Just before Christmas we packed the snow chains into the car and headed up to the mountains. We were off to Big Bear, a mere two hours from Los Angeles. Still under a travel arrangement ban after the Needles fiasco I was more than happy to leave all the organization to my husband and he had lovingly selected this old style resort for its close proximity to home and its excellent early season ski-ing. The local TV channel had only announced the day before that Big Bear had the best early snow in the whole of America and there were long lines at the rental shop to prove it.
American ski-resorts are certainly very different from their European counterparts –a diet pepsi in a slopeside 1950’s style diner doesn’t really live up to my après-ski fantasy of sipping a warm mug of gluhwein in some cosy Alpine hostelry – but the snow, and the sunshine, were plentiful.
This year I didn’t attempt any ski-ing myself. I’ve accepted that for me ski-ing works better as a spectator sport. I’ve tried my best and quite simply my best is not good enough. Personally I think the family have no right to mock my inadequacy – in my opinion the ability to zip down a mountainside like Franz Klammer is not one of life’s necessities.
I see no pleasure in tumbling down a hillside head first to the raucous laughter of snowboarding teenagers - I don’t need that kind of humiliation in my life, nor do I want the subsequent medical bills. It's not that I'm not active and fit but I do have an aversion to height and speed. In addition I totally lack the eye-hand co-ordination and competitive edge needed for any degree of sporting achievement.
One of the reasons I signed up for my recent golf lessons was because I thought, how difficult can that be? It’s a game specifically designed for the elderly with no element of risk or danger involved. They say the younger you take up a sport the quicker you pick it up. It made sense to start now so that by the time I reach retirement age hopefully I’ll be just as good as everyone else.
One of the reasons I signed up for my recent golf lessons was because I thought, how difficult can that be? It’s a game specifically designed for the elderly with no element of risk or danger involved. They say the younger you take up a sport the quicker you pick it up. It made sense to start now so that by the time I reach retirement age hopefully I’ll be just as good as everyone else.
I made it through my first five lessons with great success and was well chuffed with myself until I ventured onto the golf course. However, as I am now the proud owner of my own set of clubs and a smart pink golf bag, even though I may not look like a pro when I take a swing, at least I look the part when I’m stationary.
And realistically I could say the same about ski-ing. After all I have the outfit, but not the ability. There were plenty of other non-skiers hanging about on the slopes at Big Bear, posing in their sallopettes with their sunglasses on, basking in that Californian sunshine. I too could have easily pretended that I had just returned from a speedy descent and was taking a break sipping my coke, perhaps waiting for the rest of the family to catch up. But unfortunately the teenager developed a suspicious sore throat and insisted we retreat to the cafe with a book - a definite give-away that we were not there to ski, and on the second day we didn't even make it out of the hotel room.
Still, back home in Pasadena the next day my husband complained of apres-ski aches and pains, he had developed a high altitude wheeze and cough that he couldn't shake off and finally he took to his bed for the rest of the Christmas week. Who says all this sporting activity is good for you?!
And realistically I could say the same about ski-ing. After all I have the outfit, but not the ability. There were plenty of other non-skiers hanging about on the slopes at Big Bear, posing in their sallopettes with their sunglasses on, basking in that Californian sunshine. I too could have easily pretended that I had just returned from a speedy descent and was taking a break sipping my coke, perhaps waiting for the rest of the family to catch up. But unfortunately the teenager developed a suspicious sore throat and insisted we retreat to the cafe with a book - a definite give-away that we were not there to ski, and on the second day we didn't even make it out of the hotel room.
Still, back home in Pasadena the next day my husband complained of apres-ski aches and pains, he had developed a high altitude wheeze and cough that he couldn't shake off and finally he took to his bed for the rest of the Christmas week. Who says all this sporting activity is good for you?!
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