Winter Olympics 2010: Homestyle

You'd think I would have learned from this experience that sledding in the Schwiiz is a little ... different.

When I think (thought?) sledding, I think of curling up criss-cross-apple-sauce on our bright orange saucer-sled, and the 10 foot long stretch of slanted ground behind our house. Two minutes to run up; four running strides for a running start, and one spin-filled minute down. That was sledding. It was fun.

Apparently it was also childs' play.

Last weekend found us at La Tzoumaz, famous for its 10 kilometer sledding run. Seven m-i-l-e-s. Complete with gondola to take you to the starting point ... at 2354m (7723ft). So much for one minute down, two minutes up. When helmets, goggles and back protection are required, you know that you're in trouble.

First there was the minor issue to learning how to steer, AKA avoid our friends the skiers on the run, as well as fellow lugers and, above all else the dreaded, pain inducing, three-foot (I kid you not) "potholes". (See R's highly accurate interpretation below)

Then there was the slightly more major issue of mastering the art of speed control--a highly valuable, yet underrated skill on a seven mile run that covers a 2782 foot altitude drop. Case in point?

It's day two. The A-team thinks she's mastered the skill of Swiss luge. She's in the final stretch, down the luge "tunnel", with 50 foot mesh netting protecting from any potential over-cliff spillage over the snow wall on the right, and happily populated ski run over the snow wall on the left. We're going 20 miles an hour and ... suddenly you realize you've mastered neither the art of speed control, nor steerage.

Visions of Nodar Kumaritashvili suddenly flash through my head as we're missing the hard turn right ...

heading straight up and over the left-hand tunnel wall ...

catching air ...

arms flailing, legs yanking back down by the sled leashed to my leg ...

and catching a quick glimpse at the look of panic on the unsuspecting skier's face across the way as I crash land in a heap of ridiculous holy-*&^!-I'm-alive laughter.

On the ski piste.

On the other side of the luge track.

Why watch the Games on TV when you can "play" them yourself?? Reason no. 1: Occupying the sofa with a cold drink in hand is a lot less painful.



















PS For those that missed reading this in the first 12 hours it was up ... sorry you missed out on the sound. The copyright police caught up with us for borrowing a little too much inspiration from "Born to be wild" ...

PPS Thanks again for the pics and the video, Morales!

Dear Mother Nature

Dear Mother Nature:

Approximately three days ago, I received in good order your annual gift of seasonal allergies. While your tremendous generosity in this area is indeed most kind, please be informed that, as a result, the following consequences may be observed:

1. Yours truly is now constantly being mistaken for being a blubbering cry baby. Or, depending on the individual observing my blood shot eyes at any given moment, for being a drug addy.

2. Due to my nose-turned-water-faucet, the office administration is now complaining of increased consumable (i.e. toilet paper-turned-tissue) costs. Never a good thing in the midst of "economic crisis".

3. The World Health Organisation, conveniently located just across the street, is now approximately two days away from placing me on the potential Swine flu quarantine blacklist, thanks to my incessant, herculean sneezing.

4. Otherwise dangerously tempting picnics amid acres of flowers and "old world European fields" on "flower island" forcibly end in sterilised picnics atop perfectly painted white benches placed smack dab in the centre of tourist alley.

Given this unfortunate (and annually recurring) chain of events, I may soon be submitting myself to a good dose of anti-allergenic acupuncture in your honour. If, however, you find yourself so inclined to reclaim your generous allergy endowment in the meantime, please do feel free to go right on ahead.

Yours faithfully,

AR

She's arrived.

Around town and amongst the Francophones, she's known as "the Bis" (I have NO idea if I'm spelling that right, but the pronunciation should be something like "beeess"), AKA the frigid winds from the North that fill the valley that is Geneva and officially demarcate the Winter season.

Winter has arrived.

Up until now, the talk on the street has been just how abnormally warm it is this year. Today, I have officially frozen my booty off, people on the streets have all broken out their warm winter woolies complete with face-engulfing hoods and scarves, and the wind can be heard in the form of fall leaves violently bouncing along the sidewalks, half-open windows banging shut again and again and the ocassional balcony windchime clanking away. Add to all of this that today I officially had to do the seasonal hand switch with my ring in order to avoid having it inadevertently fall off my cold, shrunken finger ... indeed, Lady Bis has officially arrived, bringing Winter to Geneva.