Getting Back to It

I didn’t think I’d lost it. Not really.

I still rode every season, still waxed my board before first snowfall, still checked weather forecasts in early October like it meant something. I had the gear. I had the pass. I had the crew.

But somewhere between college and adulthood, between early-morning carpool rides and full-time work schedules, my riding changed. I stopped learning new things. Stopped going out when the weather was weird. I rode the same lines, the same parks, the same edges of confidence without pushing past them.

It was still fun. But the fire was quieter.

I didn’t realize it had anything to do with my gear.

The Realization

It hit me halfway through a windy, average Saturday in February. Not a special day. Just a lap with an old friend who hadn’t ridden in years.

He had loaner gear, nothing fancy. Baggy snow pants that looked straight out of 2008. A jacket with old lift tickets still stuck to the zipper. But he was riding. Really riding. Tapping hips, trying grabs, hiking back for second tries.

And I was just… coasting.

The contrast was obvious. Not just in effort — but in movement. I felt stiff. Like my kit had calcified around a version of me that no longer tried anything new.

It wasn’t tight gear, exactly. But it wasn’t made for movement. Not anymore. It was just made to look right. To blend in. To tick boxes.

So that night, I pulled everything out. My whole setup. Laid it on the floor. Pants, jacket, base layers, gloves, all of it. And I asked: which of these things make me want to ride?

The answer? None.

The Search for Something Different

I wasn’t after hype or trends. I wasn’t chasing a copyright. I just wanted gear that felt like it belonged to the way I used to move. Loose. Reactive. Quietly confident.

I remembered what baggy pants used to feel like. Not just the style — the space. The freedom to tweak, to bend, to fall and not feel it soak through.

So I started there.

I didn’t look at brand names. I looked at cuts. Seam placements. Vent systems. How the ankles were stitched. Whether I could layer underneath without looking like a stuffed animal.

I landed on a few solid options, including one I hadn’t heard much about but had exactly the shape I remembered: https://polarpursuit.com/

Back on Snow

The first day back in gear that actually felt like mine, everything clicked faster than I expected.

The pants were roomy but shaped. Light but weatherproof. Pockets where I needed them, vents that didn’t dump snow, cuffs that stayed down.

I didn’t overthink it. I just started riding differently.

I stopped skipping side hits. I hiked a feature for the first time in a year. I bailed, hard, twice in a row — and wasn’t mad about it. Because my setup didn’t punish me. It moved with me. Gave me permission to try things again.

Gear doesn’t make you better. But it can absolutely make you feel like trying again.

Small Things That Changed Everything

It wasn’t a dramatic overhaul. But the shift was real.

Vents I actually used: Inner thigh zippers that let me dump heat halfway up the hill, instead of unzipping my jacket awkwardly on the lift.
Pockets that worked: No snow inside. Zippers that didn’t stick. The ability to keep my phone close without pulling out my entire wallet.
Cuffs that held up: My old pants had started to shred around the ankles by week three. These stayed clean. No boot rub, no unraveling seams.
A cut that let me sit on the snow: This one mattered more than I expected. I didn’t have to think twice about strapping in, resting, stretching. Nothing felt cold or tight or awkward.

These were minor upgrades on paper. But in practice, they added up to one big thing: I stayed out longer. And I moved better while I was there.

Rediscovering My Style

Here’s what surprised me most.

Wearing gear that reflected how I wanted to ride started changing how I actually did.

I started going faster into transitions. Started adding tweaks just because I had the space to move. Started landing switch more often, not because I was more skilled — but because I wasn’t fighting my setup anymore.

It felt like shedding a version of myself I didn’t know I’d been wearing.

Not a costume. Not an era. Just a fit that made room for expression.

Not Looking Back

Since that day, I haven’t worn my old gear once.

Not because it’s bad. Just because it’s not for me anymore. It’s not for the way I ride now — or the way I want to ride next season.

I don’t need the newest thing on the market. I don’t need trends. I just need gear that respects the way snowboarding feels when you’re actually moving through it.

The right snow pants, oddly enough, reminded me of that.

What I’d Tell Anyone Stuck in a Plateau

If you’ve been riding for years and it all feels the same — not bad, just... familiar — take a look at your gear.

Ask yourself if what you’re wearing reflects how you actually move. Not how you used to move. Not how someone told you to move. Just how you ride today, and what would help you ride tomorrow.

Maybe nothing needs to change.

Or maybe it’s time to unzip a little wider. Bend a little deeper. Make space for a different shape.

Sometimes the fastest way forward is to wear something that gives you room to grow.

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