The skis aren't hacking it, not in the early mornings when the conditions are like carving granite. The lack of hard edges to carve against has taken its toll on my quads over the past few days. Sharper edges means more control, ultimately more speed and an easier ride.

Celso, we have been informed, will more than take care of whatever needs we may have. They are conveniently located near the slopes and seem pretty heavily set up.

We are in the dirge of the season now, however. Mid-afternoon cats like myself are rare.

I fumble through fifteen clerks all on conversation break before I find downstairs.

Oh, lord, downstairs.

I suppose that since part of the sport is the proper maintenance of one's equipment you take a certain interest in how the act is performed.

Generally speaking you can tune your edges and true a bottom with a clean flat bastard file. They make all sorts of foofy tools that will do the same thing, but a skilled craftsman can make do with just that, some p-tex and a little hot wax.

This being said, that particular occupation is not particularly high volume, more the sort of thing when you have a workbench and a a few half hours to spare.

Living as we do in modern times we have invented a better way to do an improved job and spare us the time.

Celso's machine is huge and modern. Water swishes through the system as a grinding wheel performs a computer-controlled lap across the surface, revealing virginal laminate and glinting steel edges.

It is green and perhaps the most beautiful machine of its sort I have ever seen. The next closest thing looks like some sort of antiquated printing press compared to the modernity of this marvel.

Behind the half-partition grunt about old guys who look like they could still wield a flat bastard should the new bastard decide it would go the way of modern machines and leave us in a near-primitive state once again.

I try my hand at the proper Italian for the task but I can only speak in generalities: sharpen the borders, flatten the bottoms.

They call for the kid of the sort that always get called to deal with the recalcitrantly inarticulate Americans: "Yes? You want laminate?"

Even in English it doesn't make much sense. "Yes, but edges, borders. Sharpened." This is the critical bit.

More grunting and head nodding. "When?" I'm asked and again in translation. I pick a time that is half an hour away. The kid seems surprised. Perhaps this is not possible...

The old guy grunts, yes, he can do it in that time.

I regret only that I cannot sit and watch the lovely machine do its magic on my boards.

They come out of the back with another grunt, no tag needed. They are still slightly damp from the machine.

I decide I will not look at the craftsmanship until I get back to the hotel.