Rusutsu

I first learned to ski when I came to Japan. Prior to that I had never even considered it. Coming from Ireland the only exposure we got to skiing was either (a) chancing across Ski Sunday on BBC 2 when rain had cancelled that afternoon's GAA match I was supposed to play; or (b) driving by the artificial ski slope in Kiltiernan on the way down to Wexford (usually to watch a GAA match) and wondering who had more money than sense to be arsing around on a strip of plastic half way up a mountain.
So I came to the, eh, 'sport' a complete novice, sans experience and skis. This all changed during my first winter in Shibestu. Like many schools across Hokkaido (including Cian's), in winter PE classes are often spent on the slopes. So, I could either remain in the school with the old, overweight, chain smoking math's teacher (in those days of complete tobacco freedom, you could still smoke in the school staff room), or I could go out and engage in winter sports. No choice really.
First though, I had to acquire a set of skis. Fifteen years ago the considered wisdom when buying beginner's skis was to get your height plus 15 to 20 cms. In the lands of men this may not have been a problem, but here amongst the halflings you were lucky to come across skis longer than 170cms. I did finally find a set of skis - 205 centimetres long. Yes, over 2 metres of slick plastic on each leg which meant I had the turning radius of a small oil tanker (though with less finesse). That though wasn't the biggest problem. The biggest, most blinding problem was the colour of the skis: they were of a special hue which I can only describe as 'iridescent radioactive pink". Apparently you could see my skis from space. Before heading out for a day on the powder I would have to clear my itinerary with the local air traffic control so I didn't blind any jets making their final approach at Nakashibetsu airport.
I stuck at the skiing for the first couple of years, more out of camaderie than any great love of the sport - most of my friends back then were hearty "swoosh! swoosh!" types and it was either the slopes or sitting home alone sipping hot cocoa growing fat, lonely and probably unhinged.
I pretty much gave up when I moved to Muroran - replaced by definitely unhinged new found desire to catch some waves, even when those waves have ice floes in them.
This in turn has given way to (a) age; (b) a modicum of sense - continue winter surfing and crippling rheumatism beckons before I am 50; and (c) Cian's burgeoning ability on skis.
The boy, born in the deep heartland of a Hokkaido winter, is oblivious to the cold and passionate about his skiing. Some body has to take him skiing and that responsibility falls to me. Which is why I, adapting the adage of if you can't beat it out of the boy then you might as well join him, bought a new set of skis and boots last December. I figure they are going to get some use until such time as Cian learns to drive (his mother's car; no way he moves the Mazda. No way).
Last weekend we ended up in Rusutsu, a ski resort about a hour's drive away. Here the slopes are longer, wider and more fun than the short, shallow ski run here in Muroran. And the boy loved it, as can be witnessed from the videos which you can watch here and here (they were too big and too spectacular to embed directly into this blog post).