Twenty years ago, when my temperament was fiery and my thigh muscles were stronger, I loved freestyle skiing on really humpy pistes. I still do, as a matter of fact; I’ve just become more careful. Back then, in the mid-1980’s, I suffered from the youthful misconception that quantity mattered more than quality. That meant that I scrambled up and down the pistes incessantly. I often ate my lunch on the lifts in order to squeeze another run or two out of the day.
Photo: Fcappe
Even though I worked as a ski instructor and skied every day, I couldn’t get enough. But then I met Bjørn. A weird, awkward man, who thought we had all lived before. He was on first-name terms with the stars (those in sky, that is), he did tai-chi exercises in his room, and claimed that I would benefit from “being more present in the moment”.
I smiled, but regarded his words as pure drivel. Skiing and meditation have never had anything in common, I thought. And then I stopped thinking about it altogether. The next day was a Saturday, a day off for me. As usual I was waiting impatiently for the lift to open so that I could spend the day on my favourite freestyle piste.
The day was perfect. The sun had the sky to itself, the snow was light, the temperature was minus three Celsius and the freestyle piste before me was, as usual on a Saturday, more or less empty. My entire body tickled when I set off. And on this Saturday twenty years ago I had the run of a lifetime.
Photo: Loutron Glouton
At high speeds I danced and tumbled rhythmically down the slope. Perhaps it sounds silly, but I became part of the mountain. The rhythm came from a place within me. I didn’t think, I just let my body work. It felt as if I was outside myself; I simply floated in the air, watching myself ski. There was no one else on the piste, but for once I didn’t care about the lack of audience.
When I stood at the end of the run gasping for air, I was practically ecstatic. My first impulse was of course to dash back up and have another go, but I didn’t. Maybe that was because of Bjørn and his talk of meditation, but without consciously wanting to, I pointed my skis downward, toward the valley and the nearest restaurant. There I sat sipping a café au lait for hours. When I closed my eyes, I relived my run again and again. At exactly because I didn’t rush back up immediately, that particular skiing experience became one of the most memorable of my extensive skiing life.
These days I have long since been convinced that true skiing takes place in your head, your heart or your stomach. Technically it’s no harder to learn to ski than it is to learn to walk, and most of us do that effortlessly. To me, the conclusion of that day is that the more you practise feeling, sensing and experience your skiing, the more joy you’ll derive from it. People who only think of measuring themselves against others or their own previous achievements run the risk of missing the tremendous thrills hidden somewhere beneath your skis.
If you think this all sounds somewhat contrived, try to remember two instances from earlier ski holidays. One in which you’ve just had an argument with your spouse, girlfriend, boyfriend or your children, and one in which you, for whatever reason, have been happy. I’m willing to bet you a ski pole that your technique was vastly superior the day when you were happy. So: If you want to improve your skiing, forget about technique and focus on being happy and present in the moment. It’s as easy as that.
Written by Thomas Uhrskov
Go further: Read here about Marko's life as ski bum in the Alps.