Wimps aren’t welcome at the Winter Olympics |
My family skied a lot. We did it home-style, with packed lunches and Mars Bars on the lifts, my brother and me following my expert Milan-raised father down terrifying drops of ice in the twilight. We took our chances on low or no visibility, scraping round mountainous moguls and – my least favourite – careering through the root, stone and tree-stuffed terrain of the arboreal American off-piste. We wore the least trendy gear imaginable: huge foam-rimmed goggles already years old in the Nineties and never any hint of a helmet. Nobody but over-protective, scaredy-cat dorks wore helmets then.
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This background gave me two things. One: an intimate physical knowledge of the agony and ecstasy of ice and snow, the speed and the pain, the fear and the thrill, and how far you can strain a thigh muscle. Two: a sense of awe and envy of those people who manage to look cool, pretty, unruffled and athletic on snow and ice. Atop blade or skate (or even sledge), so very much embarrassment can ensue – from wardrobe malfunctions to losing control with your legs akimbo, to say nothing of the risk of serious injury.
And so, I ask, how can the Winter........