And yesterday, I skied (is that how you spell it? It always looks wrong to me) down the Mens' Olympic Downhill Course. Not on purpose. My trusty guide, "I-have-an-innate-knowledge-of-these-mountains. I-always-know-where-I-am" (Pete) took a wrong turning and instead of meandering gently through the trees to the bottom of the mountain I found myself at the top of what appeared to be a vertical wall of sheet ice. Yes, I'm exaggerating. But only a little. Honest.
Here's me looking quite cool BEFORE that. Well, it WAS -9 degrees.
1. Sue for divorce, collapse into a snivelling mound of terrified jelly and wait for Medivac.
2. Get down the mountain somehow THEN sue for divorce.
I went for Option 2. I have my pride.
You don't have to tell anyone this, but most of it was actually okay really. There were only a couple of stomach-churning, heart-in-the mouth sections. I'm very good at side-slipping...
To my joy, there were the Olympic rings near the bottom, so I absolutely INSISTED on an action shot. I wish it looked somehow STEEPER.
So I made it! I was dead chuffed. I chose the pint of lager option instead of the divorce option.