- Untitled
- The season begins
- Jan 2010
- Feb 2010
- March 2010
- April 2010
- May 2010
- Ski Pictures 2010
- June 2010
- July 2010
- August 2010
- September 2010
- October 2010
- Late October
- November
- December 2010
- January 2011
- February
- The European Youth Olympic Festival
- March 2011
- The season ends
- May and June 2011
- End of June
- July
- August in Yorkshire
- September 2011
- 28 October 2011
- November/December 2011
- Season 2012
- February 2012
- March and April
- June
- 'Summer' 2012
Getting closer
November arrived on the M62 in the pouring rain with Honi snuggled in the back, head on the oversize ski bag. Over the years I’ve come to detest the over-commercialised, sugar loaded frenzy that has replaced the apple bobbing and ‘ghost stories by the fire style’ Halloween of my childhood, but I am not sure that I would chose an evening in Liverpool airport as my first alternative. Still our five hour round trip was insignificant in the light of Issy’s mother’s marathon which involved taking the girls all the way from Liverpool to Saas Fee and flying over again two weeks later to meet them, in order to save the time and hassle and expensive involved in leaving from Heathrow.
And they skied 11 days out of a possible 12 so all in all it had to be labelled A Good Trip. And before succumbing to exhaustion our youngest, in her second year now a seasoned member of the team, regaled us with tales of jokes that were probably funny at the time and antics which seemed mainly to involve avoiding spinach and bed time. It’s great to see your kids do well, but the best times of all are when they say ‘Mum I really had fun.’
To my mind, October camp makes much more sense than summer. The next season is in sight, the kids have grown and got stronger, they are refreshed and motivated. And this year there was even snow.
With the 2010/11 season firmly in my sights I have been trying to grapple with conundrums such as ‘How do you fit ten pairs of skis in a Subaru? I have to keep reminding myself that the solution to ‘four elephants in a mini’: ‘two in the front and two in the back’ – is actually a joke and the truth is – you don’t. Nor am I using rose tinted spectacles to look back on those days in Flaine where the kids had two pairs of skis each, and they stayed in Flaine from one season to the next when the ‘old’ (one season!) skis become ‘rock bashers’ and the new skis were used for racing.
This year Sam and Honor are ‘Rossignol Riders’, and while the logistics of acquiring the specialised kit that Sam in particular needs (his ski boots are still in Albertville) has thrown me slightly, they are both thrilled to be sponsored by their chosen make. Honi has always been a Rossi girl but Sam spent several years on another ski, until the day he forgot to put them on the bus – quite an achievement of course, not his fault at all but a misunderstanding with another skier), borrowed some Rossignols and skied to a podium place in the Criterium (French regional’s).
So we have great kit, now we just have to lug it round the mountain. Up ‘til now we have been very clear: one pair of skis per child, per discipline (three at Children level). Now Sam is a Junior he has two slalom, two giant slalom, one SuperG and on Downhill, all currently adorning our living areas. Any mini bus companies out there? Or should I try to adapt the horse box?
There was life before ski-ing
I’m on the train back from Oxford where I watched Christian play for the Blues. Chuffed that he sent me a list of list of fixtures and looking at the ski travel schedule between now and Xmas I knew it was now or not til the Spring so booked a ticket, a room in his college and a small amount of time out.
I don’t get any better at travelling. I very nearly missed the train for a series of reasons all stemming from the fact that I misread the time and thought it was at seven not six, only realising my mistake when I came in from a beautiful if chilly hack with Honi at 5.05 p.m. Fifteen minutes later I was speeding to Darlington in a car with the petrol light on . My luck was in on the petrol front but out on the navigation as there was a massive bonfire celebration in the park en route. Panicking I took a wrong turn and ended up the wrong side of the station in a car park which charged for week-end parking (whereas my usual one does not) and a machine that I couldn’t work. Not having my glasses to hand did not help and caused me even more distress at the self-service ticket machine. There are still knights in shining armour, even in Darlington, a long suffering young man read my number out to me and I managed to run for the train. That was lucky break number two, counter balanced nicely by the absence of any catering facilities on the four hour journey, which actuallytook four and a half.
I’m not sure whether I was more pleased to see Christian or the M and S Food outlet still open at Oxford station. And when he said he needed to rush to the rink to get changed for the game I was very willing to spend an hour at the AMT coffee outlet with some take away goodies and a cup of green tea. Christian, however was concerned that I would be cold and bored so packed me off in the direction of college to check into my room, and wanting to be a well-behaved mother I went.
Twenty minutes later and lost in the centre of Oxford I reflected on how much more vomit and police presence there seemed to be around than in my student days. Or perhaps you don’t notice unpleasant things when you are 20? Half an hour later and apparently no nearer to my destination I wished that I sometimes had the courage of my convictions, or at least legs as long as my six foot son so I could walk in the wrong direction more effectively.
I just had time to dump my bag in my room, gazing longingly at the kettle and green tea bags, before setting of back to the rink which was the other side of the station. Already late by this time I risked a detour to see if the M and S was still open but it wasn’t and nor was AMT. Oh well, it’s not a true hockey game experience unless you are tired cold and hungry.
By the second period I was none of the three above. I was ten years back in Beijing, at seven a.m on a Saturday morning, with a small, not exceptionally athletic, boy, in his first ‘Dairy Queen’ sponsored yellow hockey shirt with a look of determination on his face. I was helping Honi totter on skates underground at the grotty speed skating rink by Ditan Park, where I took Christian for the extra lessons with a member of the Chinese National team because he so wanted to be good. I was freezing in Harbin on the Chinese/Russian borders, where, aged 13 Christian, opted to spend three months in a the Chinese National ice hockey school, sleeping on a straw mattress in dormitory for eight and eating from a tin bowl so he could have access to more ice and better training.
I was even further back, in Slough, with the Indian mother who confused the Mighty Ducks with Donald Duck and took a group of four year olds to watch the ice hockey classic. Only Christian, she said, sat mesmerised, eating his popcorn eyes fixed on the screen. The only thing that has changed is that these days he would not touch popcorn. And the sport that he loves has found its right place in his full life. As I watched the familiar form skate, block and check, and even score from defence, and knock up a couple of penalties against boys (men?) who must have had 30 kilos on him, I remembered the highs and the lows of our first venture into competitive sport for kids. He won his share of games and awards but there were also defeats and missed selections. At sixteen could have gone to Canada but he chose to continue the tedious commute to Whitley Bay and perserve with his A levels. At the moment it seems he made the right decision and, while he will never be a professional, all those hours shooting pucks in garage were not wasted. He seemed to impress the Christian fan club on my left and the cheer when he got ‘man of the match’ was tremendous.
We walked back through Oxford at two in the morning in the pouring rain with Christian waxing lyrical on how one can write a whole essay on one line from John Stuart Mill while I quizzed him about his team mates and what he ate for breakfast. It was only when I fell into bed in that I realised how much I was looking forward to mine.
Don't mention the S word
The DHL delivery contained six pairs of skis but only five sets of bindings (and one of those without bolts). Of course we did not notive this until the night that we had booked to take them to Snow and Rock to drill them. Hence two pairs of Sam's skis are still in Newcastle - an additional set of bindings has been source in Hillingdon (thanks to Paul Telling and Ski Bartlett) but I am still chasing the bolts.
Honi is still waiting on one set of slalom skis and I have just realised that .her SuperG skis are in Flaine and she is booked to go on a speed camp in ten days time.