Date: Fri, 23 Mar 2001 05:14:52 -0500 (EST) From: Christ Sol <webtrash@unpunk.com> Subject: Diamond Run 2 "Diamond Run" Christ Sol Disclaimer: Queer fiction. Adult themes and language. Not for the sissys. Fan mail to webtrash@unpunk.com Chapter 2 A brisk wind picked up loose snowflakes, lifting them up into a fine cloud at our feet at the top of Green Run, our yearly warm up. Eight hundred feet of clear virgin powder, three offside jumps, with enough gnarls and bumps down the sidelines to satisfy the more hardcore boarders. Ryan stood, staring up into the sky, sniffing the clear air deeply. Little ritual. We were bound in, our boards just tipping at the first descent of the run. "Smells right. Looks right. Goddamn it dude, we lucked out." I nodded, barely concealing my excitement. Slipping my goggles on, I reached into my pocket for my GPS, set the mark, set to record positions every fifty feet, put it back in my zip-up pocket. You can never be too safe, and I always carry a GPS that can radio my position out in an emergency. It's worth the cash to know you won't be freezing to death out in some drift while the snow safety crew worry about their employers insurance premiums. "This is it, man. Another season has just begun." Ryan leaned back and let out a hoot of joy, leaping forward off his right foot and slipping down the first descent like a knife through butter. Feeling the first rush of adrenaline, I took a deep breath and charged down after him. We cleared the first descent in a matter of minutes, wide arcs cut into the thick, dry powder, the only sounds in our world were the slide and the carve and the wind whistling in our ears. Sky, snow and everything in between melded as one, our vision pushed backwards in our minds by the sheer speed and power of our sport. I stayed ten or eleven feet behind Ry for the entire run, watching his agile body as he hugged the ground close around the arcs, maximum lean. He owned this mountain, his every turn poetic in it's grace. He waxed lyrical on a board like he was writing some classical symphony. Unlike him, my movements were hard, sharp, and instant. I love the long runs, but tricks are my bag, and I felt a pang of disappointment every time I pulled a 1080 or a inverted frontside and knew Ry couldnt see, or didnt care. Three years later and I was still trying to impress him. For a moment, a dark cloud washed over my mind. Was last night right? We were just mates now, we couldn't go back. Why aren't I over him? I decided to take the second run slower, mull over stuff. See, snowboarding is like meditation. If you're good enough. Second descent. We weren't alone. This is where the lift ends, and most of the other boarders were eager little scrubbers with shiny new cut-price boards and over-inflated egos. The lifty, a cocky ex-surfer from the Gold Coast, had remembered me from last season (fifth in regional comps) and 'forgot' to punch my lift ticket, effectively giving me a free day's riding. And there he was. Tall, confident, with the kind of face where you could see his expression around his smoky orange Evolution shades, just reflective enough to hide his eyes. Longish blue hair yanked back into a rough ponytail (a couple of loose bangs hanging around his face), a hard jawline seeming etched out of stone. Bright red nose-to-toes sponsorship. I'd seen him around. He placed second at Perisher, second at Nationals. And he was fucking hot. Ryan had already spun off down the run, shaky from being out of practice, so I hung back and watched this guy as he scoped the decline. Slowly, his head turned, and he looked right at me, seemingly THROUGH me. His head cocked a little, and the stranger was about to turn, when I grinned, slammed the "PLAY" button on the mp3Man in my pocket, and carved the packed-in pow at the top of the descent. Out of the corner of my eye, the last thing I saw was the hint of a smile from underneath those smoky orange shades. I rode the mountain with Rage Against the Machine blasting shades. I took the descent with Rage Against The Machine blasting in my ears and eight inches of dick painfully pressed down between my thermals and left quad. Being a guy can really suck sometimes. Ry and I rode the mountain twice more before stopping for lunch in the late afternoon. I ached from the waist down, but it was a good ache, the ache that comes from doing what you love. We ate our sandwiches down by the halfpipe, watching the kids with their methods and 280s, smiling and joking a bit, but mostly just silent. You know you're in the comfort zone with a guy when you can just shut the fuck up and watch the scenery go by. "and all who you admire, are all whores and liars the lucky winners of the hardly triers now it's probably a good thing when the phone it never rings and it feels fine to spend my time not surrounded by these things." Between bursts of not rebecca from my mp3man, I found myself looking around for the dude I saw earlier. I began to wonder who he was. Who sponsored him. Where did he come from? Where was he staying? He rode what looked like a customised Nidecker Signature Board (the classic has manual bindings), with scarlet lettering emblazoning the face. RED--- REDsomething.. and that little half smile, not a smirk, but a genuine smile. More stirrings downstairs. Is that a folding ruler in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? "I'm fucked man. Call it a day?" Ryan's voice broke into my thoughts, and I tried to be annoyed about it, but gave up. "Yeah, I guess. We can al-" I saw him. Top of the halfpipe. Slant Tick Drop slide.... down the pipe like a lightning bolt, up and through, his body's every movement like a liquid machine. He pulled a frontside 900, reverting to 1080 at the last moment and landing with pratically launch velocity. No claim, no howl of joy, just a little dreamy smile. Had I just fallen in love? He turned, our eyes met for the first time.