Tribute to George Anderson – by Jason Densmore One hundred fifty to one, it’s an epic proportion, But the numbers are right, there is no distortion. That’s how much George drove, his passion to sate. That is one five oh
miles for each minute in gates. Five thousand miles in a typical season. If one lives on Long Island, it does stand to reason, That to race in New England is a bit of a curse. To ski any faster makes the ratio worse. Masters is a sport where life often intrudes, Missing weekends because of our jobs or our broods. But George was a constant, never missing a race, Often first to the lodge, that broad grin on his face. His routine would kick in, (on his habits he thrived), Greeting old and new friends as each would arrive. Then up the lift for a full course inspection, Conversing, no doubt, that was his predilection. As the sun got up higher, everyone would divide, Older skiers up top while the young went inside. But George went up too, as though he had time to kill To bring everyone’s warms-ups and coats down the hill. Then George would get ready for his time to start, With preparation meticulous, approaching an art. Espresso beans ala Tomba to make him go fast Which he, of course, shared with his entire class. A dive through the wand, toward the first red or blue, The rush of adrenaline kicking in too. Hair-pins, flushes, compressions, delays, There was nothing he’d rather be doing each day Too soon it is over, the last gate left behind, Back in the lodge we change clothes and unwind. With beers on the table, there are stories and smiles Though a favorite is missing, we had George for a while. |