“You’re insane!” exclaimed Caroline the greengrocer happily when I told her my winter sports adventure. A rational reply since not so long ago I was seen on walking aids following a hip replacement. Acquaintances from my sister’s circle were more concerned: “How old are you? In your eighties? I don’t think this is a smart move. You’ll fall and break something.” My elder brother Andrew, aged 86, chose it was better not to tell a soul.
A Buried Desire
For twenty years or more I’d had a half-buried wish to experience a final winter sports adventure. A concluding dose of blue sky, chilly air and the thrill that follows making it down safely at the base of a white hill. I wasn’t very skilled, and it had been years since I last skied, but that was irrelevant. Now in my eighties, I wanted to find out if I was still capable. If it worked out, what about including my sibling Kate, a member of our senior women’s club who motivate one another to participate in weekly runs? It then occurred to me that, in our youth, Andrew came along on my first ski holiday. That was 67 years ago, but Andrew had some talent, so I included him in the plans. My friend Penny, who is surprisingly spry (claiming to be 67) that she doesn’t really count, was invited along and test her skills among the seniors and improve her language skills. We all made an effort to become more physically prepared, but not one had been on skis for at least 40 years.
Picking the Location
Seefeld, located in the Tirol region, was the spot we selected, as it provides diverse cold-weather pursuits – if we managed to get through our two-hour lesson on the opening day (which, to be honest, was the extent of our alpine skiing) – and is wonderfully free of après-ski malarky. It draws in family groups rather than partying youngsters, and is characteristically Austrian, with distinctive church steeples and alpine-style homes. We stayed at the welcoming, family-operated Hotel Helga and we tried various eateries nightly.
“We call this Kaiserwetter,” remarked our guide Janina when I commented we couldn’t believe our luck at waking each morning to cloudless skies, sunshine and abundant snowfall for the beginning of March.
We were all pretending just to be eager, completely unafraid, as we took a bus to the slopes. It was packed with families and youngsters with winter gear and glowing with vitality. It seemed the staff member assisting with our rental equipment rolling his eyes at the challenge.
I was sure I’d fall over immediately upon setting off. However, I stayed on my feet. No one fell.
The instructor, Ulrich, who had been informed about our senior status, grinned courageously as we stomped towards him. Our voices were somewhat raised, beaming widely, maybe attempting to delay the moment when we had to clamp our feet on to the skis. Inside, I felt certain I’d fall over as soon as I moved. But I didn’t. Everyone else stayed up too. Ulrich remained calm, giving us enough time at every part of the tutorial to build our self-assurance.
Modern Skiing Advances
Modern skis are much easier to manage, I discovered – more compact, lighter weight with curved tips – than the long, cumbersome things I recalled from the sixties that often led to lift mishaps. We knew we would not be trusted on a lift of any sort, so thought we’d have to laboriously herringbone up the hill and ski down, falling over in the process. It worked like that in the fifties. But here there was a marvelous modern invention, a moving walkway, or automated track, that conveyed us effortlessly to the top of the gentle beginners’ slope, which was crowded with daring youngsters. We stood out as the sole seniors.
Once the lesson ended, we remained upright throughout, had everyone performed adequate plow maneuvers and even a version of side-by-side turns. We were euphoric. “It was truly wonderful!” said Andrew, who doesn’t usually exaggerate.
Additional Adventures
Could we have managed a full seven days on the slopes? Maybe, but the variety of activities found in the area was more attractive. Trails were available around various lakes, shuttles providing entry to incredibly scenic towns, and the “cold-weather trek to Hämmermoosalm, a 4.6-kilometer hike with toboggan return”, as the brochure nonchalantly explained.
Being familiar with winter sports, we two were aware of sledding techniques. One sprints behind, propelling the sled, then leap on and hurtle down on your front at speeds rivalling a Formula One car. Janina provided comfort. No cause for concern: we’d sit on the sled and steer with our feet. However, we were nervous. Andrew chose not to participate but the rest of us continued.
Someone wearing crimson overalls zoomed past shouting something over his shoulder about Kate.
When I was twelve it was exhausting pulling our family’s DIY toboggan up a local hill in the English county in our wintry youth, and now in my eighties it felt draining dragging a reduced-weight toboggan uphill in thin mountain air (the mountain restaurant, a customary high-altitude retreat, is at 1,410 metres) for nearly 3 miles. I fell behind, grumbling under my breath about my age being a hindrance. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm
