Slippin' and Slidin' as Sport

For most of us growing up in Southern England, snow was a rare treat and an ice rink was something the naughty kids created on the playground to wind the teachers up and, for us good kids, make getting around school a treacherous winter nightmare. And yet, for some reason, figure skating has always been very popular on the telly. While Britain had to wait until 2018 for its first snow-based Olympic medal, the ice has been a source of elusive success over the years.  

I recall John Curry’s uber-camp routine which clinched gold at Innsbruck in 1976, followed by Robin Cousins’ victory four years later but, for all Alan Weeks’ bletherings about double toe-loops and triple salchows, such displays on ice left me– er- cold. With the exception of Katerina Witt, whose looks and effortless elegance seemed so anathema to the Cold War era image of East German womanhood, I have never warmed to the sport. And is it sport anyway, with all the emphasis on ‘artistic impression’? I suppose there is a great element of skill and athleticism but even this is chucked out of the window for Ice Dancing. Of course it looks pretty, the choreography clever and bladework devilishly difficult but it’s no more sport than what the aristos fork out lavishly to applaud at Covent Garden or the Bolshoi. I detested the British infatuation with Torvill and Dean and always left the room whenever they performed that Bolero routine. 34 years since their Sarajevo top-marks triumph, just hearing the haunting music still raises a ghost I’d prefer to forget.

Unlike skiing, I have at least tried to skate. However, the Queensway rink in London has probably never hosted such a feeble attempt by an adult. It did demonstrate how something that the experts make look so simple can be so bloody impossible for a lily-livered wimp like me.

Moving swiftly on. Very swiftly. Not all skating I watched on the telly involved wearing sequins and excessive make-up – and that was just the men! In 1972 I remember being in awe of Dutch speed skater Ard Schenk whose rhythmic arm swings and stupendous thigh muscles propelled him to three gold medals. The event has since moved indoors and times have shrunk, but such races against the clock claim little airtime in this country. That’s probably because we’ve never had anyone who’s any good at it. Then, when short-track speed-skating came along in the early nineties, I could enjoy a sport which was generally thrilling and offered genuine medal potential for the Brits.

Almost every Olympics we have a world champion and yet the total haul to date is a paltry single bronze, courtesy of Nicky Gooch’s 500m sprint in 1994. From Wilf O’Reilly to Elise Christie, our short-track stars always seem to fall over when the UK public is glued to the screens. Of course, with such tight turns and travelling at such speeds on narrow blades, collisions, crashes and disqualifications are commonplace. So why is it always us, and never the Koreans or Chinese?! Christie was our golden girl at Sochi and Pyeongchang yet somehow contrived to miss out at every distance, forever bursting into tears at the pain and injustice of it all. To his credit, Nicky Gooch did finish second in the Lillehammer 1000m final, only to be disqualified, dammit! The reliance on luck in the sport is perhaps best demonstrated by Australian Stephen Bradbury becoming an Olympic champion in Salt Lake City after not once but twice avoiding carnage ahead to achieve immortality. Now why, just once, couldn’t Christie have done that?

Each Olympics I give some of my time to watching bobsleigh but, barring the very occasional Cool Runnings-style disaster, I end up disappointed. The bravery of two or four men or women careering down a ribbon of sheet ice at 80mph in an aerodynamic tin box is undeniable but with medals decided by thousandths of a second over four runs, it’s not much of a spectator sport. 

Sliding on a tea tray on your back (Luge) looks even dafter but for apparent insanity, nothing can beat flipping over onto your front and hurtling on the tray head first. Perhaps that’s why British women have enjoyed extraordinary success on the Skeleton in recent years. Shelly Rudman, shiny-eyed Amy Williams and Lizzy Yarnold (twice) have done the country proud.

There’s nothing particularly dangerous about Curling. It’s also probably the only winter sport at which I could conceivably have a decent stab. Be honest, it’s basically bowls on ice albeit with great granite slabs and brooms. When Rhona Martin ‘skipped’ her team to a momentous victory in 2002 even I was inspired to stay up late and cheer. While the Scots are always in contention, I confess to finding the live games – 5% action, 95% thinking - are mind-numbingly boring to watch. I still harbour a desire to try it myself. Probably with less thinking time…

One winter sports staple I definitely will not be trying is ice hockey. I’ve sampled the exuberant atmosphere of live action at the Chelmsford rink but for all the lightning pace and skill of the skaters, it’s the aggression, the violent slams against the Perspex walls and, yes, the punch-ups (men or women!) which stand out most in the memory. Even on TV the cameras can’t always keep up with the puck and slow-motion is essential to appraise any goal. The classic Olympic clash was the USA’s humbling of the Soviet Union at Lake Placid in 1980 but I also remember being absorbed by the USSR’s defeat of the Czechs in ’84 and Canada putting one over the Yanks at Vancouver. Yesss! For all the spectacle of individual events like Downhill skiing or short-track speed skating, sometimes you can’t beat the drama of a full-blooded team game. Add the ice, and watch the temperature rise!