[ad_1]
This is an edition of the newsletter Pulling Weeds With Chris Black, in which the columnist weighs in on hot topics in culture. Sign up here to get it in your inbox every Thursday.
Aspen is a city I had never thought much about. I don’t ski, I don’t snowboard, I don’t particularly love wearing gigantic warm jackets or cowboy hats. But when I was invited on a trip last summer, I went and loved every second. The city is small and walkable. You can buy Bottega Veneta leather jeans, a belted cowichan cardigan from Ralph Lauren, or a trapper hat from Prada. You can eat at Matsuhisa, Catch, or a Hillstone property called White House Tavern. But even for me, someone far from the outdoor type, the natural beauty and clean air provide a full reset from New York City. I don’t mind sucking on canned oxygen all day when the view looks like a Windows ‘95 screensaver.
My first encounter with Aspen was probably the well-known story Hunter S. Thompson wrote for Rolling Stone in 1970, “The Battle of Aspen.” In it, Thompson chronicles the 1969 mayoral election, following the candidate Joe Edwards, a lawyer, “biker,” and non-conformist resident of Aspen. Thompson also coined a phrase he used when running for sheriff of Pitkin Country: “Freak Power in the Rockies.” Both candidates lost to their more conservative opposition, but Thompson successfully got a lot of young voters to the polls. By 1976, one of Hunter’s like-minded cronies became sheriff, and Aspen’s elected officials began to more closely reflect the population of one of the most liberal counties in Colorado, enacting many of the policies that Hunter had championed.
It’s a unique American city, like Santa Fe or Charleston, with something special you cannot find anywhere else. So when I was invited back for the St. Regis World Snow Polo Championship, I immediately said yes. I didn’t know what snow polo was, but thanks to some context clues, I could deduce that it was simply the elegant sport of polo played on fresh powder. A week before I boarded my flight, Netflix released a documentary series called Polo, produced by red-headed British royalty-turned-content creator Prince Harry, which after a few episodes gave me the lay of the land with the sport. I found myself entertained; the horses are majestic, and it’s much more athletic than I thought. The players stay in the gym. Core strength is essential. I felt prepared to be a spectator. I packed my high-top Salomon Snowcross boots and a Canada Goose Expedition Parka.
The scene was something. Several heated tents lined the snow-covered polo field in Rio Grande Park, with guys in giant Moncler jackets eating caviar. The women had fresh blowouts, fur collars, augmented lips, and a thirst that could only be quenched by champagne. The sun was shining. The major difference from what I caught on Netflix was the ball. It wasn’t small and white but slightly larger and red, glowing on the packed white powder. In the St. Regis tent was “The Flying Tomato”, aka the decorated snowboarder Shaun White, and Nacho Figueras, the Argentinian face of polo (and Ralph Lauren.) Figueras wore a St. Regis logo quarter zip (they sponsored his snow polo team), perfectly soiled white riding pants, brown knee-high riding boots, and Tom Ford aviators. The guy looked like a million bucks. When we sat down to chat he confirmed that the sport is grueling in its own way, “We’re holding on, we’re reaching for balls, we’re crashing into people,” he said. We discussed our workouts and Figueras confirmed that he does it for the sport, but also because no one can escape Father Time. “It’s nice to feel good as we get older,” he said. I couldn’t agree more.
I walked back to The St. Regis with a few friends. The sidewalks in Aspen are heated, so the snow piles up perfectly on either side of the concrete. I navigated through the St. Regis lobby, past the Christmas tree and gingerbread house, and grabbed an ice-cold glass of chlorophyll water (it helps with elevation sickness) before heading to the fourth floor. As I looked out at the skiers and snowboarders gliding down the mountain, the sun low in the sky, I realized I was still too nervous to suit up for a run—the fear of tearing my ACL at 42 years old was too great. But maybe it isn’t too late to take up snow polo. I would never look like Nacho on the field, but at least the beautiful horses do half of the work.
[ad_2]
Source link