There are skis, and then there are decisions that masquerade as skis.
The Line Sakana, a 166-centimeter, swallow-tailed provocation with the proportions of a cartoon fish and the demeanor of a lounge act, is not so much a decision as it is a philosophical experiment made from fiberglass and wood. With 150-105-138mm dimensions, a 15-meter turn radius, and a flex pattern best described as “agreeable until it gives up,” it exists in defiance of both physics and dignity.
It is a ridiculous pair of skis.
This becomes more apparent when mounted with telemark bindings, the mechanical equivalent of opting out of modernity, and piloted by me, a 6’5”, 185-pound lump who should, by any reasonable metric, be on something longer, stiffer, with an effective edge that extends beyond the length of my shins. Instead, this: A child’s ski. An art piece. A snowboard?
The decision to telemark, like most durable forms of self-sabotage, begins innocently enough. A small promise, perhaps. To make every uphill lap at the ski resort this season on free heels. Not because it is efficient (it is not) or because it signals competence (it does not), but because it introduces a necessary instability into an otherwise overly predetermined system.
