Diary of a Petit Blonde Non-skier
Welcome back, my readers. Oh you people of great taste and intellect!
Yes, it’s been a few months since my last confession but I’ve lead a relatively embarrassment free couple of months, any description of which would bore the pants off you and let’s be honest here, I know you would rather much read about a person’s failures and moments of extreme mortification than their gloating about how fabulous their lives and families are; where partners bring home flowers, compliment you without having been goaded into doing so, never fart thinking it’s the height of hilarity and can read your mind; where children listen to what you say without folding their arms, looking at the ceiling and muttering at you and where everyone is bathed is a golden glow.
Who needs that?
In Britain you’ve just had half term, here in Sweden it’s referred to as sportlov or sport holiday. Notice the emphasis on sport which presupposes - rather presumptuously in my opinion - that you’re going to spend the week engaged in some kind of exercise. Being as most of Sweden is covered with snow during this week, the further presumption is that this activity will be skiing. So the Christiansen family packed up the car and headed north to the pistes at Klåppen ski resort.
Skiing to a Swede is what binge drinking is to a Brit - i.e. an activity untaken with great passion and commitment. In the same way a true Brit will travel miles to his favourite watering hole to practise his hobby until he falls down, so will a Swede drive hours to his beloved mountain to rush down the most dangerous side of it on two bits of waxed wood in temperatures even arctic animals would find chilly. This is far more dangerous than binge drinking and if practised in England would require all skis to carry a health warning printed in bold upper case letters or at least have a disclaimer from the manufacturer written in small print underneath.
I’m a natural born sunbather, a natural born applier of suntan lotion, a natural born sun bed lounger. I am not a natural born skier - something Niels failed to recognize the first time he took me up a mountain in Austria some twenty years ago. He should have had his doubts about my ability when I fell off the chair lift at the top. Nevertheless, undaunted by my obvious ineptitude he dragged me to a precipice and advised me to take the curves wide.
I took off my skis, lay on my stomach and looked over the edge of the so-called slope, reckoning the gradient to be about one in two.
‘What curves?’ I asked. It was a straight plummet. My short life was already flashing before my eyes.
But like an enthusiastic lemming Niels had already launched himself over the top and was swishing neatly away like an Olympic hopeful, his words, ‘see you at the bottom,’ barely audible for the rushing wind in my ears.
Having no wish to suffer multiple fractures, I took the chair lift back down again to terra firma, suffering only the humiliation of being asked by every single person going up my reason for taking the chair lift down. I mumbled ‘powder snow’ without looking anyone in the eye.
I spent the rest of the trip on the baby slopes, with babies aged between foetus and six months screaming with delight as they zipped around my fallen form.
So I wasn’t looking forward to skiing again. Add to my natural lack of ability on snow the fact that three weeks before I’d pulled a hamstring at the gym and had only recently recovered the agility to sit down on both buttocks!
However, that injury did buy me a couple of days grace which I’ve put to great effect sitting in the internet cafe and drinking hot chocolate the equivalent price of a Nintendo Wii.
But after three days extreme boredom has set in. Furthermore it looks rather pretty out there; the snow sparkles like a million diamonds, the sky is an inviting azure blue, Niels and the children come back to our log cabin with broad smiles and glowing cheeks talking together of blue runs and how they took the jumps on the red. A horrible sensation churns in the pit of my stomach; over indulgence of hot chocolate? No, worse than that; it’s the feeling of being left out.
There are five days left of sportlov and no excuses left.
Day One: Niels and the girls head for the hills, I spend an hour observing the bands of happy, merry ski folk from the cabin window.
.
Look, there’s a toddler happily scooting along without sticks. And there go Grandma and Granddad for a day on the slopes; Grandma with her skis and Granddad’s carrying his snow board. I mean how difficult can this stuff be? Surely I can manage a couple of hours sliding down a hill. Encouraged I head for the ski rental shop.
I stand in line for 15 minutes while an androgynous teenager with low slung jeans mooches about avoiding eye contact with anyone who might require service. Eventually he/she pulls a pair of boots out for one customer to try on. This drains his/her last reserves of energy to the extent that he/she has to disappear on a break for half an hour. Decide this is a sign from the all powerful one above that I’m not meant to ski today. Pretend to be disappointed but secretly much relieved and return to the cabin to lie on the sofa. At least I can say I tried.
Day Two: Niels and the girls return to the slopes, I return to the rental shop. The same youth is leaning against the ski boot rack using remaining strength to keep jeans from falling to knees. You could attach this kid to the nearest pylon, shoot 50,000 volts up him/her before getting a blink. I eventually help myself to a pair of boots from a shelf and understand why the teenager is so exhausted - each boot weighs as much as a baby rhino and is just as difficult to put on. After several minutes of grunting and panting on the shop floor I get the boots on, decide I can’t be bothered to do up the 15 clips and spend another several minutes writhing in agony to get the damn things off. I drag myself and the boots to the ski counter where another apathetic adolescent is leaning.
I wait to be served. Nothing happens. ‘I’d like skis?’ I suggest.
The youth looks me up and down for a bit. Eventually he asks without moving any part of his body, ‘What kind?’
I look him up and down for a bit and say, ‘the non slippery kind!’ Meant to be amusing but I’m quietly hoping such a ski might exist.
The youth replies, ‘Yeah, but.. .like... all skis are slippery.’ I’d forgotten that both teenagers and Swedes lack a sense of humour. I decide that trying to force a Swedish teenager to laugh is a life’s work I’m not prepared to undertake. I ask for standard skis.
45 minutes later I struggle back to the car with all the equipment having shelled out a month’s mortgage payment for the dubious pleasure of two days skiing. I fight back salty tears as I think of how many pairs of shoes I could have bought instead.
It takes me the rest of the afternoon and a lot of swearing to force the skis into the car and drive back to the cabin.
Day Three: Niels and the girls are goggled up for the pistes, it’s snowing with a vengeance. ‘Be there soon,’ I call gaily as they are swallowed by the blizzard. Liar! It will be the best part of two hours before I negotiate all the problems of getting on the equipment.
· Problem one - salopettes: Although after three days of drinking and eating my own weight in chocolate my hips should be the width of the sofa, my ski pants with nifty braces still resemble clown pants. The difficulty is where to put the braces as they are designed to hold up the trousers but in doing so the braces lie directly over the nipples - not comfortable except for the S and M brigade. Try the braces on the outside of the nipples and the trousers fall down, on the inside and it looks kinky. I look like a middle-aged kinky clown which is very disturbing. I put on bra and t-shirt and the kinky is resolved - still not sure about the best position for the braces.
·
·
Problem two - boots: getting on boots bears an uncanny resemblance to giving birth in that there’s a lot of pushing, panting, groaning and swearing. Now to do up the buckles. More panting, groaning etc. As I finally snap shut the last buckle - probably the 30th, I’ve lost count - I feel a searing pain through my leg; I’ve trapped flesh, maybe even a bone. I haven’t got the will to start over and decide to work through the pain.
Am now perspiring profusely so take off mittens, hat, scarf, jacket, warm pullover to attempt the second boot. Unbelievably this is even more challenging than the first. Have a hissy fit and stomp round in one boot screaming, ‘I hate bloody skiing. I hate it!’ Haven’t even got skis on yet. Would throw other boot at wall except it might collapse side of cabin.
· Problem three - skis and sticks: exhausted but dressed, haul myself out of cabin door and negotiate walking the three feet to where skis are stuck upright in the 7 foot snowdrift. Snap one ski onto boot, snap second ski on and promptly begin to slide down the short slope leaving vital ski sticks in the snowdrift. Ski straight into the car parked at the bottom of the slope.
Tip: Never put your skis on at the top of a slope.
When I come to, an obliging toddler helps me up. Decide that’s enough skiing for one day. Spend rest of afternoon climbing back up slope and getting out of ski boots. Collapse exhausted on the sofa.
Day Four: Get up an hour early to get gear on. Emily volunteers to show me around the slopes and points to what she calls an ‘easy blue run’. I shake my head and point to the baby slope where newborns are being guided by kind adults up and down the slope. I want my own kind adult but Niels has disappeared with Natalie to do somersaults on a black run. I join the line of Teletubbies for the button lift - Emily pretends not to know me. The lift attendant frowns but helps me onto lift which involves sticking large round thing between legs to be dragged up the slope.
Tip: Do not attempt to sit on a button lift.
Several Teletubbies roll around laughing as I try to get up. I manage to keep swearing to a minimum. Try several more attempts on the lift and eventually get the hang of being towed up slope. Concentrate on not crossing skis but panic sets in halfway up when I realize I have to get off the lift.
Tip: When leaving lift move quickly out of the way before returning lift clonks you on the head.
Slightly dazed, left temple throbbing but still standing, I shuffle towards the top of the slope. It’s amazing how much steeper it looks from the top than from the bottom. Study the Telletubbies for a while and start a sedate snowplough down waving ski sticks and screaming ‘GET OUT OF THE WAY!’ Reach the bottom without falling but legs shaking like jelly. Am thrilled with myself until Emily says ‘Are you going to be so slow every time?’
Spend rest of the morning sulking.
Final Day: Feeling quite the pro - only took 45 minutes to get clobber on and beat one of the toddlers down the baby slope. So graduated to a green run by the end of the morning and by the mid afternoon had even managed a bit of blue. Unfortunately the weather is so cold that the little hairs in one’s nostrils start to freeze and icy snowflakes sting the eyes.
Tip: Do not attempt to ski with eyes closed because of this.
WIPE OUT! I’m lying face down in the snow. I’ve slid several feet and am threatening to become a small avalanche. Fortunately I lose my skis, my momentum and come to a halt.
Tip: Do not buy a white ski jacket as this will blend in with the snow.
I feel a brief slight weight press me further into the cold - a toddler has just skied over me thinking me a small jump. Am tempted to stay here as getting up is so exhausting but roll myself over before the Teletubby ski school use me as a training ramp.
Limp back to cabin to defrost myself with tea.
Good news: I’ve survived the week without breaking anything.
Bad news: Niels has booked the cabin again for next year.
Lesson learned: Stick with what you’re good at. I’m good at sunbathing so pass me the suntan lotion, my sunglasses and a glass of chilled chardonnay.