It begins....

Well, here I am sat in my bedroom in my comfortable house, living out my comfortable existence in deepest, darkest Dorset. On Wednesday I part to Bariloche, Argentina, with a company called Base Camp for four months to gain some qualifications in ski instructing. Oh, also, something you should probably know is that I haven't skied for 1 1/2 years, so you may judge appropriately that planning/ organisation is not my forte.You may argue that this sounds quite comforable too, I thought the same, until recently.


I have always had aspirations to travel and see the world, but like your normal teenager I'm quite a lot better at talking the talk than walking the walk, so when people gave me the 'life' conversation at family meetings (or somewhere else suitably awkward enough to incite this dreadful conversation) I'd usually come up with something nonchalant like..."yeah I'll leave school, save some money and go traveling", and that would be that. No further thought required. However, let us say that this beatnik, free will attitude did not ride well my father, a very straight man, the kind of sort you think would wear brogues to bed and says 'so what are your plans' quite a lot. I was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and plonked down in front of the computer screen and asked whether I'd like to be a ski instructor for a couple of years, following a swift dialogue of 'I wont have some layabout bugger for a son, you'll go out and work boy!', with much wagging of fingers and knitted eyebrows. I liked mountains, I liked skiing, snow's good, and I don't like being too hot. I saw no error. Images of a nice tan, cruising down gentle and perfect slopes whilst laughing with like-minded people entered my head. A few months after I had agreed to this new plan, I started thinking...oh bugger, I'm going to have to teach little children, and really macho middle-class men, and women who'll have a terrible mid-life crisis halfway down a mountain and expect me to be sympathetic, and finally, I am quite unfit. To start with I used to smoke about 12-15 cigarettes a day since and age which would cause angry and concerned whispering if revealed, eat absolute rubbish ( mainly McDonald's and microwave meals, burnt baked beans if I was feeling creative)and strictly abstained from any form of exercise.

So, smoking was the first thing to quit, and that has gone quite well, I only lapse occasionally and don't crave them anymore.(unless I'm really, really bored or have had a sip of one too many ales) I started eating regular meals of good,healthy, tasteless stuff and even got an induction to the local gym. This was all going swimmingly and people started to comment on my appearance. Most were to the tune of 'Yer, you don't look like a vampire anymore, well good mate' or 'Yeah, you've got a well funny running face'. These minor confidence knockers aside, I was feeling quite good. And then, I turned 18, and moved to a town where to my absolute DELIGHT, there were 14 pubs. Excellent. Oh and I might have had some A-Level exams. Two and a half months later, many many house parties, raves, packets of cigarettes, pints, nights, hangovers later all the fun ended with a trip to the doctor's when one of my darling friends showed me that I looked like 'a bit of a corpse' and had turned a bit grey.

So with 4 days to go and a sense of something which feels a bit like determination I receive an email from the Base Camp saying 'Some students don't feel the need to follow a fitness regime but we recommend a strict and thorough course of exercise consisting of 2 x 30 minute runs a week, plus daily press ups, sit ups and visits to a gym. Swimming is also recommended. (Now on a side note I have refused to swim ever since I joined my secondary school where the swimming teacher was an old, red faced man with sporadic patches of hair who paid semi naked children a bit too much attention for their own good. Overreaction I hear you say ? Bollocks! The nick name 'Dirty Dave the Dildo' comes from somewhere. No smoke without fire you know! and on another note, my habit of deviating dreadfully from the initial topic will be tamed...hopefully)

My course consists of five hours of on snow training, 2 hours of lectures and theory lessons, plus one added hour of self-supported study. Every day. Now let's get down to brass tacks here, I only had two hours of lessons a day at sixth form and I personally felt that was quite hard work, and often felt that Thursdays weren't worth going in for. And on a more extreme note, I learned that as part of the course I have to be buried alive and wait for someone to find me...no offence but it would be just my luck to getting the thickest bastard in the country, who can't tell his arse from his elbow, as my rescuer. Insert visions of a dark, cold, wet and thoroughly unpleasant death here. Oh well maybe I'll have the common sense to carry a small plastic spade with me on that day as I don't fancy having to lick my way out whilst some bumbling idiot walks around asking nearby skiers whether they've seen my (probably) frozen corpse.

I have finally packed my bag today, actually bought clothes and suddenly become a bit worried that technically...I'll be leaving home (sort of). I'm sad to leave a few people behind, but more exited to start a new (and bloody knackering) chapter of my life. I have been told that the region I'm headed to is incredibly beautiful and is one of the gems of Argentina. I look forward to developing myself mentally and physically and will hopefully find a few facets to myself that I hadn't known about or consciously allowed to develop, and a few more cliches along the way...

So, have you the one about the lazy, smoke filled, sodden, Dorset git who decided to go into a career in sport?

No neither have I, so I suppose I'll have to let you know...