March 2015

Skiing is a strange pastime. You drive endless hours to get to a mountain somewhere, dress up in outfits that make you look like the Michelin man in a space cadet’s armour, only to let yourself get literally dragged into an environment that is as harsh as any you’re likely to find; an ascent into hell.

It’s the Greek version, an icy inferno, featureless save for the stunted, gnarled trees that the relentless winds whip into submission, like howling demons tormenting the shadows of dead people. You assume the foetal position, curled up in the lift, questioning your sanity for submitting yourself to this torture, your extremities going blue in the whiteout, and then suddenly you’ve reached the summit, and it all makes sense as you enter a powdery paradise.

It’s Fifty Shades of White*, and you might as well be blindfolded as you hurl yourself down the slope, your body moving instinctively, hard steel against sinuous curves, skis caressing the snow, nothing existing but the sounds and the feeling of your body against the land itself.

It’s elemental, exhilarating and exhausting, and it’s over in a matter of minutes, only for the process to begin again. Insane? Maybe, but they say being in love is temporary insanity, and I’m in love with skiing.
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* Like all good SM-relationships, you get as much out of it as you’re prepared to put into it, but this mistress doesn’t take any crap; one false move and you wipe out. Or so I’m told.