A funny thing happened
yesterday. Clouds cleared ten minutes later. Perfect
A funny thing happened on Monday. Well, actually, two funny things happened. We went skiing. The conditions were fab and there was no one on the slopes. Mrs Sun was with us – as she has since we arrived and looks set to stay with us until we leave – and was waving away. And all was well.
Until. I was on a long drag (for non-skiers, you put a large button seat between your legs and a wire drags you up a mountain) when I noticed that I was light on my feet. As though the drag was working harder than normal. And then the gradient flattened and I was in the air. Like a foot off the ground. Facing backwards. At that point I knew it wasn’t going to end well. I fell off the button, lost a ski, managed to scramble off the drag and into the non-pisted snow. Clearly the drag wire, which works on a spring and has an eventual full extension, had become stuck. A flying Roland was the result. Mmmm.
So, still in perfect weather and perfect conditions, we gathered ourselves together and skied away.
Then, half way down an easy blue on the way for a cup of coffee, my ski came off on a turn. This is unusual, and not what skis are designed for. They’re designed to come off if you fall so your legs don’t contort and snap. Not when you’re on your feet skiing. I ploughed in. Thankfully it was a simple slope, not a tricky red, and I wasn’t motoring, so no harm done. I dusted myself off (again) and put my ski on. Skied five metres and it came off again. I fell over – now on the tired side of eating snow. Bugger. I tightened the bindings, just in case over the many years I’ve owned the equipment (boots = 25; skis = 10) they had loosened. Put my boot back on … and it popped out. Tried again. The same.
My boot had broken. The plastic lip that sticks out the front of the boot that clips under the binding had snapped off. There was no way I was skiing in that boot ever again.
But we were a good walk from a lift that could take us down the hill. Bugger. Again. Anyhow, coffee called. I walked and skidded, carrying skis and poles, down to the cafe and we sat down and discussed what to do next. A waiter came over and took our order. ‘Anything else?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a size 46 ski boot. This one’s broken.’ ‘I’ll ask.’ In a small isolated cafe in the back end of the ski area, closer to Switzerland than France. There were seven people in the cafe.
A new guy came out with a pair of Scarpa mountaineering boots. Bless him. I took a boot, squeezed my foot it (just), he showed me how the boot bindings worked, and asked for
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mmmm. New fashion …
nothing other than I return the boot. Bingo. We skied for the rest of the day and I bought some new boots in the resort when we got off the mountain.
Key lessons? Europeans are not all bad people. Many are hugely generous. I have to say it, but it’s true. You know we have never thought so … but just in case you needed an example. Second, don’t buy boots in the UK. Under any circumstances. I was for hiring a pair and buying from Decathlon when we got home. But I paid £200 for a sensible pair of Atomics – which are fab. If you remember C paid £240 for her Rossignol at Atwools and that was with a Black Friday reduction. I paid £200 in Chatel. Down in the valley I could have a got a pair for much less than that. And the range was fab.
So … we skied yesterday, all day. Took the boot back with a bottle of wine. And we’re resting today. We’re both still a little bit snotty and, after non-stop skiing yesterday, a break probably isn’t a bad idea.
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don’t, whatever you do, buy your boots in the UK. Top-resort price: Atomics for £200
Almost finished the overview of On The Back Foot To Hell and should get a clip of Unsuspecting Hero from my narrator by the weekend to check over. It’s all happening here …
