Ski Memorial

(In memory of my friend Mike Sides)

Laura Fraser

Ski Magazine, September, 2004

Growing up in Colorado, I had a lot of crazy ski buddies. But the craziest, without a doubt, was Mike Sides. He lived his life so fast that he was already bald by the age of sixteen--which thankfully meant he had no problems buying beer for the rest of us. We often skied at A-Basin as kids, mainly because it was cheap, unpretentious, and has great vertical and views for its size.

So it was to A-Basin we went, our gang of high school friends, for a party in SidesÕ honor. We pulled up in a Winnebago, unrolled the canopy, tapped the keg, and though we were all approaching the fall-line of forty, partied and skied under the spring sun like it was twenty years earlier. We all wore sparkling strands of Mardi Gras beads, attracting plenty of smiles on the slopes, because Sides--always up for a great party--never missed Fat Tuesday in New Orleans.

He missed our party, though, even if he was there in spirit. Earlier that year, when he turned forty, Sides took a sabbatical from work to go do everything heÕd always dreamed. He skied in Patagonia, surfed in Costa Rica, and went climbing, caving, river rafting, and bar-hopping his way through South America. On the last leg of his trip, he came back to the United States to accompany his girlfriend and father to Egypt. Thanks to a madman at the controls, their EgyptAir flight crashed, leaving no survivors. All I can stand to think is that at least Sides went down fast.

Sides loved exhilaration, and pursued fun with a scientific zeal. An engineer, he approached every situation quizzically, figuring out just how to maximize the fun quotient, whether on skis, at work, or partying. He was the first person I knew to wear a helmet, not only because he loved to rage through the trees--and it kept that dome of his warm--but because he figured out how to wire it for stereo. HeÕd cut a hole in his baggy brown ski jacket to attach his clunky Walkman to the speakers he installed for surround sound Nirvana or bluegrass on the slopes. His ski attire was always functional, but never cool: Once, vowing never again to take a long slide in his slippery ski pants, he shifted his underwear to the outside to provide more friction. Ever ingenious, Sides could make a pipe out of anything (once, a plastic ski boot holder), and was quick to point out that while water freezes on the slopes, beer does not.

Sides and our buddy Frank Peacock always believed they invented the Winnebago ski vacation scheme. Each year, they rented a motor home, heading to a different ski area each day. TheyÕd drive up to the front row of the parking lot at night, finish their pancakes just as the slopes opened, and ski like maniacs all day. After dinner, theyÕd don their swimsuits and run like hell into whichever hotel had the nearest hot tub. Sides reasoned that no one in the hotel would believe theyÕd run in from the outside, nearly naked, in sub-zero temperatures, so theyÕd assume they were guestsÑand, as usual, he was right. Over the course of two weeks and14 ski areas, those hot tubs were necessary: after all, theyÕd turned the shower into the beer vault. And they needed all that beer, especially when they accidentally drove the Winnebago three-quarters of the way over a cliff, and had to bribe forty guys to climb out into the knee-deep snow to push it back.

In his thirties, Sides duplicated the Winnebago life at home. He calculated that he didnÕt need an actual houseÑwhy pay rent?--and moved into a VW van, with a storage unit near work for his many pairs of skis. His van was as well-stocked as his fanny pack always was on the slopes, with snacks, beer, and plenty of extra gear in case of emergencies. On the night my divorce was final, he drove that van over, popped open the champagne he kept in the fridge for special occasions, and took me out dancing. His wild streak was as wide as the Continental Divide, but he was a true friend.

That day at A-Basin, his friends came from all over the country to ski in his honor. Just as the light was going flat, we decorated a tree with the beads, the wacky fluorescent psychedelic ties Sides used to wear in defiance of the rule at work that he had to wear a tie, and other mementos of his life. Our friend Sallie said a prayer. Bill broke into a silly song that Sides sang when he was drunk, ÒGod Bless A-Basin,Ó and we all joined in. Don and Frank skied into the alleys and found the tallest tree with the best view, overlooking the entire valley. Drunk and wearing ski boots, Frank climbed to the top of that tree, strung it with Mardi Gras beads, and hung SidesÕ season pass from the top.

Last time anyone looked, the pass was still there, flapping in the breezeÑa reminder that with the right spirit, you can pack more fun, adventure, and sheer life in forty years than most people manage in a hundred. I think of that whenever I ski, jangling the bright blue beads that live in the pocket of my parka.