Big White is AWESOME! A day in the life of...

 Me! A ski instructor... or someone who lives, works and plays at Big White.

I could be a liftie, server, hotel staff, ski patrol, whatever... I just happen to be a ski instructor.

So today. Well my day started with picking up poop... actually my day started with coffee, courtesy of my lovely wife. I slowly came to sipping coffee and a quick Duolingo (Italian for me), then it was dressed and getting the dogs out, three dogs... picking up poop comes with the territory.

A beautiful day again, 20 min walk through the 'slowly coming to life' village - groomers just ending their shift, staff coming up the gondola, lifties being ferried on snowmobile to their respective lifts. The air is clear, fresh, the snow looks perfectly groomed and crunches under my feet.

I'm not teaching today, but I am going skiing. The dogs and I head home, three dogs can be a challenge, sometimes they want to go their way... I will give you a quick intro to my dogs-

• Hobbes, he is the old dude. A 14 year old labradoodle, if I was to describe his personality I would say a stoned Aussie (wait, can I write that, hmmm, let me ask the author? Apparently I can), looking for pizza. Dude! Likes? Eating my things... including wallets, complete with credit cards, glasses, sunglasses, headphones - he ate a full set of over-ear Beats, he's not a big fan of smoked oysters tho...
• Pixel - technically my daughters dog... in so much as... well actually I don't know. He is a small Maltese poodle cross. He believes it is his sole job to dismember and dog bigger than he is... every dog is bigger than he is. Personality? Drunk Glaswegian at 2am looking for a fight "...aamm gonna forkin keehl yus..." Likes? Losing his shit when he sees another dog.
• And finally Fiona Fluffles... a bouncy, dopey, lovely Berna Doodle who thinks everybody's job is to love and give her attention. Likes? Bullying/herding the old dude and the thug... oh, and getting attention.

We get home, the dogs charge upstairs, they all try to eat each other's food. My back has been bugging me so I do a quick yoga session, 15 mins. It helps, I should do it more often, there are lots of things I should and shouldn't do... then a quick breakfast and by 8:45 I am out the door.

I am lucky! I live right next to the bottom of the Bullet Chair... I have to cross the road, I know right? After that massive hurdle, I clip in and skate to the chairlift. Covid protocols are in place and even though it is mid week and hardly anyone is around, I mask up. 

Let me touch on masks. Yes, I know they are slightly inconvenient, yes I know they can be slightly uncomfortable, yes, I know they hide your good looks and smudge my... wait... I mean anybody's make up. Yes, they don't fit me properly, I struggle keeping them over my nose - I didn't realize I had a big snoz (yep, the medical term, look it up) that keeps popping out... but... if I have the choice of skiing and mask, and not skiing and no mask. Give it to me. And for all those who don't want to wear a mask cos 'I have rights...!' Technically I can swing an axe around in the lift line... and if you get too close... not my fault. Well, maybe I can't swing an axe...

Oh... guess what? Instructors maybe helping enforce lift line mask compliance on the weekend. You may see me being a little Mussolini (I told you I was learning Italian... not German). "Please put on your mask, or you're not getting on the chair... nope, removing your mask to talk on your phone is not okay, your phone does not provide immunity... surprisingly..." 

Where was I? Oh, yes, struggling with my mask on the chair. I get to the top and I am off. Like most instructors and probably skiers, I am working on something. I am trying to improve my skiing... fortunately for me there is lots of things for me to improve... and you thought once you became an instructor that was it. Nope. 

What am I doing today? I start with early edge grip and smooth transfer of balance from one leg to the other. I'm trying to lock in a movement pattern, trying to make it a thoughtless process, which takes a lot of, yes, thought and concentration. Couple hours and multiple runs later I finish up with some focus on ski deflection at the end of the turn - I'm trying to load up my ski with energy (bend it) and then use that stored energy to propel me through the next turn. Think jumping on a trampoline. It is hard work, and after couple of hard hours my legs and old knees are toast. 

Heading home is easy - did I tell you where I live...? Sorry, rubbing it in. Lunch is leftovers.

And then it is time for some real exercise, on the bike trainer... wait... quick tangent, I used to play squash, a lot. It kept me fit. But it was tough on my knees, eventually my physio said "I'm not going to tell you to quit, but..." I didn't really want to quit but the catalyst came one early December... my team was playing the Penticton team, in Penticton... imagine that. I had to drive two hours, play my match and drive back two hours. My match was against their No.1... their No.1 was the ex British Junior champion - Adam... I was my teams No.1 the game I played was different from the game Adam played... Adam played squash, I'm not sure what I was doing... it wasn't Adam's version of squash. His version involved scoring points, my version consisted of running around like a headless chicken, chasing a ball... and not scoring points.

The next day my knees quit... I followed shortly after. Keeping in reasonable shape should be easy right? I'm a ski instructor, I'm outside all the time, it is a physical activity... It will be easy. Ha! That was December. Come April I was 10kgs cuddlier.

Tangent over... skiing didn't do it obviously, so I got into biking. Long story short... I biked that first summer, lost the 'cuddly' weight, stopped biking in winter, got very cuddly, started riding again next summer, lost the cuddles and vowed never to stop riding again... hence the bike trainer from two paragraphs back...

So, I get on the trainer... just a C group ride... I last a hour, well, my iPad lasts a hour then the battery is toast... thank god, any excuse to quit today cos my legs are toast... 

It is 1pm ish, I answer some quick emails, do a bit of admin and then it is time for the dogs again, they need some good exercise so it is off to the snow-shoe trails. We love the trails... dogs love the trails. Pristine, beautiful, fresh clean air... my favourite is when the snow is falling... everything becomes silent except for the soft pad of your feet in the snow... then it is magical. Anyway, two hours with the dogs, not the old dude this time, just Mr Grumpy and Fifi.  

And then we are back, I have a quick conference call, a bit more admin and then I start to write this. A few minutes ago I opened a beer... after all that exercise today... surely I deserve it.

So... a day in my life at Big White. I am just one, there are lots of us up here... it is a great place to live. Tomorrow you ask...? Pretty sure I will be skiing again... You?

Big White is AWESOME! An Army story... First Gulf War. You know the one before the second one...

"Flump! Flump! Flump!" Just trying to keep this PC.

Yep, I was a little annoyed.

I'm just gonna do my ADHD thing here. IF you were in the British Army you may remember the Armstrong 500s. Here is a pic. And it is all decked out in desert camouflage... or commonly known as 'painted'.

A pic. Just in case you were confused.

 Okay, back to the story... "Flump!" I added for good measure. My bike, like all Armstrongs, was prone to the timing belt shredding. So much so that I carried spare belts in my little crappy tool kit... so much so that the little hex bolts bolting the cover plate on were worn to the point of being non serviceable or in common army parlance 'fucked'. And... the said timing belt had just shredded... "Flumpity flump flump!"

Okay, so, let me paint a picture. Our unit (22 Engineer Field Squadron) were somewhere in the desert - if any of you remember the pipeline road we were about 22kms down the pipeline road, turn right drive 4kms (ish) and you hit camp. For those of you who don't remember the pipeline road... well it was a road, next to a pipeline.

I have an idea...

My job was building up the defences of an American Black Hawk base around 5kms from our base. I was just building a bund around the base. Every day I would ride my Armstrong to the American camp, push dirt for 8-12 hours (a D6 if you're interested) and then ride it back. One day one of the yanks, with whom I had become familiar... (you know, "Hey" and "Hi") wanted to trade some combats - his yank ones for my brit ones. Yep, I was keen, and I had a surplus pair of trousers back at the hotel. Quick note. When I say hotel I mean the 12'x24' tent that I shared with 11 other stinky, sweaty, smelly squadies... luxury, we even had lots of string the flies could sleep on.

Anyhoo... at the end of my shift I rode the 4 kms to the pipeline road, turned left, 5kms, turned left, 4kms, got to the hotel, grabbed the trousers, and reversed the journey again. 

Another quick note. The Pipeline road was not a 'road' it was a series of potholes making one big, bumpy pothole. Riding the Pipeline road was slow. It was a long journey, it seemed a waste of time... when you could almost see their camp from your camp.


Well, I ride the road, get to the yanks, do the deal (Note, if there are any MPs reading this, it wasn't me) and I leave, it is just getting dark...

Let's go in the right direction... nah, let's wing it.

"Hmmm..." I think to myself... "maybe, I will take a short cut... who needs to go to the road... this way will be quicker" the person now elevated to 'idiot' said to himself. 

I pointed my nose in the approximate direction and I set off. And I get lost. And it is now dark. And we are playing in the dark so no lights. And all the camps are dark... and I am riding around for at least 42 hours (not really) And then my timing belt goes. "Flump."

But, I have the tools, I have the parts, I can fix this...? Nope. Those bolts you see, I cannot see the bolts without holding the torch. I cannot angle the Allen key in just the right position without both hands... 

So, I am in the middle of the desert, it is dark (think black), I'm lost, I cannot repair the bike (I've been trying for about two days now, no, not really), I'm disorientated and the rumour is there are Iraqi hit squads roaming around targeting lonely, lost, broken down dispatch riders... me, specifically, they are looking for me. 

Suddenly I see lights... it is a vehicle. Now a number of thoughts go through my tiny brain... American? British? Other? Iraqi? I'm also thinking that this is a 'dark' operation - no military should have lights on... no? But I also think to myself, no Iraqi hit squad would drive around with lights on either... unless they were using the 'Angler Fish' strategy. Fortunately for me I didn't know what the Angler Fish is... so I didn't have to worry about that.

Let's go and see what that flashy light is.

I decided the chances were that it was more likely to be friendly rather than grumpy. And I (the idiot) needed help... so I flashed the bike light in their direction dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. The only Morse code I knew, the international signal for help, or Mayday... or 'Mum..." Nothing happened, the vehicle kept moving in the same direction. I tried again ...---... still nothing. I start to second guess myself, why are they not responding? Even if they didn't know this Mayday signal, this is the middle of a war zone, the middle of the desert, there shouldn't be anything around... surely someone repeatedly flashing a light at them would draw attention... no?

I tried again... and again... and then... they changed direction, they started driving towards me and they are American. Relief washes over me like a big wet washy-over thing.

Wait... what...?

Now, let's remember, I am in the desert, in the middle of nowhere, my bike is in bits, it is dark, it is late, I am flashing the international signal for Mayday... is it not obvious I require some assistance? No? Yes? Maybe?

The truck drives up to me, the driver winds down his window and he says, in his very southern American drawl... "caaan yuuu taaall mee waarre thaaat AaaaTtt aannd Ttt phones aare?" Sorry that was my best southern drawl writing. ...What? Where the AT&T phones are? 

I'm in the middle... well, you know where I am. I think my mind stopped working. I'm pretty sure he had to ask me twice before I responded. "...Errr, yes... yes I can... but, do you think you could give me some assistance?" ...cos I'm broke down in the middle of the flumping desert... I'm not here on the off-chance someone needs directions.

Well, it is now 30 years later so it all worked out, I got back to camp and the yanks got to the AT&T phones. And bonus... I now know what an Angler Fish is too.

So for you POMs wanting a story, that is one of mine.
C.

Looking capable... Ha!