It hit me sometime mid-January.
I was standing in a lift line that felt more like a festival entrance than a mountain pass. Everyone was posing. Every other rider had their phone out. Matching kits. $400 goggles. Fresh out-of-the-bag energy.
No one looked like they’d fallen in weeks. No one looked tired.
I suddenly realized: I wasn’t having fun anymore.
The Pressure to Perform
This wasn’t how it used to feel.
When I started riding, I didn’t know what edges were. I just knew the feeling — speed, cold air, the wind in my neck gaiter, the weightless seconds off a side hit.
Now? It felt like performance. Like every turn had to be clean. Every outfit had to be curated. Every moment was up for judgment, likes, or edits.
It wasn’t just the people around me — it was me. I’d started chasing something I couldn’t name.
Retreat to the Trees
So the next day, I parked at the far end of the resort lot. The one where there’s no shuttle service, and you have to hike 5 minutes to reach a forgotten access trail.
No GoPros. No lift lines. Just snow that hadn’t been touched in two days and trees that didn’t care how clean my butters were.
I dropped in with no music. No plan. The first few turns were stiff. My shoulders still tried to square up like I was on camera. But then, the trees got tighter, the trail disappeared, and I had no choice but to just ride.
I fell. I laughed. I stopped to breathe.
By the time I reached the flat where the forest spat me out, my pants were soaked, my hands frozen, and I’d never felt better.
What Real Gear Feels Like
You learn fast what works and what doesn’t when you’re 30 minutes from the lodge, covered in wet branches, and stomping through shin-deep snow.
That day, my old pants ripped at the hip seam. I’d patched them twice already. The wind cut straight through the zipper vents, and snow crept up the back every time I sat.
Back home, I tossed them for good.
I spent that week rebuilding my kit — not around brands, but around utility. What could I wear that wouldn’t fight me? That I could fall in, sweat in, sit on snow in, and still feel good after four hours?
I found what I was looking for at https://polarpursuit.com/.
Nothing flashy. Just smart, baggy snow pants that finally fit the way riding felt in my head — loose, forgiving, quiet.
Rediscovering the Flow
Gear fixed, I stopped trying to be efficient. I stopped checking run counts. I rode the same trail five times just to hit the same double drop that scared me.
Somewhere in the process, I reconnected with that younger version of myself. The one who built kickers out of trash snow and filmed on a phone duct-taped to a tree branch.
I started riding early mornings alone, listening to nothing but my own turns. I stopped filming every trick attempt. I let the cold hurt. I let myself fall badly again, instead of bailing early to “stay clean.”
And the weird thing? I got better. Not just technically. Mentally. I wanted to be out there again — not for footage, but for freedom.
The Mountain Isn’t a Stage
Somewhere along the way, mountain culture started to mirror streetwear launches and social metrics. It felt like an industry — full of pop-up events, sponsored crews, matchy-matchy gear drops.
But real riding, I’ve realized, is quiet.
It’s not always the biggest cliff drop or the cleanest cork. It’s the private run that only opens once a week. The powder turn no one else saw. The flat landing you stomped with sheer force of will.
Real riding is unglamorous. It’s sweaty, layered, soaked, and full of moments no camera would ever capture right.
And that’s exactly what makes it matter.
What You Choose to Wear Says Something
Not to others — to yourself.
I used to think baggy gear was just an aesthetic. Now I see it as a mindset. It gives me space to move how I want. It doesn’t expect perfection. It forgives bad falls. It makes me feel like I don’t owe anyone a perfect run.
Tight pants? Too serious. Too clean. Too self-aware.
I want to look down mid-line and feel like I’m built for motion — not display.
Closing Chairlift Thoughts
By the end of that season, I was riding more and documenting less. My board base was scratched. My gloves were sun-faded. I wore the same kit 20 sessions in a row.
And I was happy.
I started to notice other riders like me. People sitting alone at the top of runs. People wearing gear from five different brands, duct tape on their edges. People riding because they had something to feel, not something to prove.
You find each other, quietly. You nod at the lift line. You recognize the rhythm of someone who’s not chasing anything except snow.
Maybe that’s the future of riding.
Not the next trend or the next drop — just a return to why we fell in love with winter in the first place.
Comments on “The Day I Decided to Ride for Myself Again”