Lessons in Snowboarding: A Trip to an Austrian Mountain Resort by Mary Novakovich
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Andy stepped behind me and gave me an abrupt push. “Regular,” he said as my left foot shot forward. He did the same to my husband. “Goofy,” he told him. Were these obscure reflections on our personalities, or did our Kaluma Travel rep have a Disney fixation? Neither, it was just a suitably weird introduction to the wondrous world of snowboarding.
My mind went back to last year’s Winter Olympics in Turin, where the snowboarding competitors injected a much-needed shot of fun and coolness into the winter sports scene. We were simultaneously amused by their look (surely they can’t ride with their trousers hanging halfway down) and enthralled by the daredevil movements that looked much more thrilling than going downhill on two skis. We have to have a go at that, we told ourselves, rashly ignoring the fact that we were a good 20 years older than the average competitor.
The Advantages of Boarding
Fast-forward a year and there we were in Lech am Arlberg, one of the most beautiful villages in Austria, former haunt of Princess Diana and current favourite of the moneyed set. Its slightly more grown-up atmosphere would suit a couple of 42-year-olds better than some of the brasher and noisier resorts in the French Alps, we thought. As it sits at a height from 1,500m to 2,500m, it was more likely than other parts of the Alps to have snow, and it even had one of the best snowparks in Austria for when boarders get good enough to do tricks. I sensibly didn’t assume I’d be one of them after only four days’ instruction.
Before we could do anything else, we had to get measured for our boots and boards at Sportalp, the equipment rental shop. (By the way, the “regular” and “goofy” refer to which way you prefer to go down the slope – left foot forward or right respectively.) That’s when I discovered one of the advantages of boarding over skiing: it’s so much more convenient to sling your board under your arm as you walk about comfortably in soft boots. The coolness factor immediately goes up when you don’t have to trudge at an awkward angle.
What is less cool is the discovery that, once you get to the bottom of the slope, one foot stays in its binding while the other is kept free until you actually make your way downhill. You try moving about gracefully when one of your feet has sprouted sideways by about a metre.
Trying New Moves
Our instructor Gunnar, a friendly chap with a huge cheerful grin and the patience of a saint, took us to the neighbouring village of Zürs for our first lesson, as the nursery slope at Lech was too icy. Looking at the expanse of powder I was pleased, having been warned that the first few days of boarding involves falling on every part of the body imaginable. And it did.
The constant falling about didn’t bother our only other classmate Nicolas, a sweet 13-year-old from Sao Paulo. He was the first to try new moves, the first to land smack on his bottom and the first to get up again and have another go. He was also the first to “slide” (going downhill facing either directly forwards or backwards) and to make any turns.
My husband, who spent his adolescence on a skateboard, was the second to accomplish these moves. I, who last went downhill 22 years ago – on two skis, mind you – was the last one to let go of Gunnar’s hand. My normally competitive nature went into hibernation when I found that my goals would be achieved in much smaller steps than the others. Once I realised that, I began to enjoy myself.
It helped that we had a proper stop for lunch every day, giving me the chance to get stuck into some serious Austrian comfort food. A bowl of goulash or a hearty soup was just the thing to tuck into while basking in the sunshine on the restaurant terrace.
The Mechanics of Boarding
After two days of following the same pattern – rubbish at the start, really quite good just before lunch, rubbish after lunch, low point mid-afternoon, rather good finish to the day – I was finding that my progress was slow even by my standards. Nicolas had been sent off to higher group by day three, and Gunnar gave my husband the same option. Loyally he said he’d stick with me and add his encouragement, for I was turning into something of a coward.
My problem, quite simply, was an intense fear of falling. On skis you can fall towards the slope on your side. On a board you go either forwards (on your wrists, elbows, knees or nose) or backwards (on your bottom, wrists or head) while somersaulting with the board attached. Things weren’t helped by the state of the piste: the snow was packed hard instead of being covered with a nice soft powder to cushion the landing.
Still, other novices were coping quite well and I just had to get on with it. My goal by the end of day three was to do some turns, and this I managed to do – although they occurred on separate runs. I even got over my extreme annoyance at constantly being flung off the poma tow – surely the most sadistic piece of ski equipment ever invented.
I was beginning to get to grips with the mechanics of boarding: slide on the heel-side edge while traversing the slope, shift your weight so the board goes flat and you go downhill, go on the toe-side edge while traversing again and repeat until you fall down at the bottom of the slope. Or, in my case, do all of the above but hold on to your instructor’s hand until you finally get the courage to do a turn on your own – usually right at the bottom where it’s almost flat. “Don’t worry, Maria,” Gunnar reassured me. “See? You’re barely holding on to my hand. You’re doing most of it on your own.”
Back on the Slopes
As far as I was concerned I was making snail-like progress, but I didn’t care. It was still an exhilarating experience being back on the slopes again, trying something new and rediscovering the pleasures of après-ski. The ice bar at the Tannbergerhof Hotel became our daily haunt, where a beer and a schnapps went hand in hand with watching spectacularly badly dressed people and listening to Shakira howl at full volume.
We would take our slightly tipsy selves back to our cosy and delightful hotel, the Kristiania, where the whirlpool in the downstairs spa awaited us with its soothing hot jets. When the booze wore off the muscular aches kicked in and we amiably compared our bruises. My husband won mainly because he took more chances and had more spills.
Once we rediscovered the art of walking upright, we would relax in the Kristiania’s intimate and comfortable bar and then sit down to one of their exquisite five-course dinners. Or we would head into town for a drink at the trendy Schneggarei bar that sits at the bottom of one of the main slopes, followed by hefty dose of bratwürst and sauerkraut at a stübl.
Boarding Tricks and Carving Turns
One night we were lucky enough to witness the monthly outdoor show put on by the ski school of Lech. An enormous projection screen was set up in the centre of the village, which showed archive footage of Lech in the 1920s when the village was a pioneer in winter sports. The ski school instructors then came down the slope in an enchanting torchlight procession, followed by a few of their number showing off boarding tricks and carving turns (including our very own Gunnar). This we watched clutching our glasses of gluhwein as the party atmosphere grew and the singing started.
It was scenes such as this that increased my warm feelings towards Lech, which has a slightly snooty reputation because it attracts a well-heeled clientele. Yes, it’s an expensive place, but it’s hardly a shock to anyone coming from a city such as London.
The tourist office, shop assistants and restaurant and bar staff were unfailingly friendly and eager to please, regardless of the labels (or lack of them) covering your clothes. It will certainly provide a marked contrast to the next time I get on a snowboard to work on what I’ve learnt before I forget everything: Milton Keynes indoor snow slope, here we come.
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