Dreams of ski glory (From Oxford Mail)

Dreams of ski glory

6:38pm Sunday 28th February 2010 in

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IN A perfect world, this is how my life should have started... I’d have been born to a mother and father, identical to my own, save for their occupation, language and home.

Instead of Plymouth, I’d have been brought up in Val d'Isère, France – my dad a simple herdsman, my mum a milkmaid.

Living high up in the mountains, I’d have helped out with the goats and milking until, aged four, I received my first pair of skis.

As the years went by, I’d grow into a fine young man, strong, blue-eyed and much loved by both local villagers and animals alike.

“There goes Didier,” they’d say as I skied past, smiling.

Then, on my 16th birthday, my parents said I should take part in the village’s annual ski race.

First prize was a horn, and my parents said, because I skied more naturally than I walked, I should enter.

So I did, and won.

A local French Olympic official, who just happened to be passing through that day, watched my performance and afterwards, spoke earnestly with my father.

My dad, who hemmed and hawed, finally spat in his hand and the deal was done.

Next day, I was sent to ski school.

Two years later, just shy of my 19th birthday, I took part in the Men’s Downhill, as part of France’s Winter Olympic team.

It was a hard, gruelling race, and the competition was strong. But somehow, by three-hundredths of second, I managed to win gold, as mum and dad with goats in tow, watched from the spectators stand.

Ah... But no use crying over spilt milk is there?

I have skied, once, and I was a disgrace. Even the nursery slope defeated me.

Which is precisely why the past two weeks have been something of a blessed burden.

The Vancouver Winter Olympics has, as all previous Winter Olympics have, dominated my life this last two weeks.

I’m a bobsleigh, luge and skeleton junkie, and every day I’ve dutifully stayed up late, well into the early hours, armed only with a snowball cocktail – advocaat, lime juice and lemonade – and a long redundant pair of ski goggles. And it’s been GLORIOUS.

The snow, the spectacle, the speed, the danger, the cow bells, the beauty – and I could watch it 24/7.

Except, always, needling away at the back of my mind, is the memory of my beginners’ ski week more than 20 years ago, when gangs of three-year-olds would hang around, strutting their stuff and pimping their bunnies in order to watch me... fall. And no, I didn’t disappoint.

Even their parents had to try and stop them pointing. Anyway, now it’s all over, I feel both relieved and bereft; relieved because I can let this memory go until 2014, and bereft because all the rest this year has to offer is Wimbledon, the World Cup and Ryder Gold Cup.

I mean, seriously, who wants to watch that?