The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
How we learnt to ski as a midlife married couple
Sarah Baxter and Paul Bloomfield head to the French Alps to prove that it is never too late to take to the slopes – with a little healthy competition ‘A distant muscle memory tingled – to my delight, this didn’t feel completely alien’
‘It quickly became apparent that my legs were abysmally mismatched’
Sarah’s return to the slopes
Full disclosure: I am not really a total beginner. I have skied before, in my early teens, back when Martin Bell ruled the results on Ski Sunday. But it had now been over 30 years since my last turn on the slopes, and my funfear dial had swung significantly to the latter: yes, it might be jolly, but would I break my legs?
Skiing is also not cheap; the gear alone can cost as much as another holiday. I was glad of EcoSki, which rents out quality kit, thus reducing purchases destined to sit unused for 11.5 months of the year. My hired jacket was girl-power Barbie pink, perfect for hitting the slopes with Paul – my utter-novice husband – and hopefully winning our ski battle of the sexes.
Fortunately, our group of beginners on the slopes of Avoriaz were in the extremely capable if un-mollycoddling care of instructor Stéphane Jacquier. “Ski into me, I will kill you,” he declared, face straight as a ski pole. But perhaps his tough love was just what we needed. During our trip we spotted other couples looking quite piste off, one clearly trying to teach the other. That way divorce lies…
We started on a slope that a marble would barely roll down. From my first couple of runs, however, a distant muscle memory tingled – to my delight, this didn’t feel completely alien. Paul, on the other hand, looked like he had just landed on a new planet. I was already fairly sure that victory would indeed be mine.
Don’t get me wrong – I was no pro. But I found my skis largely turned when I wanted, and I could mostly bring myself to a stop. I was, however, slow and lacking in style. Stéphane was especially exercised about my butt: I was sticking it out in an ugly fashion. “Stand up, like a queen!” he commanded, straightening my back, linking my arm and gliding me past Paul, who looked on, disgruntled – maybe because I had overtaken him, maybe because a strapping Frenchman was manhandling his wife and shouting about her ass.
Day two proved much smoother. I began to feel more confident, though I tried to balance wifely support with being neither patronising nor smug. Well, not too smug.
We were soon swooshing between trees on a long, generous, uncluttered piste. At one point, when no one was near, I whooped. So this was what all the fuss was about! The whole group were now smiling – even Paul.
Day three brought icier conditions; everyone felt less assured. But then the sun came out, the mountains did their magnificent, sparkly thing, snow-fresh air blew, the ski-in cafes served excellent croque-monsieurs and I wanted to stay and work on my jutting butt all winter. Alas, time to leave.
So, the verdict? Physically, aside from aching calves, there were no injuries to report. (Newbie skiers of any age really should do some strengthening exercises beforehand.) And mentally? That was OK, too: no arguments, mutual support, sincere joy in the oth- er’s achievements. Oh yes, and I won.
Sarah’s verdict
Fun factor: 4 out of 5
Technical difficulty: 3 out of
5 Physical pain: 2 out of 5
Relationship challenge: 1 out of 5
Favourite part: Skiing behind Paul as he completed a series of smooth parallel turns on his final run.
Worst part: The pumping mid-afternoon dance music at La Folie Douce – I’m not too old to ski, but I am too old for that.
Who learnt faster: Er, me, of course. With the unfair advantage of not having started from scratch.
Would you ski together again? Sure! As long as he doesn’t get too good. Paul’s first ski steps
How old is too old to learn to ski? That question plagued me somewhat as I shuffled nervously onto the nursery slope. And I mean nursery: a dozen three-year-olds turned to glare at us, aiming waves of juvenile judgement at this greybeard interloper. Or so I imagined. Clearly, starting as an infant is ideal: fearless tots fall, squall then ski again. At 52, was I too late?
I had always been wary of the clobber, the après hedonism, the potential for wrecked knees. So when we were offered a short learning break in February, I was equally tempted and tentative. If not now, when?
Rented in Avoriaz, my ski boots were surely modelled on a gruesome medieval instrument of torture; they grated shins and pummelled ankles. There was no time for laments, though: we were already late for our first lesson. To the slopes we hobbled.
“Balance is key,” declared our uber-Gallic instructor Stéphane. Alors! I careened drunkenly across the slope, blundering into two classmates. That chastening moment was one of many that morning as legs were forced akimbo in vain attempts to stop – something I never really mastered.
On the plus side, limbs and marriage remained intact. Indeed, lunch at the legendary après venue La Folie Douce, soundtracked by thumping dance tunes more suited for Ibiza, provided the chance for Sarah and I to share woes (mine) and triumphs (hers).
Next morning my upper calves screamed. I had focused so intently on not attracting Stéphane’s ire that I hadn’t noticed the battering meted out to my lower legs. And back on the baby slopes, it quickly became apparent that my legs were abysmally mismatched. Turning left: no problem. But any attempt to turn right saw me hurtling along – totally out of control.
“Are you not ashamed?” berated Stéphane. “Your wife is so much better – you are a disgrace to all men!” I could only nod in cowed agreement.
Our reward for those travails was a forest-fringed green run, blissfully wide, uncrowded, unkinked. As I zhuzhed through the pine-scented air, I begrudgingly started to have fun – though whether type one or two remained to be confirmed.
On day three, waking with a mild hangover and feeling even more sore and stiff, I anticipated rather than dreaded our final lesson. Not all went smoothly: I toppled repeatedly on a steeper blue, stewing in my own frustration. But by lunchtime I was confidently carving the easiest blue – the high-five Stepháne bestowed on me at the bottom tasted sweeter even than besting my wife.
And with that, the lesson – and our sojourn in Avoriaz – was over. Did I enjoy my ski taster? Of course: the mountains, the food, the alpine breezes kissing our cheeks as we swooshed through gleaming snow – all delightful. Would I book another ski holiday? Ask me tomorrow. The calves might just have recovered.
Paul’s verdict
Fun factor: 3 out of 5
Technical difficulty: 4 out of 5
Physical pain: 4 out of 5
Relationship challenge: 1 out of 5
Favourite part: Safely carving down an entire blue run – a genuinely soul-soaring moment.
Worst part: Attempting a too-steep blue run that I descended mostly on my backside.
Who learnt faster: Sarah. To be honest, I wasn’t even close.
Would you ski together again? Probably. I’m not yet a ski convert but if I did go again, I would love to do it with Sarah.