As best as I can remember the year was 1988 or 89. I had been diagnosed with a large malignant melanoma, and was advised to get my affairs in order. At the same time, my mother had colon cancer that had made it to her liver. I set out to prove to myself that I was invincible. Diving in the Cape Cod Canal, at night, alone. Swimming through 6 foot seas, again at night, by myself. Flying a plane. Racing the masters downhill, a real downhill, at 70 miles an hour, which brings me to my story.
I am in Lake Placid for a masters downhill at Whiteface. I come upon a brochure for some events in LP. One of those events was ski jumping. Hmmm, my next big adventure? I managed to get the phone number for the jump complex, and reached Larry Stone, “Sure, come on up” was his reply. I head up to Lake Placid with my girlfriend and some other friends. They were betting on which bones I would break first. From the moment I left home, I was determined to jump the K48, which at the time was still being called a 40. I drive to the hill, find Larry, who tells me the boots are over there, some jump skis over there and so on. Day 1, 7 or 8 jumps on the k18. All goes well. Day 2 I head over to the 40. At the time, there was a second jump with its own trestle, attached to the 40, referred to as a 30. Not being a complete idiot, I try to ride the 30. I go to the top and find myself saying
I do believe in spooks, I do, I do. Down the inrun, land on the 13 meter mark, and down the hill. Still alive. Let’s get the hell out of here.
I was living in New Jersey at the time, which was 7 hours away, so I never thought that I would jump again. Then I moved to Rhode Island. That’s part 2.