Publication: Glasgow Evening Times Date: 2008-01-11 Author: Abigail Jackson
Abigail Jackson travels to the Austrian Tyrol to try skiing for the first time.
I've always been slightly envious of people who ski. In the dreary gloom of winter, they’re buzzing with pre-holiday excitement; gleefully checking weather reports before jetting off to the mountains, returning days later rosy-cheeked and elated – while the rosy of us battle the winter blues.
I longed to discover the secrets of the slopes, the mysterious joys of après ski. As an adult ski virgin I was pretty sure I had left it too late. Skiers have been doing it all their lives – how would I ever learn now? Even the language of skiing was foreign; I thought salopettes were a fancy kitchen utensil.So when I was offered the chance to try the sport with four days in Kirchberg, in the Austrian Tyrol, I couldn't believe it – now I too had a reason to like January! But it wasn't long before doubts set in…
My approach to packing has always been a last-minute, mad-dash affair. Sift through wardrobe the night before and shove anything into the case that fits. Doesn't work with skiing. Getting the right gear was the first challenge. Even the socks had to be right. Thankfully, you can get most of it fairly cheaply on the high street these days.
Friends advised me to do leg exercises in advance, to avoid the dreaded "calf burn", as one colleague put it. I didn’t have time. Days before setting off, I read an article about common ski injuries, and the importance of remembering: "skiing is a sport". What was I getting myself into?
On the 90-minute transfer from Innsbruck airport to the large village of Kirchberg, I discover that all the other members of my group are experienced skiers and quite at home talking about red runs, powder and drifts. But a hearty welcome meal sorts me out. Austrian foods is wholesome and meaty – heaven for a carnivore like me.
The holiday kicks off with some evening tobogganing. And that's when I start to feel the magic!
Snow! Glorious, fluffy, white snow! I fell like I'm five-years-old again; overcome with delirious joy at the sight of it. And tobogganing is just like sledging when you're a kid. Only when you swap a hill for a mountain, it's a million times better!
After two runs, I've developed an acute taste for speed and can't wait to hit the slopes in the morning. But before that happens, there are a few more necessities to tackle.First off, getting kicked out with skis and boots. Just carrying the things back to the hotel is and ordeal. Getting to the slopes from Kirchberg requires a short, free bus ride. I'm told most beginners start off on nursery slopes with group lessons. But I'm lucky enough to get a private instructor and we head straight to a blue run.
She starts off teaching me the plough, a position which enables beginners to glide down the slope slowly. I feel like a Bambi taking his first wobbly steps. "Whatever you do, don't lean back", my instructor advises, "or you’ll be straight on your backside". Apparently it's one of the biggest mistakes beginners make. Thankfully, I don't have a problem with this. But maintaining any degree of control is still impossible and I end up falling over anyway.
I ski-hobble my way tentatively down the slope, baffled at how everyone else makes it look so easy. When four-year-olds start whizzing past fearlessly I am slightly embarrassed.
After a couple of hours, I manage to make it to the bottom of the run in one go, albeit very slowly. By the end of the afternoon I'm exhausted, glad I've got the first time out of the way but frustrated at being a beginner. Skiing is difficult.
Later, a guide from the tourist office gives me a tour of Kirchberg. It's delightful, clean and picturesque, a quieter alternative to nearby Kitzbühel. Our base is a traditional family run business. Its rooms are basic but comfortable, the staff lovely and food delicious. In the evening we sample a local restaurant and the longed-for delights of après-ski. After being very well fed, we hit the bars – where fellow skiers, swelling with the satisfaction of a day on the slopes, knock back drinks to the sounds of cheesy Euro pop and lively conversation. I could get used to this.
Next day, it's back on the slopes. This time my instructor is a middle-aged Ausie, who taught himself to ski in his 20s. I asked if many people learn to ski later in life. "Loads", he says. "We even get people taking it up in their 60s. That's the beauty of skiing. All ages can learn and you don’t have to be super fit".
He takes me higher up the mountain and as I step out of the gondola, the ski-bug starts to bite. It begins with a lung-full of the freshest air ever, followed by a shock of awe as I clap eyes on the view. No wonder the mountains have such a hold over people. It's an incredible sight.
We start with the plough again then he teaches me turning and edging. My confidence grows and I start to relax and pick up speed on the slopes. "Look up" he says. "You're missing it". And that's when it really hits. I’m falling in love. But like many whirlwind romances, I soon hit an obstacle with a jolt. I smash into another skier sideways on and tumble about 100 yards. Thankfully, adrenalin numbs the pain.
Hiring a privative instructor can be more costly than ski school lessons, but it's definitely worth it for adult beginners – by the end of the week I have the hang of the basics. On our final day we take a 10-minute train ride to Kitzbühel and arrive just ahead of the famous Hahnekamm World Cup Men's Downhill Ski Race. The town is bustling; the racers are real heroes, like Premier League Footballers in the UK. The excitement swallows me up and I feel really privileged to be here. We end our trip with an evening horse-drawn sleigh ride. Our destination, of course, is a tavern – where we warm up with hot chocolate and rum.
I return home tired and bruised. But I'm also rosy-cheeked, and utterly elated. Welcome to the club.
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