman, two seemingly average guys that have done some seriously badass things. Both have stood atop Everest, but their list of accomplishments goes well beyond the world's tallest peak.

Mahon recently became only the third man to ski all 54 of Colorado's 14,000 summits, making several descents along the way that have now become part of ski-mountaineering lore. (First to accomplish the feat was Lou Dawon, who I also was fortunate to share some turns with, chronicled here) To put it in perspective, Mahon's descent of the Landry Line on Pyramid Peak (shown below) was what's called a no-fall line: you fall, you die.

Mahon is also an accomplished trail-runner, having raced in several of my favorite races (Pikes Peak Ascent) and several I've only dreamed of (Leadville 100).

As impressive as these accomplishments are, they pale in comparison to what Neal Biedelman pulled off in May 1996. For those of you who have read Into Thin Air by John Krakauer, or the book that served as a response to Krakauer's take, The Climb by Anatoli Bourkreev, you may recognize Biedleman's name. He was serving as a guide in the spring of 1996 when a vicious storm blew in during their descent from the summit, leaving 10 people, including 3 guides, dead.

What makes Biedleman a hero is not his mere presence on the mountain that day, but in reading the two books written about the incident -- each with vastly different viewpoints on what went wrong and who was to blame -- he is the only person universally lauded as a hero. And this from a man who was climbing Everest for the first time.

I won't inundate you with details since I highly recommend you read both books, but Neil was responsible for saving several lives during the storm; this is not in dispute. One of the rescues literally involved strapping a lifeless man to his back and descending the mountain; now that's a mid 80's Van Damme movie level of badassedness.

For me, having the opportunity to ski with these two was akin to showing up at your local public course on a quiet morning to find you've been paired with Tiger Woods. Now, that may seem silly to you, but what do you know? You still wet the bed on occasion. That's right; I know.

On the climb, I did my best to not be overbearing and annoying, but I asked some questions I've long wanted to. Both guys were gracious in dealing with me, particularly when their oxygen would have been better left conserved while hammering uphill at 12,000 feet.

That's the funny thing about people: wind up in the company of some good ones, and even when the air is thin, your legs are burning, and a relentless wind whips your face, you'll find you still don't want the conversation to end.

The author enjoying a rare mid-week descent of Highland Bowl.

We've Tasted the High Life, and Predictably, it Tastes Like Cookies

Lauren and I have always considered ourselves common folk. Our modest sensibilities were forged through our respective lower-upper-middle class upbringings.

Despite living in one of America's wealthiest towns for the past three years, I'd like to think we haven't changed. Lauren still prefers Old Navy to Ralph Lauren and regular K-Mart to that uppity Super-K, while I still siphon gas from unsuspecting neighbors to fuel my beat-up Subaru and neglect to shave or shower for weeks at a time. It's just the way we were raised.

And until recently, neither Lauren nor I, in all our worldly travels, had ever flown first class. I've had some opportunities to do so in the past, particularly with some of my business travels, but to be honest, I just never considered myself a first class kind of guy. My father spent the better part of my childhood instilling in me the belief that our country had an elaborate set of checks and balances established solely to keep guys like me OUT of first class, and I guess I took those lessons to heart.

But sometimes life throws a twist at you, and you've just got to roll with it.

Lauren and I were scheduled to fly out of Newark for our return trip to Aspen at 8 AM on New Year's Day. That is, until Lauren decided to start throwing up soon after what remains of Dick Clark introduced the eastern time zone to 2009. When 5 am rolled around, it was clear she wasn't up for flying, and in her pregnant state, it appeared stuffing her in my carry-on bag and stowing her safely in the overhead compartment was out of the question.

So I went to work on making alternate arrangements, only to learn that there were only two seats available that would get Lauren back to Aspen in time for school on Monday, and they were in... first class.

So we bit the bullet and bought the tickets, only to learn upon printing our boarding passes that at Continental, they don't call it first class, they call it "elite." That's right, elite, as in "best of the best," "superior to you," and "how dare you make eye contact with me."

As we arrived for check-in the next morning, I was fully prepared to voice my displeasure regarding Continental's passive-aggressive oppression of the working class when,wait...what's this? We don't have to wait in line? And what's that? No baggage fees, you say?

As we rid ourselves of our luggage and made our way to the lengthy security line, I found myself growing drunk on the power provided by my elevated status. Inside me a righteous anger raged as I took my place in line behind mere commoners, but I kept my indignation quiet, as I knew my loving, caring, sensitive spouse wouldn't be similarly effected by a brief flirtation with cultural supremacy.

And that's when I heard something I never thought possible; my kindergarten teacher of a wife looking down at her boarding pass, and loudly proclaiming to the man guarding the entrance to the security line, "We don't have to wait in this...WE'RE ELITE!!"

Now, I'm assuming if you're reading this you know Lauren, but if you don't, there really aren't two more unlikely words one can imagine coming out of her mouth. But that's the poison of privilege, I guess; it'll corrupt the best of us.

Once on the plane, the four hour flight quickly passed in a blur of fruit salads and spacious seating and complimentary headphones and fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and hearty shoulder rubs*.

Back in Aspen, Lauren and I slowly normalized to our usual feeling of inferiority, aided greatly by the abundance of private jets, fur coats and plastic surgery that tend to permeate our fair town come January. But deep inside, we'll always cherish those precious few hours when we were "elite."

* May be an exaggeration