“That’s insanity!” stated a local shopkeeper happily when I mentioned my winter sports adventure. A reasonable reaction since recently I was shopping on walking aids following a hip replacement. Acquaintances from my sister’s circle were even more worried: “How old are you? 80? I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ll take a tumble and get injured.” My brother, Andrew, 86, opted it was wiser not to tell anyone.
A Hidden Desire
For twenty years or more I held a quiet longing to undertake a final winter sports adventure. A final fix of sunny weather, chilly air and the excitement that accompanies making it down safely at the base of a white hill. My ability was limited, and decades had passed since my last ski outing, but that didn’t matter. At 83, I needed to see if my body could manage. And if I could do it, why not ask Kate, my sister, one-third of our Old Crones group who encourage each other to do parkrun each week? It then occurred to me that, during our younger days, my brother had accompanied me on my initial winter sports trip. Sixty-seven years had passed, but Andrew had some talent, so I included him in the plans. A companion named Penny, who is remarkably youthful (67, so she says) that she doesn’t really count, was also allowed to come and test her skills among the seniors and improve her language skills. Each of us worked to enhance our fitness levels, but skiing was a distant memory for four decades or more.
Choosing the Destination
Seefeld, in Tirol near Innsbruck, was the spot we selected, as it has many snowy pastimes – assuming we’d survive our two-hour lesson on the first day (which, to be honest, was the extent of our alpine skiing) – and is blissfully lacking in post-skiing parties. It attracts families rather than boisterous teens, and is quintessentially Austrian, with onion-domed churches and wooden cabins. Our accommodation was the cozy, independently owned a charming inn and we dined somewhere new every night.
“It’s known as Kaiserwetter,” said Janina, our guide when I commented we were astonished by our fortune at rising every day to cloudless skies, pleasant rays and lots of powder for early March.
Everyone acted as if just to be excited, without any concern, as we hopped on a coach to the winter sports zone. It was packed with young people and families with winter gear and glowing with vitality. I suspected the young man assisting with our rental equipment looking doubtful at the situation.
I expected to slip immediately upon setting off. Yet I remained upright. No one fell.
Ulrich, our teacher, who had been told we were older, smiled bravely as we trudged over. We were talking a bit too loudly, grinning excessively, perhaps trying to postpone the time when we had to attach our boots to the skis. Inwardly, I was sure I’d take a spill immediately upon starting. However, I remained upright. Everyone else stayed up too. Ulrich remained calm, allowing us sufficient time at each stage of the lesson to become more confident.
Modern Skiing Advances
Current ski equipment is more user-friendly, I discovered – more compact, lighter weight with curved tips – than the long, cumbersome things I remember from the 60s that always made me fall off the ski lift. We assumed we’d be barred on a any type of cable car, so expected to painstakingly climb the slope and ski down, falling over in the process. That was the method back in 1958. Yet there existed a fantastic contemporary contraption, a conveyor belt, or moving walkway, that carried us smoothly to the peak of the novice run, which was filled with brave kids. No other grown-ups were present.
Two hours later, not one of us had taken a spill, had everyone performed adequate plow maneuvers and even an attempt at parallel skiing. We were euphoric. “That was just amazing!” remarked Andrew, who doesn’t usually exaggerate.
Additional Adventures
Would we have handled a whole week of skiing? Perhaps, but the range of options found in the area was more attractive. Trails were available around several bodies of water, buses giving us access to ridiculously picturesque villages, and the “snowy walk to the alpine hut, a 4.6-kilometer hike with toboggan return”, as the information pack casually described it.
After viewing Olympic events, Kate and I knew all about sledding. One sprints behind, propelling the sled, then jump aboard and speed downward on your front at paces matching fast vehicles. Our guide offered reassurance. Don’t be anxious: we’d sit on the sled and direct it with our boots. However, we were nervous. Andrew chose not to participate but we others persevered.
A man in a scarlet onesie zoomed past yelling back about Kate.
As a 12-year-old it was exhausting pulling our family’s DIY toboggan up a local hill in Buckinghamshire in our childhood winters, and as a senior it felt draining pulling a somewhat lighter sled uphill in oxygen-depleted air (the mountain restaurant, a classic mountain lodge and farmstead, is at 1,410 meters) for nearly 3 miles. I lagged behind, complaining quietly about senior limitations. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm
