All white on the night!
How total skiing beginner Eddie Coffey found his feet on the slopes of Avoriaz
BUCKET lists when I was growing up had more to do with milk for the creamery than the completion of a wishlist of life’s goals. Now, of course, everyone has one... the list that must be ticked before we shuffle off.
For many people, skiing has made its way onto this roster of aspiration. I, though, hadn’t been one of those soldiers.
As someone who neither rollerskated nor ice-skated heretofore the prospect of getting up on skis was remote in the extreme.
Then the chance presents itself and you start looking at that which you never would otherwise contemplate.
‘Ah, sure why not,’ the organiser of the trip encouraged.
‘Well there is the matter of my complete inability in this area,’ I countered. ‘There’s also the matter of the ever-increasing brittleness of these bones that are 50+ years carting me about.’
Yes, but you won’t regret it... blah, blah, blah.
Seeking the counsel of work colleagues did little to make the decision any easier.
One: ‘It’ll be the best three days of your life;’ the other: ‘Ooooh, that’s brave… let me tell you about how I ended up nearly killing myself on an Olympic speed slope on my maiden voyage!’
For better or worse, I agreed to give it a go and head for Avoriaz in eastern France, a short skip from Geneva airport.
The chit-chat on the stunningly beautiful trip from the airport did little to lessen my ever-increasing stress levels.
The horse-drawn carriage (cars not allowed in down-town Avoriaz!) that brought us to the apartments was delightful, but the pit of my stomach was still rumbling.
FIRST stop was the pub… if I was so hungover the following morning, I mightn’t feel the pain of the falls. My colleagues were not quite so gung-ho… there seemed little appetite for my novel suggestion.
Overindulgence was not an option: I never liked drinking on my own.
I took some solace from the fact that there was to be at least one other complete novice on the trip.
So let me introduce you to Andrew. His flight time from Edinburgh and mine from Dublin had us landing around the same time, so we travelled together.
Lovely chap, played soccer to a near-professional standard in South Africa and still plays a bit in Glasgow. Never took a step on a snow slope before, though.
We would be paired together on Day One.
Yes, that first day, what I’d call an unmitigated disaster... the instructors were a little kinder, but I could see it in their eyes that they knew they had a difficult one here.
So, first piece of advice from this novice: don’t leave it til you’re fifty-plus to knock this particular item off your bucket list.
You have these unused muscles, idle for decades it would appear in my case, rediscovered by what you have to do to stay on these desperately difficult contraptions.
The sad news for me, of course, is that it may well be just my inadequacies that have been exposed here. Because, Andrew, my fellow novice, after just one hour, I kid you not, said: ‘I think I have it...!’
When we got to that first afternoon (one hour-long lesson in the bag) I waited at the top of the slope and watched him drift off into the middle distance with what looked to me like Olympic-standard style… drifting left and right, stopping when he wanted to.
In other words he had it nailed and I was barely able to get off first base.
Nick, our instructor, was diplo- macy personified: ‘Everyone learns at a different pace,’ he gently pointed out. ‘Andrew, you’ve picked this up much quicker than most people.’
YOU can still do this,’ he said to me. Bless his confidence. Meanwhile it was time for dinner after a long soak in the bath for me to help heal my wounded pride.
There were brief moments during that first day that might explain the exhilaration that people speak of when talking about the slopes, so I could see where the addiction might come from but it is more than a little disheartening when four-year-olds are skipping by you like little ducks on speed while you’re stuck to the ground or toppled over on the ground!
Despite my fervent overnight prayers, weather didn’t stop play on Day Two.
The temperature was down around minus-seven, but the sweat was rolling off me as I attempted with some difficulty to get the ski boots on at 9am.
The bones were creaking, those new-found muscles were stiff and any desire I might have had to become Eddie the Eagle were gone.
Luckily, as it transpired, it was all systems go and our instructor said we were going to make progress today and to be fair to him we did.
I managed to go over and back left and right and eventually made it down a nursery slope unaided a few times.
The tumbles were far fewer and the confidence levels rose a smidgen.
That can be dangerous, of course, as I discovered to my cost in one of the efforts: I thought I had it nailed... I hadn’t.
But at least I had made significant progress and there were far more of the exhilarating moments than the embarrassing falls from Day One.
Any notions of adequacy I might have been harbouring were clipped when my more experienced colleagues and I were going to lunch.
We’ll just get the ski lift up and ski down the other slope to get to the restaurant, they said innocently.
The other slope was a far greater challenge for me and I took a wee tumble but finished that particular one at high speed and managed to bring myself to a halt reasonably safely.
It was progress, even if only a little.
The dinner sat a little more comfortably in my stomach that evening, the progress had been slow but at least it was there. Avoriaz is a delightful town. Specially built in the mid-1960s to accommodate the throngs of skiers, it became a destination of choice very quickly.
It’s not cheap, it has to be said, five drinks set me back €49 one evening but the accessibility to the slopes and the variety of food options is extensive.
Skiers, from novices like me to the more experienced in our group sang its praises.
My memories of it, of course, will be coloured by my success or otherwise on my final day...
Day three of Three: There was going to be no messing today, our last with an instructor.
I thought I’d still be on the nursery slopes but immediately we were ferried to the top of a mountain on the lift and there was only one way I was going to get to the bottom! Whoa! I skied down a mountain.
It was one of the most satisfying achievements in many years.
I’m told I did a green run and a blue run and a bit of slalom for good measure! And all of my bones appear to be in the one piece.
Mission overaccomplished... I can go home with a smile on my face! Would I do it again? Probably. Would I do a dry run beforehand? Definitely.
Is it worth having on your bucket list? Without a doubt.