Kitzbuhel downhill all the way

Skiing and M.E might not strike you as the greatest partnership, but, says Penelope Friday, her Austrian holiday gave her a real lift

A chalet up high on a mountain in Kitzbuhel, Austria; my husband and son at my side. Snow, as far as the eye could see – and, of course, inhabitants who didn’t think that the world should end because of it! Oh, and one more thing: skis. This was the first time we’d risked taking our four-year-old abroad, and the first time I’d put a ski anywhere near my feet for nearly six years. What could possibly go wrong?

Apart, that is, from the fact that we managed to lose our skis before we’d even left the airport, requiring desperate phone calls to be made by long-suffering staff in an attempt to re-unite us with our baggage. Apart from the fact that the four-year-old was apparently seized with the desire to emulate the skis and lose his parents as a top priority. Apart from the fact that my ability to walk is so terrible that I had to beg the airport staff to find some sort of transport just to get me as far as the plane.

Apart from all that, things were perfect!

Now, you might be thinking that a skiing holiday is a peculiar choice for someone with M.E., and... okay, you’re right. The amount of skiing I actually did in the week could have been fitted into one day, and I’d still have had several hours to spare. But quantity is not synonymous with quality, remember!

I have to admit that I dreaded trying to explain to the ski rep why I was there, but as it turned out he was absolutely brilliant. I was lucky, in that the company we went with had chosen as their designated charity of the year one called Disability Snowsport UK. Pete, our rep, told me that he’d been shown a film about disability skiing before he went out for the season, which obviously helped. But I’m sure there were plenty of reps who saw the film and didn’t take it on board in the same way Pete did, and I can honestly say that his understanding really made the holiday. This wasn’t a rep simply doing his duty, but one who went above and beyond in order to help us out.

For example, although we were staying in a catered chalet, there was one night when the staff got an evening off. We went to look for a restaurant, but got lost and I quickly got to the stage of being unable to walk further. Passing in his car, Pete not only stopped to offer a lift to the restaurant in question but also volunteered to drop our ski boots back at the chalet afterwards. All this despite the fact that he had to beg us not to tell anyone, since giving lifts to customers was actually forbidden. (Which, incidentally, is why I’ve changed his name! I’d love to name and praise him, but I’m bound by my promise of secrecy.) Like I said, above and beyond. What’s more, my husband – who had more usual ski-related woes – would give you the same glowing report on the man. And no, Pete’s not paying me for this!

The one occasion where Pete’s understanding failed a little was over an après-ski excursion to go tubing. Tubing (for those, like me, who have never heard the term before) involves sliding down very fast ice tracks in a large rubber ring (known as a “tube” or “donut”). Riders have very little control over the tube, and so it is basically a case of hold on tight and hope for the best! Pete reassured us that there was a motorised pulley-line which would drag the tube and rider back to the top of the track, and that we would only have to walk “a few steps” along flat ground with the tube to get there. Sadly, Pete’s idea of a few steps turned out to be 50 yards or so – my idea of an almost impossibly long walk!

Fortunately I had an angelic husband on hand who was prepared to haul the tube and me back to the pulley-line. This was particularly noble on his behalf since he was also doing the same for our son (who, by the way, absolutely loved tubing, though for safety reasons he always went down with his rubber ring linked up to mine or his father’s). I suspect the other tubers believed me the laziest woman on the planet, but you can’t have everything. And in a way, I’m almost glad Pete got it wrong. If I’d known the extent of the walk, I’d never have gone on the excursion – and thanks to my husband, I had a really good time.

Whilst I was spending most of my non-skiing hours in hot baths and warm beds, the rest of my family were not allowing the snow to melt under their feet. My son was busy learning to ski at ski school, looking cherubic in a red ski suit and no doubt making his teachers earn their money, and my husband was bravely joining groups of experienced skiers on expeditions, and putting up with their teasing about his skis, which were old, albeit well-loved. When he discovered an identical pair of skis to his in the museum at the top of the mountain, however, even he had to admit that they might possibly have passed their best-before date!

Although an awful lot of my non-skiing time was spent sleeping, Kitzbuhel had more to offer in the way of excitement. Halfway through the week, the entire vibe of the town changed dramatically with the arrival in town of the world’s best skiers, complete with retinue and the inevitable TV crews – not to mention hundreds of fans, the majority of whom were Austrian and Swiss. The Hahnenkamm is one of the most famous ski slopes in World Cup skiing, and even my active husband was tempted away from visiting the slopes on his own behalf in order to watch the crème de la crème ski down what appeared to be an entirely vertical piste. It also meant that the town was buzzing with activity – some of it of the craziest sort! I am bitterly regretful that I didn’t have my camera to hand to photograph the 25 Swiss men marching through the streets ringing two-foot big cowbells, not to mention the six (also Swiss) people dressed as crocodiles... and there aren’t all that many people in Britain who can claim to have been nearly knocked over by the Slovenian Ski Team bus!

In the evenings, music played and people danced. My son, on the shoulders of his daddy, drew more than his fair share of attention as he clapped and rocked in time to the tunes – music is after all an international language. The friendliness of everyone was wonderful: I’ve never heard of ski-related mob violence and now I know why! The skiing World Cup seems to bring a party atmosphere with it, and it was an experience never to be forgotten.

It was in general, as I say, an odd type of holiday for someone with M.E. It’s often difficult to explain to people why, with an illness where movement invariably hurts, you would want to spend a holiday causing yourself pain. (Strangely, there is no such querying of the motives of people who spend their days burning their skin on hot beaches before drinking themselves into a hangover at night, but I digress.) What they don’t understand is that there is an emotional side: what may not be a good plan for my physical health can do wonders for my mental health. For those few minutes skiing, I controlled my body – not the other way around.

It was worth it, and more than worth it, for those moments when I swooped down a mountain, the air cold on my cheeks and the snow hissing beneath my skis. In normal life, not only can I barely walk 50 yards but I also walk with painful slowness (“painful” being the operative word). Skiing, for a few minutes, let me fly. It allowed me to become not “disabled Pen” but to remember what it was like to be healthy and well. I could appreciate the joy of movement, not just the soreness and discomfort it brings me. I’ve always been a sports fanatic, but since contracting M.E. I’ve had to feed that interest by watching other people do what I can’t.

This time I not only could, but did do it. Maybe I couldn’t ski for long; maybe the pain afterwards reminded me that I am not able-bodied, but I’ll tell you one thing. No healthy person could possibly enjoy the wonder of speeding down a mountain as much as I did.