Ski fashion through the ages

This weekend marked the panicky “4 weeks until we go skiing” weekend for me. Four weeks of “Argh,I will never be fit enough” and “argh, why do children always insist on GROWING?”

Anyway, last weekend, we had some of the lovely friends who we are going with over to our place, and we took them on a tour of local outdoor sports outfitters in a quest to get them kitted out in some new gear.This clearly made me realise that, while I am quite good at spending my own money, spending other people’s is ten times more fun! It was a largely successful trip, resulting in them mainly getting what they came for, and no children whining.

Our friend M has not updated his ski attire since we first went skiing with him around 15 years ago, and this got me pondering (in a totally unresearched, unscientific way) how slopeside fashion has moved on over the years...

The 70s:

The earliest known photograph of me on a pair of skis dates from roughly 1976 at the age of not very old, courtesy of a winter holiday in Austria. Sadly, despite my best efforts, I was unable to unearth it in my parent's house for the sake of this blog post. You'll have to believe me when I say it involves a very fetching bright red one-piece and the biggest 70s-style sunglasses on a very small child - very vaguely like this, but smaller:

via Pinterest

My knowledge of the fashions of this time is slightly sketchy, but I can only deduce that the seventies followed the high fashion knitted jodhpurs and woolly jumpers of the Bond films of the 1960s with some slightly more basic “technical” properties, such as waterproofing.

The 80s:

The 1980s of course is where slope fashion really kicks up a notch - with added colour, added print and added volume. Common for both men and women was the all-in-one, either in delicate pastels or primary colours with graphic prints. These styles can still be spotted on the ski slopes of the French alps in the over-50s if you look carefully, but the photo I'm using to demonstrate this look IS from the family archive - eyes have been starred to protect the innocent...:

The 90s:

Starting off in counter-culture towards the late 80s and the early 90s, by the late 90s “snowboard style” was becoming more mainstream and with a defined identity - even influencing mainstream ski fashions, which got looser and baggier and reverted to two pieces

Link

The 00s:

Thankfully, the noughties is where I first started my forays into serious downhill territory, and by this
point designer fashion was making a name for itself on the slopes, as in this photo of Victoria
Beckham – Chanel skis, anyone?

via Pinterest

More obviously, however, for those of us mere mortals that could not stretch to Prada ski jackets, this merely meant a more toned down aesthetic – at least as far as colours went. Black was, after all, the new black, and even if you weren't dressed as the milk tray man, you were probably dressed fairly "tastefully" in comparison to some of the 80s and 90s.

The 2010s:

Which brings us to today. The biggest change in the last ten years has probably been the move from "helmets for the kids" to "helmets for all", and it's now rare to see people without them on the slopes. Colour and pattern are also making a comeback in a big way, and not just on jackets, but also on salopettes, as is ski wear that doesn't look much like ski wear -  beware the perils of a furry hood in the snow! If you're thinking of updating your look, therefore, you probably have more choice than ever - if you really want to, you can even find one-piece suits for adults again...

Dare you try that "anything goes" vibe? Here are some of my favourite slightly wackier picks:

L-R, from top left: Decathlon slide ski trousers, Burton radar jacket, Women's chevron "oneskee", Smith Valence ski helmet,  Top Shop zebra co-ord, Roxy Rockferry goggles, Sweaty Betty Jardin long sleeve top and leggings, Norrona Lofoten Gore-Tex pro pants,  Dare2Be Illation jacket

Sans Titre

I have in my drafts a blog post I was going to publish about now, loosely based on our New Year skiing holiday in La Rosiere, and detailing my best tips for a family ski holiday. I may still publish that post, but it won't be today.

In a case of best laid plans, I've had to hastily throw that post out of the virtual window and instead post this one, the various potential titles of which might also be;

"The one in which I cheat death on a French motorway"

"What do the Tins have in common with the Windsors?"

or, simply:

"Always wear a fucking seatbelt"

We had a wonderful week's skiing, sunshine, good food, good wine and fabulous company. We were sad to be going home.We got on the coach in La Rosiere just before 7a.m. last Sunday morning, with the kids excited that it was a double-decker coach, and installed ourselves across the four very front seats on the top deck, and headed off on our way down the winding mountain roads in the dark. I dozed fitfully, always conscious of the precarious nature of our travel, and breathed a small sigh of relief when we reached the bottom and our journey would hopefully be more straightforward, and I did eventually drop off to sleep. I woke up again around 8.30 when we stopped at a rest-stop and various people got off to go to the toilet.

We continued on our way, and I remember marvelling at the fact that there was no traffic whatsoever to be seen on the straight two-lane motorway. When we therefore slowly but surely started moving from the outside lane towards the middle around 10 minutes later, things immediately seemed odd.The coach struck the central reservation and then, just as slowly and surely headed back to the outside of the motorway. Alarm bells immediately started ringing, and I remember someone shouting "hold tight" when, sure enough, we hit the barrier on the outside of the motorway. After scraping along it for a couple of seconds, it obviously broke, and the coach started ploughing down the gentle muddly slope next to the carriageway. Almost in slow motion, the vehicle leaned towards the right and fell onto its side, accompanied by the sound of glass shattering and people screaming.. 

Sitting on the far left, I was now being held sideways by my seat-belt, desperately holding onto my youngest daughter who was sat next to me.My husband and elder daughter, who had been sat on the right of the coach and were now therefore on the "bottom", undid their seat-belts and helped us do the same so that we could climb down. Having reassured ourselves that the friends we had been travelling with were ok, we proceeded to try and find a way out. Smashing the window closest to us with the emergency hammer didn't have much effect, but a shout from the back indicated that the rear window was passable. We therefore gingerly made our way down the coach, trying to avoid stepping on panes of glass as we went. 

Outside, the scene was chaotic, with adults and children crying and bleeding. In a stroke of luck, a private ambulance had been passing and stopped to administer first aid to those that seemed most seriously injured.It appeared, however, that everyone had managed to walk out of the coach - surely helped by two factors, the speed and location of the accident, and the fact we had all been wearing seat-belts (an opinion reinforced later to me by several staff in the hospital who kept telling us "thank God you weren't French - they wouldn't have been strapped in!"). 

How long it took for the fire brigade and ambulances to arrive is a bit of a blur, and at first their approach seemed a little disorganised, with several people asking the same questions. Eventually a bit of a system became obvious, with injuries being classified in a traffic light system of green - not injured yellow - minor injuries, red - serious injuries. The only visible injury to my family was a large bump on my eldest daughter's face, however, she looked very pale and her legs suddenly buckled under her, slumping into the arms of the nearest fireman. She was promptly laid out on the floor on a makeshift stretcher with her legs in the air, and covered with blankets, before being carried very gingerly back up to the slope into a waiting ambulance.

It was whilst trying to follow her up the slope that I realised that trying to bend my left leg had suddenly become extremely painful, causing me to be reclassified from a "green" to a "yellow". Whilst we were therefore transported to the local hospital, my husband and youngest daughter (both being "greens") were taken to a local community centre where they were looked after by the local community.

Once at the hospital, it became apparent that I was the only injured person on the coach who could speak passable French. Whilst my daughter was therefore taken away to be x-rayed (and fed!), I was called in to "help the police with their inquiries", giving both my own statement, and helping with the translation of one or two others, before being x-rayed myself.  

Having both been given the all-clear and pain relief, we were taken to a small room with other "survivors", where food and drink and children's games had been laid on. Also there was a representative from the tour operator, who was in contact with the group in the community centre. Having missed our flight back to the UK (Southampton), it seemed that there was a very small chance that we might be able to catch the last flight out - to Stansted.

In very dramatic fashion therefore, several families were reunited - a police escort accompanying the coach from the community centre first to the hospital, where we got on, then on to the airport. This involved one police car in front of the coach stopping all traffic with "blues and twos" as we passed, with two police cars bringing up the rear. "This is just like when the Queen goes anywhere!", as no1 daughter remarked.

The rest of the journey was stressful, if actually unremarkable, and we eventually got home around midnight, only around eight hours later than planned.We all took Monday off to recover, but by Tuesday the kids were back at school, and I went in on Wednesday. The muscles I pulled in my waist and neck have been gradually getting better every day, and all bruising has faded from angry purple through moss green to putrid yellow.Whether the mind will bear any lasting effects remains to be seen - needless to say, the thought of going on a coach any time soon isn't one I would cherish, and I'm still struggling a little with trying NOT to think of what could have been.

Needless to say we are all very, very, very lucky and very thankful we just walked away. In fact, so undramatic were the injuries overall that the accident barely made the British press, bar a short mention on the Guardian website, followed by a slightly longer piece on the Daily Mail (sorry!) website. French local TV did of course do a couple of pieces, which are online here and here (both containing a starring role for the back of youngest daughter's head in the arms of a French fireman).

A thousand thanks to the folk at Esprit Ski for the VIP treatment (yes, despite everything, we're thinking of booking again for next year), and all the unnamed French firefighters, paramedics, doctors, nurses and gendarmes - who were all singularly brilliant. 

Most of all, however, thanks goes to whoever it was that decided that Sunday 4th January wasn't going to be the day that our time was up. 

A magic carpet ride?

First off-whilst this is technically a review, it's not sponsored in any way. No sir - I voluntarily paid £150 of my very own money to spend an hour on a glorified travelator in an industrial unit somewhere east of Reading.

Let me explain...

You see, we're going skiing again. Soon. Very soon.It's been two years since we last went, and frankly, my husband and I are worried that this is the year the kids outdo us and leave us for dust. Well, powder. We're therefore Doing Something About It.This involves a strenuous and tedious exercise regime to get a vague semblance of ski fitness into those over-40-and-feeling-it legs of ours. Jillian Michaels - we hate and salute you and your 30 Day Shred equally.

Jumping up and down in your living room three times a week is one thing, but it doesn't really help with the real ski practice. Which is why we found ourselves driving down the M4 on a wet Sunday afternoon last week.

They've tried their best to bring the Alpine spirit into a somewhat un-Alpine space:

...but really, we weren't here for the decor. We'd booked an hour's "family time" on the basis it would let all four of us have a go unfettered by other people. Whilst £150 sounds like a lot, on a per person basis it works out roughly the same as a half-hour lesson each. (Have I mentioned skiing ain't cheap yet?).

We arrived about 20 minutes before our session, as instructed, and were pretty much left to our own devices - the kids made the most of the trampoline that was set up in the corner and we mooched about the ski shop. With 5 minutes to go, and no sign of anyone giving us any instruction, we picked out what we thought were the right size ski boots for the kids, and got them to put them on, as well as donning our own. Five minutes after our allocated start time, we had to remind someone that we were waiting, and we were finally given some guidance as to which skis we needed. In the end, the previous people using our "slope" finally vacated it, and we were good to go around 10 minutes later than booked. Not a great start.

Each slope can only take 3 people at a time, so adults and kids had two alternating fifteen minute slots each.

I have to say I found it the most bizarre experience, and it certainly took a lot of getting used to the idea of standing still while the ground did all the moving. The general idea is that you turn side to side, effectively skiing on the spot, but this is easier said than done. Despite all being able to ski more or less parallel, none of us managed to get much beyond a basic snow plough position - even Mr Tin, who has been skiing for 30 years... As our instructor said; "If you can ski on this, you can ski on snow", and I'm certainly hoping that we'll have moved on once we do get on the powdery stuff!

Having said this, we all found it to a worthwhile session, which really helped focus on technique and general fitness. While it is expensive, we are seriously thinking about doing it again before we hit the slopes, as Skiplex are running a special offer on family sessions in December. Whether we will or not remains to be seen, as it is still a LOT of money. Anything that helps with a bit of confidence and technique to get the best out of our actual week's skiing has to be a good thing though.

Snow Is Silly Soft Stuff.

This was going to be my Christmas and New Year recap post, but we went skiing over the New Year week, and quite frankly it makes Christmas seem like such a long time ago that really there doesn't seem to be much to say about that at all. (Turkey. Lurgy. Kids. Think that covers it.)

I've probably previously trotted out the lame joke on here that I use to describe my relationship with skiing whenever anybody asks me. "Ah", I say, "I liken going skiing to childbirth - I scream, cry and curse my way through it, yet always still feel a weird compulsion to do it again once it's over". And if you think I'm exaggerating about that, you should have seen me sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of a red run somewhere in Italy last Thursday, once again cursing the fact that I don't really like speed, which, apparently, appears to be kind of fundamental for most other people when enjoying skiing. 

Personally, I've always preferred gliding slowly, swan-like down a piste, soaking in the mountain air and enjoying the scenery. I'm definitely all about the posing, the sunshine and the vin chaud. The skiing for me has always been slightly secondary, which unfortunately appears to make me the exception, and the one who everyone else has to wait hours for when they have zoomed to the bottom at 90km/h (the apparent top speed of one of our party. Mine? 38km/h. Which statistically was probably quite likely to have been on a chair lift, let's face it.)

"But skiing", other people will tell you, "is such a great family holiday". Well, not really. Not if you assume that a family holiday means you all spending quality time together. This is definitely not the case in the early years of childhood, when you will hardly see your children as they are in ski school, and maybe afternoon childcare to enable you to not spend time with your husband who is busy doing 90km/h while you are dawdling along at your own more sedate pace. 

We spent a final Saturday skiing en famille, which I loved, and which did give me a taster of things to come - namely that both children will soon be outrunning me while I scuttle along desperately trying not to think of the sticky end I could come to any minute. The bad news is that I think the kids might be hooked...

Of course, the fact that I fell and twisted my knee on the first day both gave me an excuse to stay in the chalet on day 2 drinking tea, reading a book and soaking up the sunshine at a stationary pace, but also probably contributed to my fragile mental state for the rest of the week. Skiing is definitely mind over matter, and I fear the mind played nasty tricks on me this time.*

Anyway, the fact that we also had a non-skier in our party for the first time meant I had someone else to moan about the speed freaks at, and go on walks with, which was lovely and highly recommended. Also, I have to say that skiing is an excellent environment to observe the middle classes in their natural habitat. From this exercise I have decisively concluded that Fat Face is definitely the new Boden, and Spyder jackets are so 2011!

Well, here I am, sitting back at home in front of a computer, reflecting on a week of such amazing highs and lows, and knowing that I'll soon be getting the call from our friends wanting to know if we're "in" for next year. For the first time I really don't know what answer to give.

*(On a slightly separate note, but still on the subject of mind tricks, why is it that the more I fly, the less I like it? I have been on airplanes regularly since the tender age of 4 months, and with living abroad and regular business travel reckon I have probably clocked up close to 100 flights in my lifetime. Also, both my husband and brother work in the aviation industry, and I'm more than aware of the stringent safety requirements at all stages of the process. This should reassure me, surely? Why then, do I feel the urge to scream "We're all going to die" the minute we get thrust back into our seats on takeoff?)

I would do anything for love...

Two totally unrelated things last week had me mulling over the sacrifices some people will make for those they love.
Firstly, the lovely Amy at and 1 more means four...and 1 more blogged about giving up her bedroom to make space for her children. Secondly I heard of a former colleague who had left her husband and kids and was moving to New Zealand to be with "the love of her life".

Two slightly different scenarios, I think you'll agree, but it did get me wondering what sort of lengths I personally would be prepared to go to if push came to shove. I occasionally idly throw out the "I would do anything for my children" line without thinking about it too much, and in a lot of ways I mean that - but let's face it, even that has some limits. I won't tattoo their names on my face, for example, no matter how much they begged me....


In all seriousness and at the risk of sounding horribly smug and privileged, the only thing could think of having done was changing my holiday preferences. I've blogged before about how I grit my teeth and go skiing for sake of my husband's love of the sport, and since the last year I guess I can add camping to the mix too. Whenever I tell anyone that knows me well, but that maybe I have not seen in a while, that we have recently bought a tent and I have (semi-)willingly spent several nights under canvas, their reaction is always the same dubious expression and a "I can't see you as a camper". It seems my love of the little luxuries in life is well documented. The thing is though, the kids LOVE camping, and, similar to skiing, we've always been with other people, making it a very sociable holiday. The expressions on their muddy little faces makes up for the lack of en-suite facilities...just.


(That, however, is a piece of cake in comparison to what some people do for their children - let's face it, even camping isn't the cheap holiday it's often sold as if you have to invest in some of the equipment, and I'm well aware there are those that can't afford a holiday of any description.)

Putting up with a couple of nights in a tent is nothing compared to deciding to give up your bedroom and permanently move into your living room, as Amy and her husband decided to do. That is probably also a drop in the ocean in comparison to the decision to leave your children and not only move to a different country, but to the other side of the world. I'm not going to judge this person at all - I don't know too much about the circumstances. However, much as I sometimes curse my own little blighters, I don't think any romance could ever make up for the fact of only seeing my daughters twice a year.

I don't think I could do that.


(Anyway, I'll leave you with this. Because THAT'S how much I love you all, and I know you're already humming it anyway...)

Random Thoughts from Inside my Head, the 2 year Blogoversary Edition

So, last Saturday was my two-year blogoversary. Apparently it is customary to mark such things, although I seem to recall I missed my first one as well...still, it goes nicely with my general "I never remember birthdays or anniversaries" haphazardness.

Of course, the only reason I remember this particular anniversary, is because the Annual Ski Disaster  Trip is looming next week, and I seem to remember this being close to my first post on this blog. (I think I have documented my general fears on the subject enough, but suffice to say, I am approaching it with my usual mix of trepidation, fear and excitement. I am fully expecting the usual week of gritted teeth and "why did I agree to this", to be followed by the euphoria of "I'm not dead, let's do it again". )

Looking back, it still amazes me that I managed to maintain an average of two posts per week in my first year of blogging, when these days I barely manage two a month. Still, that's what being busier at work and having children with more demands as they get older does, I suppose.

Anyway, to those of you who have stuck around - thank you, and have you considered seeking psychiatric help?

Review: Bart's Ski Gloves

Firstly - hello, and thank you all for sticking around during my dry spell over the past few weeks. I can't promise things are going to get any less dry (wetter somehow doesn't really seem appropriate, does it!?) any time soon, but it's nice to see a few friendly faces when I venture back onto the site at least...

I can hardly believe it is over a year since I started this blog. One of my very first posts was about my trepitation with regards to going skiing again for the first time since having children. Well, last week I put myself through the torture again we spent another week on the slopes.

I have to say out of all the times I have been skiing, this was probably the week I enjoyed the most; in spite of the fact, or  - what is probably more likely - because of the fact that I probably did the least actual skiing of any holiday! When it comes to skiing, it seems for me it is simple: less skiing = more enjoyment. It is of course logical - I don't get as tired, therefore I don't get as frustrated.

Anyway, before we left, I was sent a pair of Bart's Mens ski gloves to review by the lovely people at Chelston Direct. I had even come up with a cunning plan to get over my blogging lethargy - the original idea was that Mr B was going to do a guest post and review them for me. In the end, however, the size I was sent was a men's small, which of course were a perfect fit for me, but much too small for my husband. Seems I was forced into blogging it myself...

Having said this, things turned out quite well, as I only possessed one pair of ski gloves prior to this, and a spare is always handy. My previous pair was a cheap pair picked up when I was still unsure whether I would ever go again, and whilst perfectly adequate, were never quite warm enough on really cold days. I have to say  this was one problem I did not have with these gloves - they definitely kept my hands toasty and dry all week.

If there was one problem with them, however, it was that they were almost a little too short, and I would often find a bit of a gap between the sleeve of my jacket and the end of the glove. Most of the time this was no problem at all. However, I can imagine that for someone who occasionally falls down (not me, of course, you understand*) this would be quite an annoyance, unless snowy wrists were their thing!

All in all though, I spent most of the week using them and was very impressed - only having to resort to my original pair on one day after a particular wet snowball fight!

(*ok, so maybe I did end up on my bum once or twice...in my defence, I don't believe any of our party, including some VERY experienced skiers, didn't fall down at least once...)
___

Disclosure: I was given a pair of Bart's ski gloves in return for this post.

Update January 2013 - seems some of you are still finding this post from nearly two years ago! Since then, I've had two more occasions to wear the gloves, and I have to say I'm still happily using these gloves. They are definitely good for keeping hands dry, although I did find that my fingers did get a little cold on drag lifts etc this year (as we went at a colder time of year). The purchase of new ski jacket with built-in additional sleeve bits, plus the fact I spend less time on the floor has helped with the no-snow-down-the-wrists thing. Not perfect, but definitely a great budget option.

Swoop, Swoop, Swoop - the verdict

It's been nearly a week now since we returned from France for "first ski holiday with children". The pain has subsided and the bruises are starting to turn from their initial angry red, through the sludgy brown of a snow-bereft piste, to garish hues of purple and yellow. It therefore seems like a good time to reivew and take stock.

Arrival at Bristol aiport; car park we have booked is full, so we are upgraded to a closer one. Result.
Ski Demons: 0 - Sardine Tin: 1

Arrival at Chambéry airport and transfer to resort - I feel travel sick for the first time in about 20 years on the snaking mountain roads. Bleurgh.
Ski Demons: 1 - Sardine Tin: 1

Chalet is lovely, girls are fab and look after us well with delicious food and drink. Burp.
Ski Demons: 1 - Sardine Tin: 2

Severe pain in my feet/toes whilst skiing turns out to be caused by the fact my ski boots no longer fit me properly. Ouch.
Ski Demons: 2 - Sardine Tin: 2

Kids enjoy childcare/ski school. Yay.
Ski Demons: 2 - Sardine Tin: 3

Ski instructor suggests we take DD1 to see GP on return to UK as movement does not appear to be aligned in her left leg. Argh.
Ski Demons: 3 - Sardine Tin: 3

Snow gets increasingly slushy due to rain at beginning of the week and lack of fresh powder - makes skiing v. difficult (use this as excuse for my poor performance for most of the week). Ouf.
Ski Demons: 4 - Sardine Tin: 3

I pop my black run cherry. POP.
Ski Demons: 4 - Sardine Tin: 4

And finally... I agree to do it all again next year. Fool.

Final Score: Ski Demons: 4 - Sardine Tin - 5

Shoop, shoop, shoop...

Falling down a mountain with two planks of wood strapped to your feet has never really been my idea of fun.

It’s fair to say I came to downhill skiing late (Christmas holidays in Finland with family covered more of the cross-country side of the discipline). In addition, when the sporty genes were handed out in my family, my brother got 100%, and I was left with…well…


Both my father-in-law and my mother-in-law (who divorced when my husband was quite young) both skied, and both took him on ski breaks from a young age (occasionally even once a year separately with each parent). Consequently, to say that he’s not bad is putting it mildly. Once I had met my husband, there was therefore a certain amount of pressure for me to also “give it a go”. However, my argument was always that it seemed like a lot of precious time and money for something that there was no guarantee of me ever enjoying. I pointed out that, for the price of a ski holiday, I would much rather spend a week somewhere exotic, with guaranteed nice weather.

However, he ground me down in the end, and I finally agreed to go on my first ski holiday at the ripe old age of 28. (I only agreed as some other friends who were complete snow virgins had also indicated their interest, and I was therefore not going to be the only beginner on the slopes.) After all the build up, I was fairly ambivalent to the experience, and agreed to give it another go a couple of years later to see if I could get beyond the total beginner phase with any success. By this time, my fellow ski virgins had been completely bitten by the ski bug and had managed to squeeze in another 3 or 4 holidays, so were far in advance of my feeble skills. (They have subsequently been at least once or twice a year on average, despite now also having 3 children - they have been twice already this season, and are coming with us again next week!).

My feelings towards the whole thing are still fairly mixed. I once likened them to my feelings towards childbirth, i.e. I screamed all the way through it, but somehow the pain doesn’t seem as bad in hindsight. I enjoy the mountain atmosphere, I enjoy the scenery, and I enjoy slowly pottering on a nice easy slope, but I’ve never really enjoyed the speed and the fear. I put this down to being a) lazy and b) being too old when I started.

Anyway, this Saturday, we are jetting off to the French Alps for my third attempt at falling down a mountain with a bit of grace – the first time since having children. We will be accompanied by aforementioned ski-mad friends and another couple with 3-month old baby. Our eldest will be having ski lessons, although sadly our youngest is not quite old enough to partake, as it would have been nice for them to learn together (An acquaintance recently told us that he believed all children should learn 4 sports at a young age; skiing, golf, surfing and tennis. One down, three to go.)

If the children enjoy it, and we keep it up (wish it wasn’t such a stupidly expensive hobby), I’m sure they will be whizzing down the slopes faster than me in no time at all. My only option at that point will be to retire to one of the various mountain cafés with a vin chaud while their father tries to keep up with them on the black runs. Now that’s something I’m definitely looking forward to!