I woke up yesterday still consumed by a particularly foul mood. Not even the picture postcard surroundings, puerile banter, and relentlessly, terrifyingly happy Canadians had done much to cheer me up. So it was with no small amount of insouciance that I got back into my boarding gear, tied on those bloody boots, waited for Dave and Bingo, and then made my way with the boys to the Whistler gondola.
We had planned a fairly unambitious first day back; a trip to the top of the Whistler gondola, no chair lifts, certainly no drag lifts, and then the easiest route back down the mountain. It seemed like a good plan…
Heading up the side of the mountain, my demeanour soon started to lift. I was back. I’m not a natural boarder by any stretch, and I’ve only been once (it’s hard to count this), but it’s something I really enjoy doing. Strapping a plank to one’s feet and hurtling down a mountain isn’t something that anyone should be able to do, yet it’s something at which I’m ok. The physical discipline of boarding is enjoyable enough to me; add in the magnificent scenery and the cameraderie, and it becomes a splendid pursuit. To not enjoy the gondola ride up the side of Whistler on a beautiful sunny day with a freshly-waxed board, and three great friends would be simply inhuman.
When we got to the top, the view was spectacular. Everyone was bounding around with a smile on their face, and—for the first time in days—my worries seemed behind me.
The boarding was great. The snow was soft and forgiving, and turning came back to me pretty much straight away. Dave was good, Aggles was significantly better than he was the first time we did this, and Dec—the toe-side taoiseach—was still so enamoured with the sight of the mountain that he decided to spend the whole day staring at it. The choice of the easiest route down the mountain was, however, not a good one. The Whistler map marks the easiest route, but perhaps a corollary should be included, namely “for skiers”. While I’m sure that seemingly endless flat traverses are fine for even the least talented of skiers, for me they’re hell. Not really being great at keeping up the necessary speed to glide long traverses on a board, and with no sticks to push along with, there’s no way of building up any momentum, so I have to kind of oscillate my way along the flat, trying to creep my board forward until I reach a bit with enough of a gradient to get me going again. It’s awful, and it hurts.
At lunch, Dec headed off for a private lesson, leaving me, Bingo, and Ginger for a few [gravity-assisted, this time] runs before heading back down the mountain to watch the superbowl. I stayed in the flat, in the hope of getting a bit of sleep, which meant that 5 hours later, after Dec’s return, when Dave and Aggles poured themselves back into the flat uttering gibberish, Dec and I were the only sober ones. All was not lost, though. Aggles had spotted a mexican restaurant—called Caramba!—which seemed like the perfect idea. We went there, ordered a round [of Corona], got seated amid the Mexican-themed decor, and had a look at the menu. Not one Mexican item on there. Unless you count pizza.
After a hearty [roast] dinner in which we found out two things about a drunken Dave—to keep your arms and legs clear of his mouth when he eats if he’s a bit tipsy, and that he’s got by a distance the worst chat-up lines ever invented—we retired back to our rooms. Andsotobed.