I think it's safe to say I am skiing like a total retard at the moment.
It doesn't help that I am so terrified of shagging my knee off again that I have my din settings set to 5. This means they come off when I crash. Which is great. It also means they come off if I'm ever approaching a dip followed by a sudden rise in the piste at any kind of speed. The problem is I don't trust my shaky technique enough to set them any higher, which basically means I'm just eating snow the entire time.
SbH has become annoyingly good on skis. He can do that thing where you ski on one leg and is always off 'hucking' things with various hairy reprobates one of which told us on the chairlift today with some pride that the evening before he had fallen asleep with his face still in the girl's growler. Excellent story. Glad to see modus operandi around here is just as it should be. Sadly, though, that was the extent of amusing chairlift chat for me today because shortly thereafter they whizzed off down the back of something steep and inaccessible which I had no hope of surviving intact and since I'm too mortally embarrassed to actually ski with anyone else I know I spent the rest of the afternoon sulking on my own. Well, that was until the aforementioned din-setting issue reared its ugly head again and I found my nose connecting with the piste most unexpectedly after executing a perfectly reasonable left hand turn.
To the obliging punter who retrieved my ski for me, I'd like to say 'Thanks, but no thanks'. I knew he was going to fuck it up the moment he ground to an inexpert bandy-legged, splayed-armed halt a few feet from it and started prodding it ineffectually with his pole like a child poking a dead rat. He eventually managed to actually pick it up (you know, with his hands) and, you could call it - I wouldn't - skied towards me with it. Sadly though he found himself unable to stop. When he realised he was going to miss where I was by a good 20 metres he simply shied it at me with such incredible force that it bounced off my helmet then slid off again down the piste, ending up further away from me than it had been in the first place.
"Er....sorry," he said, as his compatriot came shooting past me and showered me with snow.
"Don't worry. Thanks" I said, waving a hand and wishing they would both just fuck off and stop making the situation worse / more humiliating.
This week there seems to be an inordinate number of fucktarded punters of this ilk veering about like lunatics with the sole intent of taking me out. Inevitably when skiing down a narrow pathway I always find I'm quite a bit faster than the average skier leaving me no choice but to stick to the very edge of the way or whizz through the gaps whenever possible. Why is it that just at the moment you do this, the aforementioned punter feels the need to put in another completely pointless traverse so that you are left no choice but to cut them up brutally and / or ski over their tips? I mean, how many fucking turns do you need to fit into this 3 metre-wide Norfolk-flat pathway? Are you going for a record?
...Oh and woe betide you if you're one of these types and you get caught in the path / slipstream of an express train of seasonnaires trying to do a 10 minute red run in 2 minutes 43 in order to get back to the chalet in time for tea. You'll be blown off the hill.