I’ve got a new boss/department head at work.
He’s been with us a few weeks, but due to his induction course, meetings at our Norwegian Head Office, my two week leave and sundry other inconveniences, we hardly spoke more than a couple of pleasantries until he returned from said Norwegian sojourn.
So, a couple of Monday’s ago, he made a point of coming to see me with a view to scheduling a “getting to know you” chat.
Him: “Good Morning!”
Me: “Good Morning. How was Norway?”
Him: “Very Norwegian…”
We’ll come to the completion of that sentence later.
In January 2005, I was called upon to attend a couple of meetings in Norway myself, over a couple of days and therefore meaning an overnight stay.
Of course that imposes upon the hosts to make some sort of arrangements to “entertain” their guests for the evening.
Four of us were going, although just three of us travelled together, the fourth having arrived earlier in the week.
The trip was some weeks in the planning, and so a regular contact (and colleague) of mine in the Norwegian office, whom we shall call “Ingrid”, because that’s her name, had (half-jokingly?) suggested she take me skiing.
I’m sure I had mentioned in the past that I enjoyed skiing very much – to watch – but I had never so much as gone near a pair of skis in my life, never mind actually practiced the art!
Nevertheless, and I hope not too eagerly, I jumped at the opportunity, thereby committing Ingrid into taking a complete novice out on to the white stuff.
I should point out that this was Nordic (cross-country) rather than Alpine (downhill) so I was perfectly safe.
A little closer to the occasion, about the day before I think, I let Ingrid know that one of my companions, whom we shall call “John”, because that’s his name, was also keen to come. John had done some skiing before, but only Alpine, if I recall correctly.
My other two colleagues, whom we shall not name because they’re a pair of big wusses decided not to join us. (Actually, Ingrid may have breathed a secret sigh of relief over this as it meant she didn’t have to scrabble together another two pairs of skis!)
So, we arrived in Norway, actually on the evening prior to the first meeting, had ourselves delivered to the hotel, took a drink at the bar, and then (in my case at least) retired for the night to prepare for being up at some ungodly hour the next morning.
Ungodly o’clock unduly arrived and I went down to the breakfast room for Barely-awake thirty, to fuel up for the day. I seem to recall the fayre was very pleasant indeed. At least that’s what I remember from between the snoring.
Breakfast taken, it was back to my room to get ready for our taxi to take us the short trip to the office in time to start our day, Norwegian-style, at the hour of What-time-do-you-call-this. (I think it is generally known as eight o’clock, but that might be a scurrilous rumour.)
Everyone assembled, our meeting started – our attention maintained and concentration sustained by copious coffee and biscuits.
By 11:00am I am just about coming round, when it is universally decided that it is lunchtime!
We are escorted down to the canteen, with an easterly aspect over the fjord, and partake of a very unusual lunch.
Most of the food was recognisable, but it was just somehow very strange. I joined in the spirit by serving myself some fish, a poached egg, some processed cheese and a piece of toast with a glass of milk.
Replete, and with a little time to spare, it was an opportunity to shake hands with a few familiar faces (shake their hands, that is, not their faces!), and to put faces to a few familiar names, before returning to the office for the after(only just)noon session.
More coffee-fuelled work, until at about 1:30pm moves are afoot for a waffle-break. These people never stop eating, it seems!
Sure enough, by two of the clock, sweet warm waffles have arrived (about a million) accompanied by processed brown goats’ cheese. (The cheese was brown, I am unable to confirm the colour of the goats.) Another odd combination… but when in Rome…
(Mind you… the Romans eat pizza!)
The early start meant an early finish, at least for we guests, and so approaching four in the afternoon, plans were being hatched for the evening.
Our hosts had decided to take us to the Kukuriet (spelt from memory) for the evening meal. I must say the food was rather excellent, as indeed was the company. I don’t recall the entire menu, but I took advantage of the opportunity to try Reindeer, which of course I would find difficult to track down in Blighty.
(I’ve since discovered that I could have gone to the Reindeer Inn about 12 miles from where I live, between home and work, which specialises in Reindeer, apparently!)
My starter was something fishy-soupy and jolly tasty, and Rudolph arrived, sans antlers, in a blackcurrant sauce with various fried accompaniments.
(You must excuse me while I wipe up the drool.)
Ingrid, although not part of the meeting, had joined us, because we arrived at the restaurant hot-foot from our skiing adventure, which, I can now inform you, is the pertinent subject of this particular dissertation.
Yes, the skiing.
Although it was the back-end of January, this part of southern Norway hadn’t been blessed with what the locals count as snow, there being barely an inch of the stuff lying on the ground.
Nevertheless, Ingrid had a plan.
She supplied myself and John with ski-boots, and arrived at the hotel in her car, with the skis and poles in the back, and the rear split-seat half lowered to accommodate said equipment.
Now, if my memory serves me, I was to use some skis Ingrid had borrowed from a colleague, whom we shall call “Tor”, because I can’t remember what his name really is and that was the first Norwegian one I could think of, John was to use Ingrid’s skis and Ingrid was to use her (tall) husband’s.
There are reasons for this, partly to do with the boots, (certain types of ski only go with certain types of boot), and partly to do with correlating height with ski length.
Now remember that, because it comes up again soon. (Hopefully, I’ve remembered it right, but frankly, it’s a wonder I can remember anything at all!!!)
Anyway, we all climb in to Ingrid’s car. Ingrid (about 5 feet 5) driving, of course, John (similar height) alongside, me (6 feet) in the back.
I moved the football out of the footwell, and then noticed the seat had something of a booster on it. So I tried to fold it down… no… OK back… no… ri-i-i-ght, sideways then… hmmmph… I know, I’ll lift it off… no… er… oh.
Wanting to avoid, in equal measure, sounding rude and sounding like an idiot, I took the option of sitting on the booster, and merely looking like an idiot, with my head cocked to one side and shoulders hunched up under the car roof. If you’ve seen DJ Spiller in the phone box in the “Groovejet” video, you’ll get the picture! (I’ve since found out that Ingrid, who didn’t notice during either car journey, found the seat boosted a few days later, remembered I must’ve been sitting on it, and had fits of laughter imagining how I must’ve looked.)
We drove out of town to a ski run at a place called Stokke. It just so happened, that in spite of the lack of snow, there was a prepared track for an upcoming competition.
In good snow conditions, there are extensive runs that travel through the forest, but at this time just a 1 km circular track had been prepared.
We arrived, to find there were a good few people already there, including one of the local ski clubs out training, some of whose members were on the other side of 12 from me, it appeared.
The weather was superb skiing weather (for a Brit) and I was fully kitted up with thermals and gloves and hat and numerous layers.
We attached skis, which was a challenge in itself, and made our way onto the circuit.
The start of the route was straight, and so tracks were cut into the snow for placement of skis. In classical Nordic style, on the straight, the skis are progressed forward through a combination of leg thrusts and arm pushes, and (can) stay completely within the tracks.
The track itself undulated, but, as expected, was generally flat.
Now the Norwegian attitude (or is it Ingrid’s attitude?) to “I’ve never skied before in my life” is “Go on, you’ll be fine”!
So I set off.
It took me about thirty yards to fall over.
Ingrid (kindly) said it was because I had the wrong kind of wax on my skis.
I picked myself up, and continued, fell over again, couldn’t stop laughing, and carried on in this vein, repeating the sequence numerous times, for another 40 yards or so.
On about the 763rd fall, Ingrid (I think she had caught me up again after completing a lap) noticed that the “catch” on one of my skis was missing, presumed broken. (Their owner, Tor, later said it was missing all along. I think he was being nice.) Ingrid decided the best solution was to change skis.
Now this is where it gets really complicated!
After all the change-arounds, I ended up with Ingrid’s skis (Ingrid’s skis wouldn’t go with John’s boots) – right wax, professional skis, too short. John ended up with Ingrid’s husband’s skis – right wax, professional skis, too long. Ingrid ended up with Tor’s skis – wrong wax, beginner’s skis, wrong length.
OK… we made our way to the end of the straight.
On a corner, the ski action changes to more of a skating action, and so the cut ski-tracks are no use and disappear.
Of course, this means I have to get round the hairpin corner without assistance. Now, to be fair, I managed this, although rather in the style of Bambi on stilts!
Oh, by the way, you should be aware that all this time, everyone else is ripping past me (and John) at about 50 miles per hour – no exaggeration!
So we negotiate the bend, and the tracks begin again, at the head of a double-crested slope.
Hang on! I thought this was going to be flat! This was like skiing off a four-storey house!!!
Well, John went first, and much to his credit he successfully negotiated the drop, coming to a stop a few (hundred?) yards ahead.
Right, my turn.
Never been on skis before, remember!
I slowly push off.
Hey! This is alright!
OK, I’m a bit wobbly, for sure, but I think I’m going to make it.
Erm… wait a moment, I don’t know how to stop.
John is still in the tracks ahead of me… about a mile ahead of me it is true, but I don’t seem to be slowing down.
I took the self-sacrificial decision to deliberately fall.
Well, deliberate or not, I still couldn’t get up. Cross-country ski poles are about 9 feet long (with a four inch nails in the end, by the way!) and absolutely useless for getting up with. Well at least in my hands.
Nine year old kids are tearing past me, hurdling my flailing limbs, while Ingrid and John do the best to help me to my feet.
After some struggle, this mission is accomplished, and we complete the lap, which entails ascending a similarly house-sized slope to get back to our starting position.
“Do we want to go round again?” asks Ingrid.
Well, of course we do!!!!
So John and I set of on lap 2, Ingrid on lap 835.
This top straight stretch is a doddle now, now that I’ve got the right wax! Only fell twice!
Now the hairpin.
Well, I fell to the inside, got my skis crossed one way and my legs crossed the other and my poles crossed a third.
John is standing perhaps eight feet away, and said with all seriousness, and all honesty (albeit laughing his head off!) “I’d like to help you but I can’t get to you.”
Ingrid is off on another lap.
Fortunately, after about twenty minutes, I manage to untangle myself. My limbs are getting rather tired now, and I don’t have a prayer of levering myself up. But, help is at hand, as there is a large metal mesh of the type used to reinforce concrete that I can use as a support.
It takes a while, but I’m typing now, so I must’ve managed it.
We (me and John) stagger around the corner, and reach the top of “that” slope again.
John goes first again.
Now John did fall a couple of times on the course, it is true, but I think he managed the slope both times without incident.
My turn now. And now I know what I’m doing!
So, I push off.
Hands low and forward, I feel like I’m doing 100 miles an hour (although I suspect it was nearer 20), trying to keep my centre of gravity down.
Bit wobbly, but I’ll be OK as soon as I’ve cleared this second cre… WHHHHOOOOOOAAAAA!!!!!!!
As this crest lipped up, I lost my balance and went careening through the air. I distinctly remember looking “down” at my skis, only to realise that I’m looking up at them against a background of sky!
I am told there was much clear air between me and the snow.
I came crashing down, lost both poles and I think one ski (although I’m a bit hazy about he precise details) and ripping the backside out of my overtrousers. Fortunately dignity, such as it was, was preserved by the remaining layers.
At this point John from the bottom, and Ingrid from the top arrived to ensure I was OK… but they were absolutely killing themselves laughing!
I was uninjured – I mean, I had so much padding on you could’ve hit me with a truck and I wouldn’t’ve felt it – so after gathering together all my belongings and most of my faculties, we struggled up the final incline to complete lap two. Or 848 for Ingrid.
There wasn’t time for another round, so we headed back to the town and on to our aforementioned dinner date, where, of course, much fun was enjoyed, particularly by myself, regaling everyone else with my escapade.
Without doubt, my skiing experience was quite the most exhilarating and quite the most ridiculously stupid thing I have ever done in my life – and I would do it again in a heartbeat.
Anyway, I’ve got a new boss/department head at work.
He’s been with us a few weeks, but due to his induction course, meetings at our Norwegian Head Office, my two week leave and sundry other inconveniences, we hardly spoke more than a couple of pleasantries until he returned from said Norwegian sojourn.
So, a couple of Monday’s ago, he made a point of coming to see me with a view to scheduling a “getting to know you” chat.
Him: “Good Morning!”
Me: “Good Morning. How was Norway?”
Him: “Very Norwegian… I heard about your skiing!”
!!!!
