What a carve up

Ancona

I am here on a pilgrimage, honouring the descendants of this greatest of Italian towns, men like Galileo, Michelangelo, Dante and, of course, Matthew d’Ancona, considered among those in the know the greatest Anconan of them all. Just kidding. I’m in Gstaad, and just did three runs before breakfast, because the plebs have arrived for the high season and the slopes are as crowded as the mosques in Tottenham during Ramadan. The trick is to wake up early, put on the boots, ski for about an hour, and then head for home. Easier said than done, needless to say. At my age the hangovers are terrible, but the mountain air does help. Mind you, what’s good about Gstaad is that very few people ski. But, when the schools are out for mid-term, every snow boarder west of Tehran seems to end up in Gstaad, and snow boarders are to us skiers what Danish cartoons are to Abu Hamza.

I am told that in America there are designated mountains, keeping snow boarders and skiers separate, but over here, in egalitarian Switzerland, everyone’s thrown in together and to hell with a few broken bones. The local docs actually like it. Nothing like a good crash for fattening up one’s bank balance. Of course, this carving business doesn’t help. Carving means skiing like a snow boarder, across the fall line, using up much more space. I grew up skiing down the fall line, in short turns, up and down, always in control. Now it’s across the slope, even turning uphill at speed, and to hell with what’s coming down behind you.

And, speaking of crashing into people, why is it that old age makes one so chicken? I used to ski pretty fast, but now it’s safety first.