Skiing: The Snow Drug

A Moment's reflection—the time is about 7.30pm on a Tuesday or Wednesday night. You are wandering along the corridor in the Sub when around the corner comes a most glamorous array of freshers. You come to what you hope is a not too conspicuous halt alongside a convenient notice-board.

Well, they are all dressed about the same, stretch pants and sloppy pullovers. An assortment of blondes, brunettes and redheads, with one thing in common—a look of eager anticipation on their faces.

You watch them disappear into the Common Common Room with a feeling of interest. What's going on in there? you ask yourself. Shambling up to the door you see a little notice proclaiming this is the Ski Club AGM. Aha!

Three months later, and a shift of scene. You are standing outside the Varsity Ski Lodge on Mt. Ruapehu, about 8.30am. There are large quantities of snow and cold all around. You hear a door scrape open, and upon casting a bleary-eyed look in the direction of the noise who should come into view but those beautiful females.

They are still dressed in stretch tweeds—red, black and blue— and big sloppy brightly-coloured pullovers. In addition, they have on great heavy things called ski boots, sunglasses, earwarmers, parkas. They're clutching on to gloves, two pieces of wood calld skis and two bits of metal known as ski poles.

Following behind is the male contingent, all about 6ft 2in in height, sunburnt (or snowburnt), also clad in stretch pants and bright pullovers, also clutching skis, poles and gloves. We had to put in something for our female readers.

Everybody carefully lays their skis on a flattened area of snow. A great performance is made of tying laces, clicking bindings, pulling on gloves, etc. At last some are ready. Now is the time to see what skiing is about.

You watch the experts race off, legs locked tightly together, two skis merging into one. With a virtually imperceptible change of weight they send out a great flume of snow as they disappear in the direction of the chairlift.

Of course there is the first-timer like yourself. You feel a bit amateurish and out of place as you slowly waddle off—and then you see one of the experts take a nosedive, head buried in the snow, feet two feet up in the air supporting a pair of quivering skis. You laugh and start enjoying yourself.

One of the experienced skiers will probably give you some tips on the finer points. He'll show you how to graduate from skiing with legs apart to getting them absolutely locked together. He'll show you how to carefully weight the uphill ski so as to swing downhill and so on.

At the end of the day as you sit in the warmth of the hut you will get an insight into the past, present and future of skiing. Not only tall stories, but also magnificent songs and, of course, limericks. As the party catches fire, you know you're going to come again—and again — and again !—Tony Hassed.

We are indebted to the Sports Post for this clear description of Mr. Tom Pearce:

"He calls a spade a ripsnorting, never-to-be-misunderstood spade; in truth, he might call a spade practically anything, and even his severest critics would concede that he possesses the gift of supreme clarity of thought and expression."