The Down(hill) Side to Overconfidence

As I contemplate what’s about to happen I realise that I’m not scared. Nervous? Sure. Worried? You bet! Wishing I was somewhere else? Naturally, but I’m not scared. I am, however, wondering how I got myself into this situation.

I look across to my future wife, Charly, and even though her eyes are covered by a reflective lens that makes her look like a trendy cyclops I can tell she’s worried for me. It’s harder to read the rest of the group’s expressions as I don’t know them as well. Charly’s sister has taken her hands out of her mittens and is violently adjusting the buckles on her boots to ensure maximum discomfort while her cousin takes a photo of the view ahead. Charly’s Dad, the man I am trying to impress, is looking off down the run, or at least I think he is as all I can see is the back of his black helmet, making his head look like an oversized licorice lollipop. Maybe I am a little scared, but not for the right reasons.

As I take in the black run we are about to ski down I question the prankster who decided it would be funny to put this sheer drop of ice on a ski map and call it a piste. They must have assumed that everyone would realise it was a joke once they got to the top. The victims of the prank would chuckle to themselves, say ‘good one Maurice,’ before skiing a different route down to a bar where they’d quaff vin chaud and laugh about how, for a brief moment, they had contemplated skiing down a wall of rubble and snow. I’m waiting for the moment the group I’m with tells me they are having me on, but it doesn’t come. In fact, the group doesn’t even seem to be phased by the ludicrous death trap we are looking down upon. They seem, if it’s possible, to be excited about skiing it. Maybe I should say something?

If I’m scared of anything, it’s the thought of leaving a bad impression on Charly’s dad. Charly and I have been dating for 6 months at this point and although I’ve met my future father-in-law a few times, I haven’t really gotten to know him yet. When Charly told me that her dad was inviting me on their annual ski holiday I was thrilled and quickly accepted the invite. What better place to get to know someone than in the French alps? We’d ski down a few runs without incident and I’d impress him with a daring jump here and there, nonchalantly shrugging them off as though I hadn’t noticed them. We’d then head to a bar where we’d enjoy a good old fashioned apres ski, complete with ice cold beers, a bit of a sing song and hours of putting the world to right. Who knows, maybe we’d have one too many and end up with matching ski tattoos? I’d get skis and he’d get poles. By the end of the holiday he’d turn to Charly and say ‘that boyfriend of yours is totally badass! Keep hold of that one.’ Charly would beam from ear to ear and give me a look which would let me know that everything was going to be perfect forever. 

The only problem with this vision is that I didn’t know if I could ski, but Charly thought I could. I had been on a couple of school ski trips when I was 12 and 13 years old, which was only 14 years ago so how bad could I be? Surely strapping a plank to either foot and throwing yourself off the edge of the mountain is just like riding a bike? You’re certainly meant to wear a helmet for both. Charly asked me if I could ski and I said yes. Even if I didn’t know if that statement was true I’d surely pick it up pretty quickly once we hit the slopes? And unlike my previous trips to the alps, the chances of an English teacher making me dance with them in front of all my classmates and some drunk Austrian men seemed a lot less likely. So, why not take the risk?

A mere few moments of the first slope on day one of the trip and the error of my ways became clear. What I hadn’t quite realised until this point is that the rest of the group had been born with skis attached to their feet. Sure this had made labour particularly tricky for their poor mothers, but my word did it make them impressive skiers. To them, flying down a black run at 70 miles per hour is as effortless as walking. I was instantly worried that I, by comparison, would look like a pissed dog standing on its hind legs. The void in the standard of skiing would surely be staggering.

As we set off for the first run I decided it would be wise to set off after everyone else, that way I could refamiliarise myself with the art of hurtling down the side of a mountain with reckless abandon away from the eyes of the people I was trying to make a good impression on. I watched the group set off with ease as they took their first turns with grace and precision and decided that the only thing for it was to attack the run with confidence. I set off and for the first few seconds all was well. I could feel my skis effortlessly gliding over the compact snow and for a moment, any anxiety I had about being rusty after 14 years away from the slopes melted away. As I followed Charly’s line of skiing diagonally across the slope, I wondered how I must look to the skiers overhead in their chairlifts looking down on me. Surely they’d all be commenting on how elegant I looked? Instructors would be nudging their pupils next to them and pointing to me as an example of what they should be doing on their next run. 

‘Now,’ I thought, ‘it’s time to really impress everyone watching with how well I glide through my first turn in nearly a decade and a half’. I picked my turning point and began to swing my feet right so I could follow in Charly’s line. My skis didn’t move. It was only at this point that I realised how close to the side of the run I had let myself get. All I could see beyond the piste markers was, well, nothing! A sheer drop! I pushed even harder with my skis to turn. My thighs began to burn and my legs began to rattle as my skis shook wildly under the pressure. My feet began to slip apart as I tried to grip onto my skis with my toes, as though crunching them up and pushing them into the bottom of my boot would somehow save me from what now felt inevitable. I flung my arms out either side, doing my best impression of a bird in flight as I flapped for balance. I started leaning back, trying to throw everything I had behind my skis in the hope that I could stop myself from hurtling into the unknown void that laid ahead. It must have looked like I was squatting for a crap when, to my relief, I began to turn. It felt like I was clinging on for dear life with everything I had. Every single muscle in my body was working at maximum capacity to keep me up. The skis continued to rattle further and further apart except for the tips, which seemed to be swinging wildly from side to side. They tapped each other a couple of times as I completed the turn but it didn’t matter because I was still alive and I hadn’t fallen over. It was only when I thought the worst was over that my skis actually crossed each other and I hit the deck with such speed I don’t actually remember the fall. One second I was up and the next, I wasn’t.

The rest of the group hadn’t seen my first turn disaster. They were still making their way down the slope with a confidence I now found sickening. ‘OK,’ I thought, ‘new plan. Just survive the week and don’t let the rest of the group know you’re completely useless with skis on your feet’. I dusted myself off and chased the group down the slope with the aim of making them think I was behind them all along. I might not be able to impress Charly’s dad with my ski skills, but I didn’t want him to regret bringing me on the trip. If I could get through the week without Charly’s family having to change their plans to accommodate me, then surely I could get myself an invite to next year’s trip. I’d impress Charly’s dad then. I held on through every bone rattling turn I did until I reached the bottom of the slope. Thankfully I managed to stay upright as I joined the excited group waiting for my arrival. 

“Nothing like the first run of the year,” exclaimed Charly’s cousin, clearly thrilled. The rest of the group agreed.

“Beautiful conditions,” Charly chimed in with a beaming grin showing on the only bit of her face not covered by goggles.

“How was that for you, John?” said Charly’s dad, also giddy with excitement. “Not too rusty after a few years off?”

“Yeah…” I said as I tried to compose myself after the utter trauma I’d just put my body through. “Yeah… no, yeah, that was brilliant.” I could feel the eyes of the group fixed on me even though I couldn’t see them through their reflective shields. “I mean wow, what a run. That was sick.” Was I over playing it? I wanted the group to have fun and I knew it’d be more fun for them if they thought I was having fun. Time to really commit. “I mean what a rush. I think we should do that run again!” Everyone agreed, so we did.

24 hours of jaw clenching ‘fun’ later and here I am, first run of the day, standing at the top of a ludicrously steep black run with a family of maniacs positively vibrating with excitement at the prospect of flinging themselves down it. So far, my lack of ability has gone largely unnoticed by everyone except Charly, who is now concerned I am going to seriously injure myself at any point. I quickly realised that in order for my terrible skiing to fly under the radar I had to do two things;

1. Set off down all runs at the back of the group so no one could see my ‘unorthodox’ skiing technique,
2. Make up for my lack of skill with sheer enthusiasm.

This second point was crucial. I didn’t want the group to be waiting for me at the bottom of a run. If they were waiting for me, not only would it hamper their slope time, but it would also offer them the opportunity to look up the slope and see me flailing around every turn like a drunk toddler in a gokart. So, as the group gracefully glided down the slope ahead of me, turning with the effortless grace of ski bound ballerinas as they pirouetted around the slope’s lumps and bumps, I needed to keep up. I couldn’t be precise and I now knew I couldn’t be graceful, but I could be fearless. I could be fast. 

The problem with being fast is that things can quickly go wrong. If you need to stop quickly, you fall. If you hit an unexpected bump, you fall. If you momentarily take in the view, you fall. You fall hard! The truth is I fell so much that it stopped bothering me, I just accepted it as part of my ski style. I knew that if I needed to stop quickly, the cold, hard, compact snow of the piste was always there waiting, like a dependable childhood friend, to welcome me back with a thud. The trick was to get up quickly so the rest of the group didn’t see me on the deck, and the more I fell, the better I got at putting myself back together. The group didn’t notice. Well, except Charly, who was keeping a closer eye on me than I realised. Charly saw every fall.

Charly wanted to make the group aware that my ski skills weren’t up to standard. She felt, perhaps correctly, that it would be wise for me to ski some easier pistes with her and slowly build up to the more difficult runs. Unfortunately for Charly, I’m stubborn. What choice do I have? Here I am, in the French Alps, trying to make a good impression on my future father in law, a man who likes to ski. In fact, the only thing I know about him is that he likes to ski. I think he also likes red wine but I know even less about red wine than I do about skiing, so I have to make sure I connect with him on the ski front. I really like his daughter – like really, really like her! So if throwing myself down mountains, whilst secretly becoming more acquainted with the ground than anyone should, is the way to connect with him, I’m going to do it. I made Charly promise not to make a fuss and let me do my own thing at the back of the group. She wasn’t happy about it, but she did.

So I have no one to blame for being at the top of this black run other than myself really. I know I should be more nervous, but my reckless speed and unorthodox stopping technique have paid dividends so far. The rest of the group have no idea how bad an idea it is for me to do this run so I must be doing something right. They clearly think I’m good. Maybe I am?

“You don’t have to do this!” I look to my right and I can see Charly is trying one last time to get me to admit I’m not up to this. She’s even lifted her goggles so I can see her eyes plead with concern.

“I have to,” I say. “I can’t go back down on the lift now! That would be humiliating.”

“As if you would risk serious injury over people thinking you’re bad at skiing.” Charly was looking a bit more stern now.

“I won’t injure myself. I think I’m really starting to get the hang of it! I haven’t fallen yet today.” That should calm her. In fact, I’m starting to believe myself!

“This is only the first run of the day,” Charly reminds me, rolling her eyes as she knows I’m going to do the run regardless of what she says.

“Doesn’t make it any less true. I will probably never fall on skis again.” Ok, maybe I am overdoing it, but if you don’t believe in yourself, why should anyone else?

“Right,” says Charly’s dad, signalling it’s time to start the run. “Everyone good to go?”

The rest of the group whoops with excitement, except Charly who shoots me a look and pulls her goggles back over her eyes.

“LET’S DO THIS” I yell, a little overenthusiastically but I can see Charly’s dad nod in approval. Is he starting to warm to me? I must Google some things to say about red wine this evening to seal the deal.

The group starts snaking their way down the run with a bit more pace than I was hoping for. I thought being on a black run might slow the group down, but if anything they seem faster and more in control. How is that possible? Not to worry, speed is my middle name. Well, technically it is Anthony but Anthony comes from the Roman family name Antonius which is Latin for ‘fast as fuck’. Don’t feel the need to fact check that, I assure you it’s true.

I take one last look down the wall of death that the rest of the group are tackling as though it was flat land, before setting off myself. I set off fast. Like, really fast. I wasn’t expecting to be going this fast such a short distance into the run but the gradient of the slope means gravity has started doing its job very quickly indeed. Not to worry, if I concentrate on not letting my skis touch in the turn I should be ok. Thinking of which, I should probably turn soon. Turning will slow me down. Easy does it, easy does it. OK, TURN! TURN! TURN. My thighs tense and my jaw clenches as I swing my shoulders round the turn. It’s not pretty but it seems to be working. 

As I complete the turn I realise that all is not well. The good news is that I haven’t fallen, which makes for a nice change. The bad news, however, is that for some reason I haven’t slowed down. In fact, it appears I’ve sped up. That can’t be good. I approach the next turn with much more speed than I was hoping for. Not to panic, if I nail this turn I’ll definitely slow down. Right?

I didn’t. Everything else went as expected, the flailing, the leaning, the complete and utter bewilderment on my face when I didn’t fall, but I’m not going any slower. In fact I am now really picking up speed. I haven’t fallen going this fast yet but I bet it hurts. Maybe it is time to panic!

Scratch that, I don’t have time to panic, the next turn is fast approaching and I really don’t want to fall. As I approach the turn I notice the rest of the group are starting to line themselves up neatly on a raised area in the middle of the run a little further down the piste. It isn’t usual practice to stop in the middle of a piste but the fact this area is raised means it’s probably the safest place to stop. I begin to wonder how on earth I’m going to slow down in time to join the neat line of accomplished skiers without knocking them over like dominos? I need to rattle around the next turn without falling before worrying about that so I focus on the task in hand.

I must be getting a little better because once again I survived the turn although, once again, I have picked up speed. This surely defies logic at this point? Have I broken the laws of physics? Have I discovered the glitch that proves we are indeed living in the matrix? The infinite speed glitch? If this run was a kilometre longer I reckon I’d be able to break the land speed record. That would surely impress Charly’s dad?

I’m fast approaching the group who at the moment are chatting to each other and are thus blissfully unaware that if I don’t slow down soon I am going to knock them down like high speed human skittles. I’ve got this! I just need to focus and throw everything I have into stopping. I begin to tense as I send my skis skidding out ahead of me. I feel like an F1 car doing a handbrake turn but I know I look like a child who has been taught to ride a bike by being pushed down a hill but hasn’t been told how to stop. The skis and my jaw begin to judder as the rest of my body tenses up. I notice that Charly is at the end of the group and can clearly see the terror in her face despite 80% of it being covered. In fact, the whole group is now watching me and the horror on their face suggests they don’t think I can stop. I’ll show them. 

I grip tightly onto my poles in the vague hope that this will somehow slow me down and I push even harder into my skis. I’m doing it! I’m going to stop! I’m going to look like a total badass as I slide into the position at the end of the group. The group is going to cheer and Charly is going to be so impressed that she’ll have no choice but to drop her poles, throw her helmet to the ground and give me a big sloppy alpine snog. I have got this in the bag! I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. Wait, no, I’m still going too fast!

I quickly realise I’m not going to stop before reaching the group and change direction at the last possible moment. Like, the last, last possible moment. I’m millimetres from completely taking out Charly, and instead of a snog I give her an involuntary thump in the arm with my pole clenching fist as I pass her at speed.

What happened next was the most spectacular crash you have ever seen. I am talking about multiple head over heels tumbles. I am talking about skis and poles scattered all over the slope. I am talking about a cloud of smoke so big I’d be forgiven for thinking I was about to be faced with St Peter. I am talking about a total wipeout. 

As I lay on the ground, face down in the snow, I begin to notice that I don’t appear to be in much pain. I wiggle my toes to confirm that this isn’t because I’ve lost the ability to feel pain, but they are moving just fine. Is it possible that I have come out of this uninjured? I push myself into a seated position and I realise that no, something does hurt. I watch the rest of the group rush down to me in a frenzied panic and it becomes apparent that my ego is very badly bruised. 

The group fuss as they pick me up which makes me feel worse. I hate people making a fuss over me, it just makes me feel helpless. I try to pretend the fall is no big deal as I’m helped back to my feet, but it’s hard to be nonchalant when three pairs of hands are brushing snow off of you and two strangers bring you your skis from different places on the slope. I guess the cat’s well and truly out of the bag now. Everyone knows I’m a bad skier. Everyone knows I’m a liability.

After three failed attempts to get my right boot into my ski I notice that I still don’t have one of my poles which is another 20 meters down the piste. Charly asks me if I would like her to get it but I’m so embarrassed at this point that I tell her no. I need to regain some credibility and to do that I need to try and curb the fuss being made around me. I side slip down to the pole, loop the fabric strap on it round my wrist and I prepare myself to tackle the second half of the slope a lot slower than I’d tackled the first half.

The moment I feel ready to go again I look up to tell the group I’m good to go, but there’s no one around me. The rest of the group is still 20 meters above me on the slope and they appear to have gathered around Charly’s Dad. ‘At least I’m not the centre of peoples fussing,’ I think to myself as I try to figure out what’s going wrong. Maybe Charly’s Dad is having a problem with some of his gear? Or maybe he is trying to figure out a safer route down the mountain? Oh dear, he’s clutching his chest! This can’t be good.

I try to climb back up the piste sideways but I only make it a meter or two before Charly notices me struggling and skis down to me to let me know what’s going on.

“It’s his heart,” she tells me, visibly shaken by what she’s saying.

“Oh my God!” I exclaim. “Is he having a heart attack?” I ask rather callously. Am I really that bad a skier? Have I just caused an accomplished skier to have a heart attack simply by skiing badly? Has the deadly cocktail of my stubbornness and my desire to be liked at all costs claimed a victim here on the side of this frozen French alp?

As it turns out, Charly’s Dad wasn’t having a heart attack but instead an SVT attack, not that this brought me much comfort in the moment. Supraventricular Tachycardia, or SVT, is a condition that causes your heart to beat abnormally fast, with heart rates typically going between 150 and 220 beats per minute (bpm). As a general rule of thumb your maximum heart rate should be around 220 bpm minus your age. I didn’t know Charly’s Dad’s age but he looked around 50 which means his maximum heart rate should be around 170 bpm. When he checked his heart rate it was closer to 190 bpm and it stayed that way for over an hour. Imagine the most intense workout you’ve ever done and now imagine doing that for over an hour. Charly’s Dad was, to put it mildly, fucked, all because of my poor skiing. I felt awful.

Charly’s Dad would later tell me that as he watched me crash and disappear into a cloud of white powder, he genuinely thought I could have seriously injured myself or worse. An image quickly flashed into his mind of him having to call my parents, people he hadn’t yet met, to explain to them that I had died as a result of high altitude hubris. Panic quickly turned to relief once the snow had settled and he watched me roll over and sit up, but it was too late. The adrenaline dump had already taken its toll, and I had truly messed up my chance of impressing him and being invited back again.

As we took our places in the bar later that evening, I sat quietly with a glass of red in hand, pretending to enjoy it. Charly’s dad was looking much better thanks to a few hours of sleep and he was now topping up everyone’s glass with more wine. I was starting to enjoy it but had nothing to add to the conversation when the group started talking about why they liked it. To me, it just tasted red. 

“We are going to have to make sure we get you some lessons before next year’s trip.” I look up from my glass to see that Charly’s Dad is talking to me. Did I just get an invite to next year’s holiday? Sure it wasn’t the matching tattoo reality I’d dreamt of earlier in the week but this was huge! Why had I been so determined to prove I was a good skier when I wasn’t? The downside to overconfidence had made itself all too apparent, and yet here I was getting invited on next year’s ski trip, an invite that only came once the truth had come out about my skiing ability. Maybe I should have just been honest from the start.