Every four years I, the couch potato, winter sports athlete in waiting, coach and judge, come alive.
I’m settled nicely in my comfy chair with a hot cup of tea, some munchies and a loving wife who elects to leave me alone.
I noisily cheer on the Canadian and Norwegian athletes alike, alternating between English: “Go Canada go! – oh yeah!” and “Hey ref! You blind?” Or Norwegian: “Heia Norge – få ut finger’n, fy flate!” and “Ut med dommer’n!” That’s when Marion gets torn between using a Norwegian/English dictionary or getting out her noisy power tools to finish a project.
There is a winter sport discipline that is excluded from the winter games. It was invented in Norway and is called “Skijøring.”
The participants are on cross-country racing skis and are hanging on to a ‘pulk” (a single person sleigh), being pulled by a sled-dog, not a Chihuahua.
The track has the same components as cross-country skiing (one-third uphill, one-third downhill, one-third flat). Of course, there are many curves, as well as trees, to negotiate.
The Swiss have taken this to a different level, they eliminated the “pulk,” the skier uses downhill skis and is pulled by a horse. And of course, for those of you that have watched Lillehammer on Netflix, you have seen the Laplanders using touring cross-country skis while being pulled by reindeers.
There is one Winter Olympic discipline that might perhaps be a wee bit more dangerous than “Skikjøring,” namely skeleton, that’s right its called skeleton.
It was introduced as a winter sport at St. Moritz, Switzerland in 1928. The participants do a running start, throws themselves on to the little one-man sled, and race down the bobsled run head first. I’d call it a suicide run, but what do I know?
It reminds me of the story about Ole and Sven. Ole had climbed up on top of the safety railing of an observation spot by Niagara Falls. Sven saw Ole balancing on the railing and ran over to grab him before it was too late.
“Don’t come any closer,” shouted Ole.
“What about Lena,” said Sven.
“She left me a year ago. You remember she told me I had to choose either her or hockey? I really miss her,” cried Ole.
“How about you come down and we’ll share a bottle of Akevitt,” said Sven.
“You know I swore off booze when Lena left me,” said Ole.
“What can be so bad that you want to jump? Did your favourite hockey team miss the Stanley Cup playoffs?” asked Sven.
“Calgary Flames always make the playoffs,” said Ole.
“What, Calgary Flames? You just go right ahead and jump, you numbskull you,” shouted Sven.
The definition of a good sports writer covering NHL hockey, is someone who explains
in writing on Saturday, all the reasons why the Calgary Flames have to to win the game on Sunday, and then on Monday he manages to explain why the Calgary Flames had to lose the game.
Valentine’s Day is during the Winter Olympics, which ought to make all the fierce competitors share love and understanding with each other. Like the Norwegian athlete giving his Swedish counterpart a hug while saying, “I love your country; I understand that Sweden has very nice neighbours.”
Still in the spirit of Valentine’s Day, Lena and Kari were having a conversation over the fence in the back yard.
“You must have been sick, I hope you’re feeling better,” said Lena.
“Why do you say that?” asked Kari.
“I saw a doctor leaving your house late last night,” answered Lena.
“Well, aren’t you the nosy one? If I saw an admiral leaving your house, would that mean that you’re going sailing?” asked Kari.
Ole brought a dozen red roses to Kari, the love of his life. He smiled at her and said, “Honey, this being Valentine’s Day and all, I just want to tell you something. I don’t have a lot of money like Sven, and I don’t have a big mansion like Lars. Neither do I own a Porsche 911 turbo convertible like Knut, but I love you dearly and I want to marry you, so we’ll be together forever.”
“Oh honey, you’re so sweet bringing me roses and all, and I love you too. But what was it that you said about Knut?” asked Kari.
Lars walked into the post office a couple of days before Valentine’s Day, to send a gift to
his mother. He couldn’t help but notice a corpulent, balding middle-aged gentleman in a nice business suit, standing at the end of the counter sticking “Love” stamps on bright pink envelopes adorned with hearts all over them.
The man took out a spray bottle of Chanel perfume from his pocket, and doused the hand-written letters with the perfume, sealed them in the envelopes, and gave a quick squirt of perfume on the envelopes as well.
By now Lars’ curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he couldn’t help himself, so he approached the bald gentleman,
“Excuse me sir, you must have a lot of lady friends, ‘cause I couldn’t help but notice that you are sending out a lot of valentine letters,” said Lars.
“I’m sending out 500 envelopes with valentine love letters inside, signed by ‘Guess Who,’” said the gentleman.
“Really? You have that many lady friends? You’re a busy man,” said Lars.
“No lady friends, I’m a divorce lawyer,” said the bald man.
