Interior Book design

1. Crystal Clear

2. Crystal
Clear
The Inspiring Story of How
an Olympic Athlete Lost His Legs
Due to Crystal Meth and Found
a Better Life
Eric Le Marque
with
Davin Seay

3. Prologue
I ran blindly, stumbling and falling, pushing my way
through chest-high snow. My heart pounded against my ribs
and I pulled each breath from the thin freezing air as if it
were my last. I could hear the creatures behind me, moving
in closer, fanning out to attack from all sides, a pack on the
hunt for human prey.
Whimpering with fear, I shouted into the pitch-black
wilderness, my desperate voice echoing into the invisible dis-
tance.
“No!”
It was both a cry of defiance, and of utter and abject de-
feat. I was helpless against the beasts lunging towards me. I
couldn’t believe I was about to die. It was a vivid, harrowing
nightmare and I couldn’t wake up. I screamed again, but this
time it was nothing more than an anguished, inarticulate cry.
I had been reduced to the level of the animals that were go-
ing to eat me. All thought and reason had vanished. I was a
piece of meat, helpless prey for the savage stalkers.

4. 6 Eric LeMarque C RY S TA L C L E A R 7
I stumbled, plunging face first into a deep drift. I strug- Of course, you couldn’t tell me that. I was never going to
gled to get up, moving a few feet before I got bogged down become one of those hollow-eyed, bleeding-gum human
again and had to start pushing myself through the snow one wrecks that haunt the underworld of the drug culture. I had
laborious step at a time until I finally came to a complete too much self-respect for that, too much pride in my physical
halt. My legs were trembling and I could feel the trickle of abilities and too much confidence in my own will power. No
wet snow mingling with my sweat. Terror had paralyzed me. I white powder was ever going to overcome my steely self-con-
couldn’t move. This was where it would end, in a flurry of trol.
sharp teeth and slavering jaws. As I lay motionless, waiting Until it did.
for death, one thought, one question, went round in my brain But the story of my addiction doesn’t stop there. There
in an ever-tightening circle: was another powder I was addicted to and in a way that ad-
How did I get here? diction was far more potent and seductive than my need for
The answer was simple. speed had ever been.
I was addicted to powder. That powder came out of the sky, when weather condi-
tions were just right and the freezing bite of the air brought
down a dust so fine and pure you could blow it away with a
When I say “powder” you might be thinking cocaine, or puff of your breath. It covered everything, coating moun-
maybe heroin. But what I’m talking about is even worse: tains and valleys and the slopes in-between until it was all you
methamphetamine — speed — one of the most dangerous could see, glinting in the sun or spreading out under a low
and destructive drugs known to man. bank of clouds where earth met heaven.
For over a year, at a key juncture in my life, my world re- And it was heavenly, in a way that’s impossible to de-
volved around little plastic bags of sparkling white crystals. I scribe to anyone who hasn’t launched themselves on a snow-
loved the way meth made me feel, the focus and energy and board into that clean, empty space where the only sound is
sense of unlimited power that came with that chemical rush, the soft whisper of acceleration and all you’re conscious of is
every time I snored a line. a weightless, floating and buoyant exhilaration.
In that way, I guess I wasn’t much different from the I was addicted to powdered snow. The crystals are tiny
most ravaged of speed freak you might see tweaking on the and dry and lighter than air, the polar opposite of the fat, wet
street, talking to himself, obsessing over ever more miniscule and heavy snow that turns to slush even as you maneuver
details, endowed with a sense of his own importance and om- through it. Fresh powder gets thrown up in shimmering
nipotence. I was a crank addict like every crank addict and I sheets as you make turns and cutbacks across the crest of a
was heading down the same path of death and decay. mountain in those precious few hours just after a storm. Your

5. 8 Eric LeMarque
board glides over it with frictionless ease, nothing holding
you down and nothing holding you back. Every sensation is
heightened, every second stretches to eternity. You feel the
flow beneath you, sliding past gravity in a vast white land-
scape, listening to yourself breathe or holding your breath as
you hit a jump and suddenly you’re airborne. The wind fills
your lungs and the ecstasy of perfection overcomes you.
There’s the rush of speed that comes from meth. And CHAPTER ONE
then there’s the rush of speed that comes from supercharg-
ing your senses in fresh powder. There’s no comparison. But
Fresh Tracks
then again, I didn’t have to choose. I was addicted to both of
them and in my mind they were intertwined. I lived for pow-
der in one form or another. And before I could shake free of
those twin addictions, I had to nearly die. I got up late that morning. It was close to ten when I
This is the story of that near death experience, through opened my eyes and as soon as I realized what time it was, I
the valley of the shadow of death and out the other side. It’s a could only think about one thing: the mountain was already
story of addiction, but it’s more than that. It’s also about how open and I wasn’t out there capping it.
you sometimes have to lose part of yourself, maybe even the My feeling of frustration grew when I glanced out the
part you love the most, before you can really know what window and saw that, after five days of a heavy blizzard and
makes you whole. It’s a story about how finding your thick fog, the sky was now a bright and cloudless blue. The
strength can come from reaching the limits of your en- storm that had brought me up to Mammoth Mountain a
durance. About finding out if you never quit you will win. It’s week earlier had passed. The weather report had called for
about God and the unknowable, unimaginable plan God five to seven feet. Instead, almost fifteen feet of fresh cham-
has for our lives. pagne powder had been dumped. Conditions were going to
be epic. This is what I lived for.
Of course, so did a lot of other guys. As I jumped out of
bed and quickly began getting myself ready for a day of non-
stop snowboarding, it was almost as if I could hear the exu-
berant shouts of everyone else already up there, dropping
cliffs, catching air, and getting perfect rides all up and down

6. 10 Eric LeMarque C RY S TA L C L E A R 11
the mountain. I prided myself in being the first one up the form as required. But it’s also true that my personal perform-
lift in the morning and the last one off the slopes before ance standards were very high. The fact is that my physical
nightfall. Now I’d be forced to stand in line, take my turn abilities, the athletic ability I was born with, defined who I
and, worst of all, ride through snow that someone else had was, to myself and to others. It seemed that I had a knack for
gotten to before me. I was anxious, obsessed in fact, with get- anything I tried, starting with staking and hockey, up
ting where I needed to be. I wasn’t thinking about the through baseball, basketball, football, surfing, even golf.
necesUntil I survived an ordeal that would strip away every And, of course, snowboarding — riding — which was a sport
false assumption and easy belief I ever had, I thought I knew I excelled in above all others. With all of them, it was my feet
who I was. And as far back as I can remember, a big part of that led the way to some of the most triumphant, memorable
that identity had been about my feet. and exciting moments of my life.
That may sound weird. If most people were asked to sin- I never imagined what that life might be like without my
gle out their most important asset, they usually talk about feet. Who could? The only time you may notice your feet is
their character and integrity; their mind, or their heart or when they get sweaty or smelly or dog-tired. You flex your
even their face. But for me, it was my feet. The carried me to ankles and wiggle your toes without thinking about it. They
victory after victory in my life, racking up one achievement are an extension of us, the way we get around in this world
after another. My footwork was what had earned me a place and without them, the horizons of that world can shrink to
on the Boston Bruins lineup in the National Hockey League, nothing.
the thrill of winning several World Championships and the That’s what happened to me. I lost my feet, eight inches
opportunity to play in the 1994 Winter Olympics in below the knee, and my world was suddenly reduced to the
Lillehammer. Everything I accomplished as an athlete — and four walls of a hospital room. Through a combination of
I accomplished a lot from a very young age — involved my over-confidence and poor judgment, brought on by my meth
feet in one way or another. Even on the slopes, as an expert addiction, I allowed my feet to freeze. When I realized what
rider, it was my feet that conveyed to me the sensations of was happening, I did everything I could to reverse the
soaring, gliding and jumping. They allowed me to master the process. But it was too late. The parts of my body that had
terrain I was negotiating on every run, to make the split sec- taken me so far, so fast, were dead. And if they weren’t cut
ond adjustments and last minute decisions that gave snow- away from me, I would have died also. For once in my life, I
boarding its instinctive and spontaneous thrill. They were had no choice. But that didn’t make the decision any easier.
what kept me grounded and allowed me to soar. I’d be lying if I said that there haven’t been times since, in my
Like most of us, I took my body, and all its parts, for darkest hours, when I regretted that decision, times when
granted. I expected it to be there when I needed it and per- death seemed preferable to what I had to endure.