I’m not sure why I want to test God by strapping long fiberglass planks to my feet and flying pell-mell down the side of an icy mountain at 60 miles per hour. But I do it anyways. Is it the icy-cold smoke blowing from my breath? or the clod in my lungs? Is it the numbness in my hands that I crave? Or is it the rush of adrenaline that I imagine coursing through my frozen blue veins? Is it the likelihood of my being strapped to a gurney and carried away from the icy mountain slope by a few able-bodied paramedics and knowing that I did ski? Albeit with a broken leg and a crooked smile of glee.