Today I am walking around like the oldie I mocked in the previous post. No sign of an improvement in the busted-back front and I'm getting concerned about going skiing in a mere 2 and a half months.
Sundry advice has been offered:
"Lie down in bed for three days"
"Do stretches and exercises"
"Lay on the floor here and I'll walk on you"
The latter offer would have been entertained longer had it come from a nubile young thing rather than my 120 kilo boss.
That said, I am bucking for a skiing injury. While I sit here wincing and wishing I were dead, let me recount a couple of stories...
* Story 1, or "How I Became Part Of The Scenery"
I'll start by saying that in most things I do, what I lack in talent I make up for in enthusiasm. Skiing is no different. Which is how I found myself careering down a black run by mistake and hit a tree. When I opened my eyes I found myself on my back, hanging head first over what looked like a sheer drop. My foot was still attached to a forlorn looking ski, which in turn was firmly attached to the tree.
What to do? If I remained hanging there, I'd surely freeze. But I didn't fancy sliding headfirst down an icy black run. I pondered this as skiiers slid past, allowing themselves a chuckle at my dilemma. In the end I released the ski, and spent long seconds scrabbling at the ice as I slid down the slope. Another tree helpfully stopped me, and I began the long trudge back up the slope, nursing bruised ribs and leaking red stuff out of an impressive gash.
As I retrieved my gear I was showered with snow. I looked up and saw another skiier in an identical predicament - upside down, ski in tree. He waved at me and said "Ja, ja - see; I haff done vat you did - hahah"
"Haha" I dutifully replied, and left him to it.
And strangely, skiing is still my second favourite past-time.
Later tonight: "Story 2 - The Day I Wiped Out An Entire Ski School"
