On the 11th year of skiing...

There is nothing worse than standing at the top of an icy ski slope, wondering how on earth you are going to get down on the two strips of wood that the uncomfortable boots on your aching feet are clinging onto. Actually, the only thing worse would be the addition of an impatient instructor and a crocodile line of other peers watching from the 12 meters below. This was me – ‘the one at the back’ and I used to dread these holidays every year. The constant worry of how I was going to stand up if I fell over (It’s been 11 years and I still can’t regain my stance without taking my skis off). The faraway voice of the vaguely attractive instructor yelling in a thick Italian accent ‘LOUISEEEEEE, PARALLEL SKIIIIIS!’ as I, quivering from the top of black slope number 3 correct him for the 6^th time, ‘it’s Louisa’. Not to forget the undignified trek through the village every afternoon as I struggle to carry all of my equipment without dropping it; beads of sweat dribbling down my face like snowballs rolling down the mountain.

I always told myself that the reason for being ‘the one at the back’ was because of the accident I had 11 years ago where dad took us down blue number 14 instead of blue number 11, and I ended up rolling (head first) towards the cliff edge with a suddenly rather flexible knee lumbering behind me. That was year 1; torn ligaments, crutches, and not being able to go on the slide at ‘Avon Valley Country Park’ for 5 weeks because I was in a plaster cast.

Years 2 through to 6 were not much better. There were no more trips to the hospital but I was still adamant that, no matter how many snow-plough turns I did, I was not going to get down the mountain in one piece. 6 days a year of skiing had brought me anything but a talent for skiing. Every January I would realise that, in less than 3 months, I would be stood at the top of another unpassable slope, with yet another impatient instructor urging me down, and more bratty children snaking past me as my tears steam up my sunglasses. It would literally be the biggest dread of the year.

I will never forget the day my mum told me that we ‘weren’t going to bother with ski school this year’ rather casually as we sat in the car at some red traffic lights. I felt like a massive weight had been lifted, and my mum was actually really surprised at how relieved I felt. I always enjoyed the afternoons in La Thuile, skiing with my family and some friends, and it occurred to me that I now have nothing to worry about. My mum and dad would always wait for me, a couple of meters behind, to pick me up when I fall over.

11 years since I first squeezed a pair of uncomfortable, clumpy size 5 ski boots onto my feet, I have returned from yet another week of skiing in the sun – this time in Cervinia. As corny as it may sound, I absolutely love skiing now (and might I add, I’m now fairly good at it!). On day 2 of our holiday this year, I saw a tiny girl, she must have been about 6, fall over at the back of the group in her ski lesson. She couldn’t get up and if anything was going to metaphorically represent the changing of my enjoyment and confidence on the slopes, it was going to be a (cheesy) scene where I side-slip down and help her stand up and put her skis back on. I’m not self-congratulating or anything; it just made me realise that I have overcome this massive confidence issue that I once had about snow sports. I know that ski school is useful to build up skills and confidence, but often all somebody needs to pick themselves up, and brush themselves off is a little TLC.