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Words: Mike Berard
I used to wear Hawaiian shirts; I had a closet full of the floral-printed and nautical-themed fag-flags. It had nothing to do with my keen fashion sense or a resurgence in beach style. At the time, everyone had them; they were part of the standard-issue skier uniform—a pair of Salomon 1080s, punk-rock haircut and requisite god-awful, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. I wore them because they wore them.
They were the five members of the New Canadian Air Force. Each was a kickass skier in his own right but to me, one stood above the rest. I wasn’t punk enough to emulate J.F. Cusson’s terrible haircuts, not cool enough to simply look the part like Shane Szocs, too intimidated to try Vinnie Dorion’s switch spins, and had no interest in being as responsible as the stoic Mike Douglas. Instead, I wanted to be J.P. Auclair. Smooth as the silk floral print on his back and possessing a quiet dignity rare in the fledgling new school scene, J.P. tossed the largest 360-mutes on Whistler’s Horstman Glacier and owned the backflip-mute grab. Simply put, he was the shit.
I was searching for someone to idolize in my teenage insecurity, and though he was barely older, and I couldn’t pull off more than a sloppy 360 or a boot-slap mute, J.P. fit the profile. It wasn’t the first time I’d used the experiences of others to construct an identity. My juvenile misdirection included reading books by authors who had opinions I thought I should have, and driving a vehicle that fit the notion of what my image should be. So I wore Hawaiian shirts and listened to Pennywise because Auclair did. It was that simple.
I met J.P. for the first time this past winter and got to ski with him over seven deep February days. Well past the star worshipping I was once prone to, I found myself in a very matter-of-fact mood meeting one of my heroes. And I discovered what I’d expected; Auclair is a talented but otherwise normal guy who skis way better than me. This isn’t groundbreaking—people are still people regardless of how accomplished or famous they are. If you doubt this, measure the exploits deconstructed in a celebrity gossip rag against your own. They’re probably similar. Or you’re just boring.
The type of music I listen to no longer defines me, nor do the clothes I wear or the car I drive, but I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t always the case. Only the strongest of us have never leaned on a crutch to limp through the knee-capping haze of adolescence. Like you, I bought all the right albums, read all the right books and idolized all the right skiers. But guess what? I realized that being someone else should only serve to help you find your own identity. And none of it matters unless you enjoy yourself along the way.
I had a lot of fun trying to be like J.P. Auclair. And I have the shirt to prove it.
