We woke up on our final morning of testing a little sore and a bit tired. More than thirty of us had spent the last three days skiing the very best K2, Rossignol, Kastle, Fischer, Nordica and many others had to offer. As we made our way to the ski corral, the pains and the fatigue quickly melted away. A storm had raged all night, but now the skies were blue and 11 inches of fresh snow awaited our arrival. I clicked into my first set and loaded the chair. I could hear bombs exploding at nearby Park City as I floated above 1,300 vertical feet of virgin corduroy. I couldn't help but laugh out loud as a giant smile came over my face. Could it get any better than this?
Getting There
About a month earlier I was at work, getting very little done as I scrolled through articles on www.skinet.com. Tucked somewhere between the latest "Musings from the Pontiff of Powder" and the "Green Skier" blog was the headline, "Be a SKI Magazine Ski Tester." I clicked on the link and discovered for the first time in more than 25 years, SKI Magazine was inviting eight amateurs to test the latest in ski technology alongside former Olympians, US ski teamers, World Cup Champions, and the magazine's editorial staff. An email explaining why I would make the perfect guest tester was all they wanted to see.
I put off my morning duties for a few more minutes and whipped up a quick email for this guy named Tom James, who appeared to be the brainchild behind this experiment. I assumed the hundreds, if not thousands, of people vying for these eight, precious spots would write at length about their skiing expertise, which may or may not have exceeded my Midwest skills. I decided to take a different approach.
I told SKI Magazine I would make the perfect guest tester because I am really tall and was blessed with a full head of hair. An alien hybrid, of sorts, that had drawn a lifetime of comparisons to Big Bird, Sideshow Bob, Gene Wilder (from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory), and the King of Calisthenics, Richard Simmons. The email would have been incomplete without some reference to my skiing ability, so I concluded it with a story that I once, with the help of a dozen neighborhood dogs, some rope, and a set of vintage Rossignol straight, racing skis, pond skimmed a half-mile stretch of Lake Michigan. The latter being an obvious fabrication.
I shot the email off into cyberspace, quickly dismissed it as a lost cause, and got back to work. The following day I was shocked to discover a response waiting in my inbox saying I had made the cut. I was cautiously elated. I now had to come up with the $2,250 participation fee.
I am not ashamed to admit that $2,250 is a little more than I made in two months as a Public Relations professional at a boutique firm in Chicago. Obviously, I didn't have that kind of dough just lying around. I called my girlfriend and told her the news, mentioning that I had about a month to raise the cash. We met at the Billy Goat Tavern on Hubbard Street, underneath Michigan Ave., and drank pints of the house dark while brainstorming ideas on how I could make some fast money; the bulk of which focusing on me either selling disposable organs and various bodily fluids on the black market or escorting wealthy widows to late night social functions.
About halfway through our third pint, my girlfriend blurted out, "Why don't you just ask your friends for the money?"
"That's brilliant," I replied sarcastically. "What do I say? Help send poor, little Joey Moylan on a ski vacation?"
"Exactly," she said enthusiastically!
I was intrigued.
"Alright then, lay it on me."
My girlfriend outlined her idea for a Web site fund raiser called "The Send Joe Moylan to ski Deer Valley, Utah Fund." It was so simple. All we had to do was build a real basic site, give people a little background information on the trip, link it to a PayPal account, and then ask everyone we know, to ask everyone they know, to ask everyone they know to donate $1 to my noble undertaking.
"$2,250 in 30 days; one dollar at a time," I said. "That's just crazy enough to work!"
My girlfriend opened up her purse, pulled out a dollar, and slammed it on the bar.
"Consider this your first donation!"
I was pumped up and drunk, so I decided to call my parents and tell them the news. I called my father, the securities attorney, first. He did not share my enthusiasm for our plan.
Bernie Madoff had just been pinched a few weeks earlier and my dad advised that online fundraising sites, no matter how legitimate, would come under increased federal scrutiny. He had clients doing hard time for pulling similar schemes to the one I had just outlined. Rather than risk the Feds breaking down my door, my dad said he would front me the money under the following condition; if presented with an opportunity to contribute an article to the magazine, he wanted a shout out. Well Dad, here you go...You're the man!
To be continued...