If you have ever taken a pilates class you will understand how I felt the next morning. I ached from head to foot and in other places too, and today we were going skiing. Jamie, Bianca and I set of for the slopes whilst Woody and Chloe stayed at home to babysit Teegan.
It was a beautiful day for skiing and the Sierra Nevada didn’t disappoint bringing out the majority of the locals. I spent the day in near heaven and my aching seemed to disappear as the day wore on, however there had to come a last ski of the day after which Bianca and I had a glass of wine and Jamie went off for even one more last ski.
Sitting in the sunshine, we were both exhausted and talked about going home to see Tiggy as Bianca was starting to miss her. Soon after, Jamie found us, had a quick beer and we picked up our skis and poles and began the walk in the heavy, awkward boots, which throw you into a very unnatural walking position towards the ski hire shop. We turned the corner to be confronted with the longest queue we had ever seen. It was not the queue to the shop but the queue to the chairlift which takes you to the shop. My aged memory could only recollect a very short chairlift journey down and I suggested that we take the stairs instead of waiting. I’m obviously going senile very early!
We started to climb the very dangerous, narrow, uneven, stone steps, and joined the steady flow of the single file clump clumping of ski boots. I looked above, I could see the top and thought – ‘yes, I can do this’. Inspired to see the summit, a new burst of energy hit my legs and with Jamie and Bianca in front encouraging each leg to raise itself I eventually managed to get to where they were waiting for me. (Being younger and fitter they seemed to find it quite easy, along with everyone else – was I the only person aged 50 years and 2 days on the mountain that day???)
Looking around enthusiastically for the ski hire shop, I announced ‘Where’s the shop then?’
Jamie pointed skywards ‘Up there’ he said ‘we’ve only got another 5 flights of these stairs to go’.
By this time I had to throw in the ‘Granny card’. ‘I can’t do that, I’m 50 and 2 days and a Granny’ I shouted.
‘Don’t worry mum, I’ll carry your skis’ he said and off he and Bianca went. I had no choice – I had to follow, and on arrival at the shop I collapsed with a red face on to the bench to the amusement of all the very young looking skiers around me.
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