Astonishingly, it’s -26 out. I’m standing here with just the tiniest stirrings of genuine panic that this is possible frost nip territory and I can no longer feel one of my fingers at all. I’ve cross country skied before and always been overwarm, so this time, I’ve tried to dress for the expected cold, but with a nod towards the skiing exertion. But I’m currently standing still, on the snow, being talked through the finer points of how to handle a gun. Yes, you heard right, a GUN.
In the nature of scientific enquiry, I’m giving the sport of Biathlon a go. Given that I’m not exactly what you’d call a natural on cross country skis, and that my experience of shooting a rifle is limited to one session in a range over twenty years ago, my expectations are not high. Despite the cold, it’s hard to find fault with the setting- a broad flat valley floor at Bessans in the Haute Maurienne, surrounded by snowy peaks makes for perfect cross country conditions. I’m itching to get going, or at least I would be if I could feel my feet enough for them to itch.
As cold as I am, it’s literally only a matter of minutes before the blood starts pumping and a steady flow of warmth returns once I get going on the skis. It may be my staggering inefficiency, battling the snow at every stroke rather than gently gliding like the pros, but if it keeps me warmer I’m not complaining. I’m moving as quickly as I can around the track, as a friendly competition has been suggested, and I can’t resist a good race. The straights are fine, it’s the corners and the purpose built humps that are proving tricky. I skitter sideways at every corner and battle up the rises with my skis spread out to herringbone my way up, only to slide inelegantly down the other side, powered by determination and gravity.