And too much was never enough
I’m writing this in bed. It’s early morning and the view is spectacular, because it’s been snowing all night, as well as all day yesterday. Today is going to be a good day.
There are many perks to staying here but one of the best has to be a personal ski guide for the week – a human piste map. We’re spending our days with the lovely Tom, who is expertly moving us around the resort, entertaining us and for whom I am happy to set aside all my feminist principles when he offers to carry my skis.
We’re already three days in. We’ve had a sunny day, a whiteout day and some moody stuff in between. Today looks like it’s going to be spectacular, with a ton of fresh powder and sunshine forecast from late morning.
Mont Chéry has my name all over it – the best red run of anywhere I’ve skied so far and a playground for my off piste loving husband.
I wasn’t well for a few weeks before we came out and arrived feeling distinctly post viral, having not been able to do any exercise at all for three weeks. As always, the mountains have worked their magic and, three days in, I feel like a different person.
There’s a switch in my brain that seems to click when I’m skiing down something that isn’t too technical or mogully (and there have been plenty of both this past couple of days) or running something relatively easy, where I go into a kind of trance and my subconscious mind untangles whatever it believes needs to be sorted out. Not always, of course, what I *want* it to sort out. Even my brain goes its own way, it seems.
I’m not renowned for having an off switch. This can be a bit of a double edged sword in almost every aspect of my life, but never more so when hurling myself down mountains at high speed. Nick’s far more circumspect than I am, seemingly knowing exactly when to call it a day.
Nonetheless, when our 35 year old ski guide hauled me off the hill yesterday afternoon because he was knackered, I took that as a massive win for this middle aged woman who just can’t get enough.
