I HATE skiing passionately, cold, wet, downhill-into-a-tree, not my cup of tea at all - even the spelling is stupid, who puts a double “i” in the middle of a word anyway?
I must admit that part of my hatered for winter sports comes from a bad experience on a school ski trip when I was about 14. My friend and I, both equally terrible at remaining upright on a pair of slippery sticks decided we were getting a little bit better at this facing our own mortality lark and decided after a quick lesson with a dreamy, tall, blonde, curly haired, sunglass wearing, snow board riding super-hunk that were in fact quite capable after all and we would finally venture off the flat area and head for a small beginners slope.
Alas we were too busy talking about the good looking ski instructor we desperately wanted to impress and we miss read the difficulty level signs on the hill. So we gently pushed off down a colour coded slope with rather poor visibility, about 10 meters later it steepened suddenly and we discovered that our gentle beginners slope had turned into Mt Everest.
So there we were, flying down the mountain of doom at a million miles per hour doing figure 8’s with our legs, screaming our lungs out until I lost one of my poles and promptly fell over doing a rather painful rendition of the splits. My friend fell approximately 4 meters away from me landing in similar circumstances.
We were stuck. With our legs folded beneath us in an ungodly fashion, neither of us could reach that stupid little clip thingy that holds your ski to your boot. Oh the pain of it all, we spent approximately 15 minutes stuck in the freezing cold mush whinging and moaning whilst getting snowballs pegged at us from laughing kids on the chairlifts that happened to be directly above our heads.
Then out of nowhere a knight in shining armour appeared to free us from the death hold of our ski boots. Sadly the knight in shining armour wasn’t wearing armour at all but more of a bright blue snow suit, and while he was indeed a cute saviour, it was cute in the way only a 4 or 5 year old can be. Little bugger had skied up, stopped with that swish of snow powder like an expert and asked ever so politely “Do ya want me to help you?” and after granting us our freedom he said “bye bye” cheerfully and zoomed off down the mountain of terror.
Being rescued by a pre-schooler was our last straw and we and trudged back up the hill on foot, dodging the glaring professionals whizzing down the “black run” around us until we made it to the warmth of the cafe and drank hot chocolate until it was time to go home. As a result of this missadventure, the only Ski related activities I have participated in since have involved eating yoghurt.
Are you a winter sports person, or are you sensible? Have you got any tales of terror from the ski feilds?
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