Disagreeing with skiing

The first time ever I strapped a few planks of wood to my feet all in the name of fun, I was around the age of 5 at at place called Ski Rossendale. Rather than faking snow, they have a plastic bristle slope. A toothbrush. I don't remember much of it, just that I was dressed in one of those thick, all body suits and I was with mum and one of her old work colleagues (whose hands I kept gripped tightly in mine.)

The next time was last October and we went to the Chill Factor^e - which is basically a proper ski slope that's been abducted and housed inside what looks like a giant eraser on heavy supports. My parents, who had skied on their honeymoon, were toying with the idea of a skiing holiday in February so took us for a first lesson to see how we felt.
Our instructor was named Lenny and he had us running up the slope in our boots, leaving the skis at the bottom; walking round in a big circle on one ski... then the other... then with both... By the end of the session, we had all managed to ski from halfway up the nursery slope whilst touching our head, shoulders, knees and toes. (Luckily, we didn’t have to sing at the same time as that or I’m not so sure of my chances of making it.)

But I did make it! Unlike my brothers, I managed to stay upright all the way through. Me and the ground had managed to come to an agreement whereby we remained in our rightful places and all was good.

The next time I skied, it was around a month later and, to save on money (fake snow is expensive y’know!) we went back to Ski Rossendale. Oh dear God, the toothbrush. I was cursing those bristles the instant I stepped onto the nursery slope. It didn’t help that my instructor had already established herself as a patronising bitch early on, siding with my parents in a jocular, arrogant manner and making me feel like I was five again, trying the slopes for the first time.

On these slopes, instead of sidling sidewards up the slope, we had a conveyer belt type ski lift to help us get to top. How my thighs sighed in relief at that.
Single good point of the slope over: it was AWFUL. With a capital A, W and just about everything else. I couldn’t turn… left, right or any other way. Stopping involved the barrier at the bottom of the slope. I hated it.

But I endured it, holding back the tears that I refused to spill over bloody skiing. Until our instructor (cunt) moved us to the next slope over, despite there being men at the bottom, clearing up the water gathered there with a big, sucky machine. Bad, bad skiing instructor, that was so against the rules.

So our next exercise involved her standing directly in front of us as we started off, then moving over to the side as we moved down the slope. The whole point was for us to continue heading towards her, curving nicely so we ended perpendicular to how we began. HA.

I wasn’t looking forward to this at all. As I watched other members of our group (two of whom were warring siblings, which added nicely to my foul mood) curve perfectly, I ran through all that I had been told thus far. Bending of legs, shifting of weight… Okay, I will do this, I resolved despite never having gotten close to turn just yet.

And I did it! I did turn! Unfortunately, it was no perfect curve. Instead, I turned to face my instructor just as she had begun to move, aligning myself with one of the men stood working at the bottom of the slope.

“SORRYSORRYSORRYSORRYSORRYSORRY!” I yelled to my unintentional target as I zoomed towards him, unable to do anything. Next thing I know, I was sitting on my skis and the man, well, he was sitting right on top of me. I don’t think he was too impressed. I’m not quite sure what gave it away, it was more of a hunch really. Luckily, he didn’t focus his anger on me, saving it for my instructor (whore) who was at fault here.

I managed to shuffle towards the stupid conveyer belt and was just positioning myself on it when one of my skis decided it would go up ahead of me and meet me up there, okay? And, simultaneously, the ground and gravity decided I would be better sitting down. Sat haphazardly on the ground, watching my ski slowly make its way up towards the rest of the group, - who were stood, open mouthed in shock – I lost all control and began to sob like a baby.

I only managed to stop crying twenty minutes or so later, after downing an entire coke to get my blood sugar levels up. Mum, who had rushed over to me immediately after the incident, had taken me up to the cafe where one of her current work colleagues happened to be. They chatted as I watched on, interested, feeling my mood elevate slightly.

“It’s funny when you bump into people isn’t it?” I said, after her colleague had gone. Mum, thinking I was over my incident and misunderstanding my use of metaphorical English, grinned at me:

“Yes it is! I’m glad you see the funny side! I’ve had one or two mishaps myself on the slopes…”

Realising we weren’t talking about the same things, I did what any self-respecting human being could do after such a horrific and scarring experience… I started to sob. Again. And continued to do so for the rest of the day.

I didn’t let this enormous knock on my confidence ruin my skiing career of course. Well, more my parents refused to let it… they were all for ‘getting back on the horse’ and such… so I went to a few more sessions. About two, I reckon. And I did manage to learn how to turn and I did manage to learn how to stop. And I fell over many more times but learnt how to take it all in my stride, laughing as I got up.

By that time, I had already discovered that my half term was different to my family’s and forced to choose my education (and being home alone for a week) over skiing… and I’m all for stopping while you’re ahead so I didn’t attend any more sessions.

Moral of the story: If you want to try something new, try skydiving or something. Strapping planks to your feet is not natural… Falling out of the sky? A much more sensible option, methinks.

The End.