They are the only ones that glide me.  I am the only one who rides them.  Hundreds of cold and frosty grooves carved into the snow with care.  Hundreds of runny, snot filled, red nosed kids skiing them.  But when its my turn to tear the snowy grooves into dusty powder,  everyone else disappears. And after each run, I appreciate the soft sting from my windburn.
Their undoubtedly slick skin is what they are known for.  Sending people to speeds that flap and slap their cheeks uncontrollably.  They push people down small Wisconsin ski hills and off jumps made from steel giants. Working everyday. 
These grooves enable the stressed out mindless people to forget their worries.  And at the end of the day, scrape, dig, swoosh, the grooves are back in place.  They wait.
When the next day comes, the hundreds of grooves are put to work by skiers left and right. But I can only feel myself sliding down the steep snow mound.  With hundreds relieving my stress.  Hundreds there to push and guide me.  Hundreds who give out happiness and ask for nothing in return.