Two years ago I went skiing for the first time. I enjoyed
it. Apart from when I was skiing, which I loathed. I liked the sitting in
outdoor jacuzzis and eating stuff covered in cheese. But the sliding down a snowy
mountain on big curly sticks, in boots that squashed my feet so I was in
constant pain? Not so much.
Recently some Austrians challenged me to give it
another go, saying they could help me enjoy it. I was absolutely sure that they
were mistaken. But I like nothing better than proving Austrians wrong so headed
off to the beautiful town of Lech in the breathtaking mountains of West Austria.
My instructor was also called Richard, but was otherwise
as different from me as a human could possibly be (tall, handsome, athletic,
enjoyed skiing). I told him I’d only skied once before and had forgotten the
few things that I had learned, but he assumed that I must be able to ski a bit
and tried to get me to go down a mildly a steep hill to get our passes. I mean,
sure, it must be disappointing when you’re highly skilled at something to have
to teach an utter klutz. When I immediately fell over, screaming like a baby, he
seemed to understand that I was about to waste two days of his valuable time
and we upped curly sticks and headed to the nursery slopes.
As with last time, the boots were crushing my feet in
a way that I felt certain couldn’t be right. It was a pain that made me
feel sick every time I moved. I didn’t want to make a fuss, especially as I was
surrounded by three year old children who were merrily propelling themselves
along without crying out in agony. Richard proved to be patient and kind, but
also pushed me gently onwards by subtly encouraging me to try more difficult
maneuvers.
We broke for lunch. Hooray! I took off my boots and
could barely walk. I wasn’t a hopeless idiot with a low pain threshold! My boots were much too tight. It was lucky I
had learned to ski a bit as it looked like I might never walk again.
My strange, short but wide Hobbit feet are clearly not
made for skiing. Or at least the people who make skiing equipment assume that
someone like me only exists in overlong films that stretch a short book way
beyond its natural length. How annoying to have all the pain of Hobbit feet,
with none of the getting to be in the Lord of the Rings/Hobbit movies as a
result. I changed my boots in the afternoon and for the first time skied
without excruciating pain. Which at least helped me to see why other people
might enjoy this.
I still didn’t like it though and was constantly
terrified , but it was mainly the foot pain that had caused me to hate the
pastime so much and without that, it was just stupid and scary, and not
tortuous, stupid and scary. The first
day done we went back to the hotel and had some beer and I remembered what it
is I like about skiing holidays, when the skiing part stops.
After being humiliated you get to go and have fun and remember that life is
enjoyable. But without the pain you’d never have been reminded.
I found it hard to relax though as I knew that the
next day we’d be going up the proper mountain. To find out if I survived you’ll
have to wait til next week.
I was very
disappointed not to be the presenter on the rebooted Robot Wars TV show (losing
out to Dara O Briain). I had refused to sign the contract because it forbade
personal relationships with the robots. How dare they imply that I would be so unprofessional.
But if Sir Killalot wants to unwind by having a small Somerset man enter his
exhaust pipe, in the privacy of his own cupboard, then that’s his choice and no
business of the producers.
