My first time on skis

30/03/2010 (It's been a busy few weeks)

This will be explained:

Last weekend, on the rainy Saturday, a 'good' friend of mine informed me he was going to test out his new skis on the dry slope just a short drive away from where we study in Bournemouth.

After telling me his plans, he enthusiastically suggested that I join him on skis, which now seems a rather spontaneously naive idea considering I had never tried out this activity before, and he has a dark sense of humour.

Granted I've snowboarded for a while now, but like Luke Skywalker, I've been trying to resist the dark side of the piste planet, but the mate in question, David Row, or for this event, Darth Vader, thought it was the best idea he had had in along time.

Now I know why.

As we arrived at the slope in the pouring rain I came to the realisation that I am neither a fan of these rather steep, hard slopes, or that it was the best idea for me to test them out; having never skied before. Dave, however, was less concerned:

"You will be absolutely fine," he said, "I'll give you all the tips you need."

Too be fair his motivational skills did have me believing I was going to become some sort of downhill Olympic champion (Bode Miller in-fact if you watch the video further down) - off course this did not happen.

The turning point I think was when we queued up to pay for the ski gear and the lady at the desk asked: "Tick here to confirm you are a competent skier and you can manage to get up and down the slope without any problems."

With Dave digging in my back like some sort of bank robber I ticked, my hand slightly shaking at the thought of signing away my dignity.

Then, after putting my skis on I waddled much like a constipated penguin along to the mid-way point of the hard slope, again being willed on by Darth/Dave. As I reached the precipice of my downhill adventure, I turned around to Darth for the vital advice I needed to begin my skiing career and make it down the slope safely. But Dave was smiling rather weirdly, clearly holding back chuckles from his grimacing face, and as I pestered him for pointers he proceeded to push me along; nearer and nearer to the slope.

"You're going to be good at this," he had announced as we left the safe compounds of the centre. I was less confident.

In no uncertain terms I assured him this wasn't going to be a success in less he gave me some clearer instructions.

Before I knew it I was 'blasting' down the track like Usain Bolt, but with no idea how to stop, and although I can't deny the extreme adrenaline rush I felt, shooting through the yellow inflatable piste barriers into the children's sledging area on just my second run was not a highlight.

As I looked up Dave was on the floor - no, unfortunately he hadn't fallen over, he was in hysterics.

"Now go to the top," he attempted to shout through increased laughter.

I knew what he had in mind and I was going to prove him wrong. So I bravely tackled the button lift and hitched right to the top of the slope; a place, which for first-timers, is a bit like a sweet shop for the overweight - you shouldn't be there. And I knew it.

But I was on a one-way mission to master these two obstacles attached to my feet - forget the beginner bandwagon, like 50 Cent, I wanted to pimp that piste.

So I launched myself off the top, rather apprehensively, and I began to 'ski' down.

In an effort not to look too amateur I decided to straight-line the piste area, which, consequently, did not go down particularly well with the instructor at the bottom.

As I reached the man in the official jacket he told me rather sternly that should I do that again I would not be allowed back.

In my mind I'd made rather good work of a bad situation, however I did then decide to call it a day.

I went up to Dave smiling, and then winded him in the stomach with a ski pole - we are still good friends but next time I'm getting an instructor.

In-fact we're going on the university ski trip soon and I've suggested he try out snowboarding for the first-time, because as we all know, revenge is sweet.

For proof of this event here is this video...my face may confirm the fact we had been out the night before:

My first trip to Scotland, spontaneous bobsleighing, and being ill, all at the same time

Often, when you are most looking forward to doing something a poisoned fruit falls down and hits you on the head. 

Like when Adam and Eve found all that delicious food but couldn't eat it, I had a similarly exciting prospect but a sudden hurdle appeared. 

Although my obstacle was less religious I fully intended to overcome it.

The fruit in my case was a trip to Edinburgh, and the obstacle, man-flu.

In one morning I was sweatier than spending 3 days on a Dubai beach and had an oversized frog in my throat on pro plus - jumping up and down like a record breaking pole vaulter.

There was no way, however, I was going to let this illness prohibit the fun of my first trip to Scotland to attend BUDS, the university dry ski slope championships. 

We had a small, but poor (not pants but little money) ski team and we needed all the morale we could get: I was intending on being a pivotal part of the enthusiasm involved.

As every student will tell you, when the signs of being ill arrive, buy anything with the word orange in it. 

I bought a pack of oranges so big that every time I opened my cupboard they fell on my face - forget energy drinks, this kept me on the ball.

I also purchased orange juice and began drinking it out of shot glasses.  

As well as this, there's the key question when ill: "Should I be drinking alcohol?"

"Just drink vodka and orange juice," I have been told.

Literally, it's a vitamin C hell hole. 

I am now an orange.

Anyway, more stocked up than my local grocer, and more high on Lemsip than Amy Winehouse,  I jet setted off to Edinburgh via a cheap airline with my good mate David Row - he became my guide, he's been before.

Other occupants on this trip involved my housemate Rupert and 5 others who had gone by a random mixture of train and car. You could call us gypsies.

There were concerns, I should admit, that Rupert's rather old Peugeot 306 wouldn't make the 8 hour journey, but in-fact he later experienced more of a man-made problem- more on that later.

Anyway after a rather bumpy landing me and Dave strolled to the taxi rank and requested the caravan park where we were to stay. 

I hadn't actually known we were to be partaking in caravan club until this point, but had been quite the Eurocamper on family holidays so was prepared for any eventuality.

Me and Dave jumped in a taxi, I, completely confused about the driver's dialect, but Dave's cousin lived in Scotland so he volunteered to be my translator.

As we arrived at the caravan site it became apparent we would be staying in the five star section of these movable hotels: the mobile home. 

How we had managed this I am still unsure. I think Rupert has been building up his Caravan Club points.

But as we checked in there were clearly people missing from what I will call our 'crew'.

Unfortunately, the scheduled group meet had been hit by it's own hurdle, and Rupert's car appeared to be no Colin Jackson.

"Where's Rupert and Jenna (competing skier)?" I asked inquisitively, worried.

Ben, a fellow traveling member of our crew: 

"Well, Rupert's car broke down in the middle of no where."

Concerning news.

In-fact the truth had been minorly twisted here, what had actually occurred was that my good housemate Rupert had been seeing the sites of Edinburgh whilst driving around on the red light for a whole HOUR and a half. 

Rupert's petrol had been, and gone. 

After a combination of bad map reading and a sat-nav malfunction they became a group of vulnerable English in Scotland's own Wolf Creek. 

Like the film, a random man gave them a lift, but to a petrol station and he did not kill them.

The event

I will bullet-point our time at the ski slope with a number of significant incidents, little of which, I'm happy to say, involve my self. 

I was pretty much Lethal Weapon in terms of not getting hurt, mainly.

One) Ben, one of our snowboarders, was riding the rails. 

     He experienced some success, but there was also a broken finger and a thumb.

Two) Another of our competitors wore a fat suite. We later found her at the bottom of the

        piste - before we knew it we were taking her to the medical room. I will not name her                due to health and safety form fears. Although she is not in a wheelchair.

Three) Jenna missed her skiing slot after 'the breakdown', the car that is, she's not in a mental asylum. She then had to pretend to be a boy and race in their category, partly                   successfully, partly not.

Clearly it was an overwhelming competitive success.

I often divert people to this video, where everyone looks awesome - apart from the rather foreboding girl on crutches at the beginning:

BUDS 2009 from BUSC Events on Vimeo.

The last minute episode

Without knowing it, I was to partake in my own competition. 

There I was at the top, happily watching the last of the boarders on the big jump, when I saw lost friends walking up the edge of the dry ski slope - it was Rupert and co.  

At this point as I tried to attract their attention by waving, a dramatic moment took place. But it was no epiphany. 

It involved me competing in my very own bobsleigh run.

It had been raining all day, and alas, I had stepped forward on to a piece of particularly slippery material to the side of the slope. 

On my back, olympic styley, I shot past a friend quicker than Usain Bolt on a sledge. 

Passers-by were probably surprised that there was a new event at this years BUDS.

Others may have thought I had done this for a laugh.

I was doing neither.

The Next Day

I went to the campsite toilets and then strolled casually back to the mobile home- very normal.

Our temporary accommodation was not particularly tidy - a nuclear bomb had hit it in the night. But between my trip to the toilets and walking back a miraculous clean up had taken place.

The kitchen had also moved to the lounge. Strange.

I also had new mobile home roommate - 20 years older and five feet taller than Dave.

This, in-fact was not my mobile home. It was the last main episode of the trip.

Now back in my room, I'm still ill, with an orange segment in my mouth. 

Think, over enthusiastic hockey player.