To Ski or Not to Ski

‘‘It was the most awkward thing I have ever done. Each foot seemed to weigh a ton and to be 20 feet long. It was impossible to point oneself anywhere without doing damage to someone else.’’

That’s the wonderful late Irish writer, Maeve Binchy’s take on skiing. I got her book of journalistic musings out of the Oxford Library recently, and as soon as I read this paragraph, she went from being one of my favourite writers to a woman after my own heart.

Unlike Maeve, though, I’ve never attempted to ski. I grew up in Auckland in the days when it was only private school kids who sported the ski-tan, panda eye look in the mid-year break. Mine was a childhood spent in parks and on beaches not sailing down snowy slopes, and I liked it that way.

I’ve lived in the South for over twenty years now having followed my parents down to Oxford. My dad used to tease that it wasn’t just a lifestyle change that brought them here but a cunning plan to snare me a rich Cantabrian farmer.

I told him putting a ladder to my bedroom window, waving a twenty dollar note while hollering for me to be taken away wouldn’t cut the mustard. Happily, it all worked out, and I’ve been married for some time to a Cantabrian who doesn’t farm and who smashed his foot to smithereens on a school holiday ski week.

Meanwhile, his brother skied off an abyss and was lucky to survive. Hmm, not selling me on the idea of hitting those slopes.

Agility and I do not walk hand in hand.

I was the kid who clung to the sides of the roller rink, trying to look cool as she dragged herself around to the 80’s beat. Ice-skating was simply a non-starter.

‘‘Come on, over you go, Michelle.’’ My gym teacher would say heaving me over the vault in my younger days. You get the picture.

I have a friend whose experience of not jumping off the ski chair lift in time to prevent herself from smacking into the tyres at the end put her off skiing for life.

I feel her pain although I laughed loudly upon hearing this tale.

I suspect skiing would not come naturally to me nor would the wearing of a padded suit; I have enough padding thank you very much.

While I understand the allure of flying down pristine slopes, soaking up the scenery it’s not so alluring knowing I would spend more time with my face in the snow than admiring my surrounds.

Lately, our son’s been making noises about wanting to ski because his friends do and I admit to harbouring a secret fantasy where upon hitting the slopes it turns out I’m brilliant at it.

My husband is quick to point out I can’t even drive a manual, so with my lack of coordination, this is an unlikely scenario. I’m not convinced, though never say never.