| On reflection, the organisational tone was first set when two members of the 22-strong ski party to France arrived at the resort a day early and another had sent their luggage to Germany instead. It had also been touch and go as to whether one of the girls would make it to Heathrow for departure having been on an all-nighter and had yet to sober up. As the week progressed her increasingly remarkable attire was demonstration, if needed, that drunk packing is rarely advisable.
And so it was that a group of young, fit, energetic One Element members assembled one Sunday in April to be led by London’s top outdoor trainer, Tom Marien, into the Alps for a week of high-altitude training. Arrival admin completed, skis and boots hired, Marien arranged the first of what we understood to be a series of challenges to our personal fitness capabilities. Participants were encouraged to limber up, as one by one Tom determined to test our stamina, post-supper, on arrival day. Sami, one of One Element’s advanced members, was chosen to set the early pace, as the rest of us watched in silent awe.
There’s no doubt the man put up a spirited challenge, and was well supported by future competitors and well-wishers, but he eventually conceded to Tom’s superior numerical agility, quietly admitting dominos never really had been his thing. Nic, the other One Element trainer on hand to guide the tour party, soon led the intermediate session round the Connect 4 circuit, pausing only to challenge the rules, more than the competitors.
And so to the slopes...
Recognising the extent of mixed abilities from novice to the extremely talented duo of Nancy and Jim, Tom was at pains to sort the troops on day one. The party was relieved to learn that Tom had been guiding ski groups in these mountains for the past 10 years and so knew the terrain intimately. So we gathered at the top of the telepherique in Avoriaz, in heavy snow and poor visibility, confident we were safe in his reliable hands.
After pointing out the essentials (ie venue for lunch) just about visible in the snow-laden distance, Tom chose the Darwinian school of group ability selection by flying off down the nearest slope on his board, with a backward glance to the party of mainly first timers, shouting “follow me, but if you can’t, see you later” whilst tossing a map of the region to the hapless beginners still standing and staring in terror in the direction into which he had by then disappeared.
After much deliberation, voting, a secret ballot and tentative accord, the novice group declared it safe to immediately down skis and walk to the nearest watering hole, stopping en route to enrol with a slightly less gung-ho ski instructor. The French ladies (Oriane, Muriel, Rachel and Natasha) were soon to master the local lingo with the hands-on assistance of a guide who looked like he should be called Bruno le brave.
With Tom departed and the novices ensconced in the bar, the ‘intermediates’ were now left desperately trying to make sense of their map of the whole of Les Portes de Soleil, made harder by not actually knowing which resort they’d been deposited in. Agreeing to edge their way to the closest chair lift for some navigational guidance, they were relieved to see a large green circle, which brought immediate comfort that this chairlift would take them directly to a piste which they felt confident they could descend.
We were told it was half way up the ascent that one of this group remembered seeing a red circle accompanying the green, and what now resembled hands of a clock on both. By the lift’s end, the realisation had dawned that their route had been determined by the lift’s operational hours rather than the gentility of the slope. Frantic attempts to plot an alternative course by reference to the now sodden map were to no avail. So the group just kept taking new chairlifts higher and higher, in the misguided belief that one might lead them to a place from which they could more gently descend to the lunch-time rendezvous, as the snowfall deepened and the visibility worsened. By all accounts it was fortunate the restaurant had an all-day menu and that Tom had somewhat laid–back approach to the title of tour “guide”.
Having experienced this first day’s snowfall and group self-selection, the tour was blessed with remaining days of beautiful sunshine (and a broader understanding of the word ‘responsibility’). There were too many memorable moments on the slopes to make mention of them all here and now. The week was full of personal achievements from conquering fears to mastering stylish all-but parallel turns (zee knees Anna, zee knees), from bravely tackling the infamous Swiss Wall, to downing 9 before 9 (don’t let Shaun and Tom tell you this meant ‘pistes’ if they can remember the event at all).
The injuries were blessedly minor, albeit the law of sod reigned as the one marathon runner in the group required the mid-week services of the bloodwagon, ambulance and local middle aged male orthopaedic specialist (with facelift), to pronounce her officially unable to compete in the upcoming London event. On the plus side, the crutches apparently made useful girl-pole alternatives in the racy nightclub later that week.
Katherine and Mel experienced their own moment of madness when, guided from above (aka Tom & Shaun in the chairlift overhead), they were alerted to a floundering Channari. It appeared she had taken an wrong turn, had headed off piste, and ended up hanging over the precipice, staring down a giant mogul field. Once united, the three girls were mightily relieved that Tom and Shaun had been alert to the obvious danger, having seen it unfold and having gallantly guided Katherine & Mel to the scene as the advance rescue party.
Whilst awaiting Tom’s attendance and rescue, the three girls edged their way in the direction of the nearest piste, no matter the colour. From there the account of the story diverges. Suffice to say that all that matters now is that during the course of the following 2 hrs the girls were able to self-navigate their way through thick undergrowth, 3 metre deep powder and 17 attempts to climb up the same patch of ice slope (without crampons) in repeated and increasingly frustrating efforts to reacquaint themselves with their skis.
Perhaps Tom was right, in the bar after - when he and Shaun sheepishly learned (in no uncertain terms) of the further 45mins difficulty the girls endured reattaching said skis on a sheer slope in thick ice, in the continued absence of their guide, whilst enduring, but trying to block out, the screams of an adjacent skier with a newly-broken leg - the experience could indeed be described as ‘character building’ (but perhaps only by Tom). The upside was that ‘single-man’ Rob was rapidly assigned as the ladies’ gorgeous guide for the remainder of the week. Miraculously the skiing improved as the girls’ rivalry grew to keep up close and personal in the path of Rob’s tracks.
Girlie-boy Richard (don’t ask) gave repeated amusement throughout the trip, intent as he was to play the human avalanche at every steep section. He always emerged with a grin, if not one ski short of a Hermann Maier. The smile didn’t even desert him post-piste, as he dived into the hot tub with 7 girls, purely in the interests of post-exercise rehab, of course.
There were repeated and valiant efforts to teach Shaun the appropriateness of speed control on blue runs during kiddie ski-school hours – but sadly to little avail as the brown-suited flyer clocked 80kph on his electronic gizmo, on his first ever day on a pair of Salomans and a downward slope.
For those who expected the principal sport of a ski week to be skiing, they obviously haven’t been on a One Element training tour. Forget aching limbs & sore heads, the physical torment would begin with a 7am pre-breakfast ‘3 bridges run’ to prepare for the slopes. A full day’s hard skiing would be followed by tennis, stretching, table tennis and/or touch rugby all with the aim of prepping for the piece de resistance - the weekend’s rewarding mountain hike.
Now it seems that one person’s “reward” is another’s absolute torture. Picture the scene: the morning after ‘the night before’, being dragged to breakfast by 8am, pointed in the direction of a soggy sandwich and a packet of bolognaise flavoured crisps called lunch, encouraged to don another person’s old boarding boots (2 sizes too small) and being bundled into a minibus clutching two ski poles and nursing dark glasses, in hung-over ignorance of the events that were to follow. Not an auspicious start.
Next, imagine being dropped off among donkeys in a fragrant farmyard at the foot of a snow-capped mountain, surrounded by plastic racquet-shaped contraptions with only the most basic operational instructions provided. Each coerced mountaineer had to lug these things, plus personal food water supplies, a backpack, additional clothing and poles up uneven road surfaces and then icy terrain, until wearing the racquets underfoot became the least awkward of uncomfortable options. Still, at least the sun was shining and we were on holiday we spluttered to ourselves as Tom forged ahead with the most-willing few.
And so, “Isn’t this amazing” Marien led the assault on the ascent, upwards and onwards, delighting in the wonder of mother nature in every step he took. And on we climbed, behind him, the terrain getting steeper, the snow deeper, the sweat more profuse, the agony of each step increasing. The exhaustion of this slow monotonous climb gradually wore down even the most cheeriest of spirits (bar Tom’s, of course who was simply revelling in it). Three down, yet on we marched. Over three hours later we reached the summit. Surely the exhilaration and pride at the achievement would kick in we mused as we stared at a battered barbed wire fence separating France from Switzerland and a view remarkably similar to that we’d experienced from the chairlift the day before. Yet Tom was in his (One) Element, and it was that for which we all tried to rejoice.
The trudge back down was such an effort that we finally abandoned all thought of risk assessments of personal safety and welfare (much to solicitor Jen's dismay) by throwing ourselves off precipice after precipice, bum skiing any which way, in desperate attempts to get the whole ordeal to end. The beer in the valley after our 6 hour epic had never tasted so sweet. Yet Tom remained incredulous at our protests. “What’s the matter? You only went for a walk” was his factual but somehow gloriously inappropriate reply. Thank God we’d had Louise, the vet, on hand to put the most seriously wounded out of their misery… As we sat nursing beer and blistered feet, administering the contents of the first aid kit given to Tom by Beatrix (to his evident surprise) at the start of the ascent, it took the wit of Kiwi Lou to remark that challenges are indeed better prepared for when there’s a German on tour.
Discretion prevents me from penning the juiciest moments of the tour. The brilliantly creative and hilariously funny awards ceremony prepared at the end of the week by Stacey, Bells, Katherine, Lou and friends, loses much in its repetition.
Elizabeth was a tower of strength and organizational efficiency. No less than 14 re-routing opportunities for the homeward stretch had been organized before breakfast on the supposed departure day – our very own ‘force majeure’ in operation. A little flutter of ash wasn’t going to derail her attempts to ensure our safe passage home. Volcano-induced delays only added to the drama and humour of the occasion. Suffice to say a combination of alcohol, altitude, ash and adventure is a heady, intoxicating mix.
Anyone for Crown Green Bowling in Croydon next year?
[POST-SCRIPT: Tom, notwithstanding the above, a heartfelt thanks from all of us who had the privilege to join you on this amazingly memorable trip. The laughs, albeit some driven by despair, we will never forget. You remain an all round top guy with enormous reserves of patience and good humour. How you ever get 21 people to follow your lead remains a mystery, but one I hope never gets solved! Here’s to seeing the video and thank you again from us all.]
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