THE WINTER BREAK THAT BROKE ME

Broadcaster BEN FOGLE recalls a bruising getaway

‘Do you mind if I go to Sweden for an ice-skating marathon?’ I asked my wife Marina [pictured above, with Fogle]. I’m often heading off to do odd things and her answer is usually ‘Sure’. This time it was, ‘Can I come, too?’ We’ve shared plenty of adventures over the years, but I never saw her as a 100mile ice-skating-marathon kind of girl. Before we left for Stockholm, we took lessons with Zoia from TV’s Dancing on Ice. With her skates on, Marina could hardly stand up. ‘This is going to be interesting,’ I thought.

The route would take us from the city of Uppsala back to Stockholm, along frozen canals, rivers, lakes and ponds. We collected our skates – not your usual mucking-around-in-the-local-rink type, these were endurance skates (as long as skis). This time I could hardly stand up as my ankle kept collapsing. Race day came. We joined hundreds of Lycra-clad Swedes with go-faster stripes. ‘Do you mind if I go at my own speed and don’t wait for you?’ I asked Marina. ‘Sure,’ she smiled.

The starter pistol was fired and off we went. Skater after skater breezed past, until just Marina and I were left. My ankle continued to collapse painfully. ‘Do you mind if I skate at my own pace?’ Marina smirked, speeding ahead of me, vanishing into the distance, leaving me alone.

Six hours later, I hobbled across the finish line – at least I think it was the finish line, because there was nothing left. Everyone and everything had been packed away.

I was exhausted. My ankles were bleeding and bruised from rubbing against the boots. I picked up my mobile phone and called Marina. She was already back at the hotel, and in the bath.