Fit for skiing? Not On Your Life!

The pictures in the brochures looked fabulous. Acres of powdery ski slopes with healthy looking, beautifully clad skiers meandering gently down to a rustic wooden chalet for a warming glass of gluwein. How hard can this ski business be?

Nobody tells you that if you go out on a ski-holiday not having at least paid lip service to some pre-ski exercises, you are destined for blistered feet, aching calves and thighs and lungs that feel as if you have suddenly developed a 60 a day habit. You also develop a screaming need to be tucked up in bed and asleep by nine!

How do I know all this? Well a long time ago before, kids and mortgages kicked in, some friends suggested a fun filled skiing holiday in the Swiss Alps. I had visions of looking all glossy and alluring in new designer specs, an all in one day glo suit (which believe me at the time was the thing to wear) and posing while an array of beautiful ski instructors with names like Jean Claude and Patrice danced attention on me.
The reality was a whole different ball game. Admittedly, the chalet was chocolate box wonderful, rising out of a snowy slope, heavily beamed with lively bar and wood burning stove. But I rarely got to the bar – “You have to turn in at nine if you want to be fresh for tomorrow’s 7am start,” said my other half.

Which was a hint of what was to come, and nobody could have prepared me for the boot camp which was to become my route to actually getting up on those skis!

In fairness, the fact was that my partner was an army trained skier – not exactly SAS but with an ability to hurtle down a black run at break neck speed in the dark – and had little patience for those who could not ski well.

“You really need to be able to tackle the black runs because the buzz is great, and you get to see the best scenery,” was his excuse for insisting that I do double classes to get me up to speed in record time.

While my fellow learners enjoyed a gentle introduction on the nursery slopes to life on skis, I was on the upper slopes at first light, a croissant shoved in my pocket as there was no time for a leisurely breakfast!

I had no time to enjoy breathing in that fresh mountain air and enjoy the sensation of that sparkling crunchy new snow as I headed up the mountain.

My group at the chalet had the lovely Georges as their ski instructor, a Bolivian sweetie who wanted them to enjoy the gentle vistas and getting confident at their own pace.

My partner (now my ex incidentally) had me packed off for the day at dawn with Franz, a German ex military instructor who was simply focused on making sure I had as many blisters and aching limbs in the shortest time possible.
Admittedly, within four days, I was attempting those black runs but at a cost.

At one point I was ‘shushing’ down the slopes, crouched low on skis with my poles wrapped low under my arms and my head my knees at 80 mph screaming all the way. High above me on a lift the lovely Georges was shouting abuse at my partner.

“Let her be, let her be!” he bellowed as I finally succumbed to the speed and fear and ended up with my legs sticking out from a snow drift. I sat on the freezing white carpet, wept buckets and started building a wall of resentment which was to end with us breaking up on the plane ride home!

The holiday seemed relentless. While everyone else stopped for soup, frites and wine, I was allowed a sandwich on the run and hauled higher and higher up the mountain.

By day seven I was white faced and determined that once I had made it back to (flat) civilisation I would dump the man and book myself on a beach break.

My yellow salopettes hung on me and I could not raise even the smallest smile when a camera was pointed in my direction. While he punched the air as I negotiated a mile wide expanse of huge moguls I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore a growing need to stab him with a ski pole.

My only solace was my new found friendship with Yorkshire Helen, the bullied girlfriend of a multi millionaire who had taken her and her two children on a ski break – to see if she could make it on the slopes, as an all round trophy wife should.

“I have learnt to sail and water ski. His ex-wife was very sporty and he needs me to be able to hold my own,” she told me sadly over late night gin and tonics.

Rebellion filled my chest and I hatched a plan to tell him what I thought of him and his pre-marital assault course. Together we decided we were miserable on what should have been a dream holiday in the Alps.

By day 10 I had had enough. Yes I could ski but the joy of those wonderful mountain views was lost on me somehow – and poor buddy Helen from Hull was pretty much on the floor too.

On our final day we both slunk out of ski-school and headed for the loudest village bar.Hours later we wobbled back to the chalet – ski jackets abandoned back at base camp and fired from within and not caring a damn.I made her confess her hate of skiing to Mr Big Bucks, and, ina final act of defiance, we both threw our boots out of theChalet window.

Years later I am heading back to the Alps for a girly ski holiday where I plan to see if I can remember how to get up onto a pair of skis. But this time I will take time to take in the views, have lunch and some fun – and maybe find out what happened to the lovely Georges!

Getting There
Blue Islands operates flights to Zurich and Geneva six days a week from Guernsey and Jersey.