There are times in life when you can struggle, momentarily, to find the most perfect expression to sum up in one, succinct and lucid manner, the emotion of an occasion which, in all probability, will linger in your memory for the rest of your days. As I lay on a small toboggan above a picture postcard Alpine valley in Eastern Switzerland, sniffing the clear, mountain air and winding my way down to a delightful, snow-flecked village, you might think words such as "beauty," "peace" or "joy" came to mind. Well, they did not. There was only one phrase I could think of and, indeed, utter, at such a moment, and it was this: "Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit."
It's not a very nice nor, I grant you, clever word to say, but by God it's amazing how often it, and its even cruder family members, can rear its head under severe stress, tension, fear or, in my example, all three. You may note as well that there are a number of "i's" in my version. This serves merely to underline the length of time it took me to complete saying this most Anglo-Saxon of expletives. Try saying it at home and see how many seconds it takes before your breath runs out and you start to splutter. Try saying it lying face down on a toboggan travelling down a Swiss mountain at speeds touching 70 mph. Believe me, you can last out for the best part of a minute. I know. I've done it. And I'm alive to tell the tale.
Everyone's heard of the Cresta Run. Some may think it's got something to do with that seventies fizzy drink and a bear. Others understand it has a connection with winter sports. Not so many know that it just happens to be the world's quickest, famous, feared and respected toboggan run, where fast-living men with big balls risk life and limb for the sheer thrill of it and because, as one put it to me, "it's there."
Then, of course, there's me, whose balls are not particularly huge, especially when waiting at the top of the run waiting for the bell to toll - literally as well as symbolically - and for my toboggan to be released, sending me down a narrow, icy run laced with danger and utter uncertainty.
The Cresta is three quarters of a mile in length, from its beginning at the "Leaning Tower," in St Moritz, down a steep gully through ten, testing corners, past the tiny hamlet of Cresta and finally reaching its speedy climax at the village of Celerina. The total drop is 514 feet and the gradient varies from 1:2.8 to 1:8.7.
The first Run was completed in 1985 under British inspiration and took nearly nine weeks to construct. Even now it is still built from scratch every year using the natural contours of the valley and earth banks to provide a framework on which to pile snow. Usually open for a few days before Christmas until March, the Cresta sees some thirty competitive races, and as many as 800 daredevils sampling its delights each season.
From its very beginnings the St Moritz Tobogganing Club has been a partnership between the people of the town and the British. You may have mistakenly believed that the British Empire has long been extinct but you would be wrong for St Moritz, the eyebrow-raising home of Roger Moore, among other celebs, is one of the last remaining bastions of the Empire.
At the helm was the now late club secretary, one Lt Col Digby Willoughby, a retired Ghurka officer whose manner is exactly as the name suggests. He could be found each morning high above the Run in the "Leaning Tower," the SMTC's equivalent of an airport control tower, that provides a panoramic view of the Cresta and, no doubt, of any invading savages. It is from such lofty heights that the old soldier commentated over a tannoy system that reverberated around the mountains and the valleys that surround St Moritz.
I had come across him already over the telephone whilst organising this questionable jaunt of mine. Willoughby had told me that I needed to be fully insured before I attempted the Cresta. "Not going to be blamed if you kill yourself," he announced, rather reassuringly. I met him again on arriving in St Moritz in the afternoon. He was having his lunch in the Kulm Hotel, a grand, old, pink building sitting proudly and honourably over-looking the town. The following morning I would be attempting suicide on the Cresta. "Don't do it myself as often I used to," he said, in between spoonfuls of tomato soup.
"Why's that?" I asked, not unreasonably.
"Broke my neck on the Run in 1990," he replied, splitting a bread roll in half and looking less than concerned.
Oh!
Back in the Hotel Soldanella the day's riders assemble for an evening of relieved drinking and merriment. A group of Air Force boys from Anglesey, Lyneham and Coningsby have survived their first day of Cresta riding and, still high from an adrenalin rush that they claim is as powerful as when flying, they talk in excited tones about the forthcoming Inter-Services Cup, where they will take on the Navy and Army on the ice run. "It's certainly one of the most frightening experiences of my life," admitted one which, coming from a guy who pilots jets for a living, gave me some food for thought.
The Soldanella is a Cresta hotel. It serves Cresta-labelled beer and Cresta wine, its walls are adorned with photographs of Cresta riders, and various nooks and crannies are filled with Cresta equipment, from rusty old toboggans to knee protectors. Its owner, Urs de Giacomo, is one of those men hooked by the run. Foolishly, as I threw large amounts of alcohol down my throat to anaesthetise the thought of my impending doom, I asked him for his thoughts.
"It's just you," he began, rather too dramatically for my liking. "Out there. On your own. You are nervous. Very nervous. If you weren't, you wouldn't be human." This wasn't quite what I wanted to hear, but Urs was already on a roll. "You have to have the fear and, above all, the respect," he added, wagging his finger at me. "I've been riding the Cresta since 1986, yet I feel the same every time I do it - tremendous apprehension. Each time is a new experience. You'll be okay tomorrow, but you won't be feeling too great just before your first attempt." He laughed. "That's for sure."
Never mind before my first attempt, I wasn't exactly feeling too chipper right then. A predictably sleepless night ensued before I found myself reporting for duty at 7.15 the following morning, forking out 450 Swiss francs for a potentially pants-filling session of high drama, filling out application cards, and signing a waiver which insisted that should something extremely nasty happen to me - like, er, death - then it's my fault, and not theirs.
There was a nervous chatter in the dressing-room as I sat down and gazed at the wall. Directly in front of me a notice delivered yet another psychological blow. Under the heading of "Ambulances" it stated: "Riders should be aware that by Swiss law the ambulance driver must take the injured to whichever hospital he wishes." Well, that was good to know.
Victoria, an elderly Italian lady who had been working at the club for the past eighteen years, helped me dress into my protective equipment. I was wearing already some tough, winter sports clothing, but to this she added metal knee, elbow and hand pads, which she strapped on to my limbs, and a pair of boots with spikes jutting out of the front, making me look like Rosa Klebb in the Bond film, "From Russia With Love." The RAF boys had kindly leant me one of their special helmets, too, an aerodynamic, light blue number, with the RAF logo on the centre of the head.
I joined the four other beginners that morning - three Brits who were already questioning their sanity, and a young Australian who acted, upon meeting Digby Willoughby, as if he had never, ever, seen such a type of human being before - as the Lt Col began to deliver what other, long-standing club members knowingly referred to as his "Death Talk."
Taking a long drag from his cigarette, and re-positioning the cravatte that he wore habitually each day, Willoughby placed a life-size X-Ray of a human body directly in front of me and started to point at the skeleton. "These are all accidents on the Cresta Run," he announced. "There's your instructor's shoulder. That's the President's femur. That's a honourable member's jaw. And that's my neck. You can see, I think, the damage inflicted, yes? So listen very carefully to what I have to say."
The five of us edged forward in our seats and gulped. Willoughby proceeded to run through the routine - meeting our instructor down by the start, collecting our toboggans, which the SMTC referred to as "skeletons," what to do if we reach the end of the Run at Celerina, or if we should fall at the notorious Shuttlecock Corner, and so on - lacing his rhetoric with certain phrases such as the "Cresta Kiss."
"What's that?" I asked.
"Ah," the Lt Col replied, triumphantly. "That's when you lose a piece of your face on the run."
The very best Cresta riders begin at the very top of the run, known as "Top," so he informed us. The rest of us begin a third of the way down, at "Junction." From here the world record is a fraction over forty seconds, but for a beginner, achieving 70 seconds is considered very acceptable. Willoughby's speech ended with a crescendo of stomach-churning advice. "I wouldn't want any of you to have any illusions about what you are about to do. Gentlemen, people have been killed on the Cresta Run. Dead! They are no longer on this earth. But we want you to enjoy yourselves, so go out there and have some fun."
Right! A strange and sudden rush for the toilets entailed, before we emerged by the side of the run at "Junction Point" to meet the wonderfully-named Arnold von Buhlen und Halbac, our instructor, or "guru," as everybody seemed to refer to him as. The veteran German Cresta Runner instructed us on lying down on the "skeleton," and then prepared us for our call-up, the announcement of your name over the tannoy system by Willoughby, followed by the rather doleful sounding of a bell. It hadn't snowed in St Moritz for three weeks but now, just as I was preparing to position myself, flakes began to float down on to the mountainside and a wind began to whine.
By now, of course, any last drop of bottle had evaporated into the cold, white sky above. As I lay down on my toboggan I discovered, with horror, that the whole of my legs were dangling off the back, while my neck and head jutted out over the front. My face stared down at the ice some six inches below me.
The wait for the bell was probably not more than twenty seconds or so, but it felt like an eternity. During this period of time to consider my predicament the first thought was to get up, get off and walk away. You consider the deaths, the loss of limbs, the pierced lungs and the terrible crashes and you realise you really don't have to go through with it. You are gasping for oxygen, your mouth is dry, and your breath is gushing out white vapours into the crisp, cold air as you prepare for freefall.
A club member has his foot lodged in front of the toboggan to prevent it from moving until the toll of the bell. He enquires if you are okay. In between now deep breaths you nod your head, but your eyes betray your true state of mind. You feel suddenly very lonely. You are, to be perfectly frank, crapping yourself. And as you lift your head up momentarily and look down the icy run you ask yourself a question: "Will the Cresta be kind to me?" Even if you wanted to leave you most probably could not, fear having taken over your senses and freezing you to the spot more effectively than the below freezing temperatures now hitting the mountain. Besides, instant death would be preferable to a loud and public bollocking from Digby Willoughby.
It is almost with relief that your thoughts are interrupted by the old bell, ringing like a church funeral, and announcing the all-clear. The skeleton begins to slide and you instinctively lift your head up to avoid leaving an indelible, facial imprint in the ice. Beginners are advised to brake almost immediately by using the rakes that stick out from your boots into the ice, and instinct means that this is exactly what you do, your initial headlong rush checked by your feet.
So far, so good. Down Junction Straight and round Battledore Corner, and you are in relative control. But this is the moment when the trepidation hits you hardest, for you realise, like a Grand National horse approaching Becher's Brook, that Shuttlecock is waiting to claim you. If you have lost control or you are simply travelling too fast, then you are almost certain to fly out of Shuttlecock and, with luck, into a large clump of hay that is scattered around its rim for safety. Fallers here become instant members of the Shuttlecock Club, and are entitled to wear a Shuttlecock tie, assuming they still have hands to tie it up with. I am raking so hard, however, that I crawl around the corner, only raising my spikes once safely through. From here on end it's a dart to the finish, the toboggan hurtling down towards Celerina, the rider clinging on for dear life as I shoot around Stream corner and under a road and a rail bridge. The most disturbing aspect of the final part of the descent was how I had no control over my route or my destiny. I felt like you do when you attempt the fast water chute in a leisure pool, knowing that you will arrive at the end of the tube with a loud and dramatic splash, but with no control over your body.
The village of Celerina has to be the most beautiful place in the world, and the reason why is because every rider who reaches it from St Moritz is extremely happy. I was no different when I came finally to a halt. Yes, I knew I was brave really. I knew the Cresta would not defeat me. I felt exhilarated, and I felt fast. I must have completed the course in thirty seconds flat! Then came the tannoyed tones of Willoughby from high above the mountain. "Unbelievable," he said, in undisguised contempt. "Stafford has completed the course in 122 seconds." He repeated the time. "122 seconds! That is the slowest time by a beginner in four years. I think we'll call him Speedy Gonzales."
A camion comes to pick you up and deliver you back up to Junction, a transit van full of high adrenalin, its occupants instant friends and talking at a ridiculous rate of knots. I discovered my efforts had already left a mark back up at the Tower. "Did you stop for a pee," some wag asked. "There must be a nice cafe halfway down," said another. "Want me to walk down with you next time," said a third.
It's amazing how these kind of comments can motivate you. Suddenly the fear of the Cresta had disappeared. Well, almost. I was desperate to do it again, and this time at an accepted pace. Within half an hour it was my turn again. My previous reservations had been replaced by determination. When the bell tolled I was away, this time raking much later, and less severely. I hit Shuttlecock quicker, but still safely, and burst round into Stream and then down into the straight. At this point I took the advice of my "guru," sliding my torso forward on the seat so that my head was now jutting still further out in front of the toboggan in a successful attempt to travel faster. It was during this much-improved second effort of 77 seconds that I discovered just how long one can say, when provoked, the word "shit" for.
"My word," said an incredulous voice over the tannoy down at Celerina. "Speedy Gonzales has slashed his previous time. Absolutely slashed it." And so I had. In fact, having become the slowest beginner in four years, I followed up by setting a second, personal milestone - the most improved beginner in four years too, on the basis that I speeded up by 45 seconds. A third turn produced a time of 72 seconds, and my fourth, and last effort, when the snow was falling heavily, improved my standing to 71 seconds.
Honour repaired, I retired to the bar to join my new chums from the Air Force, to swap tales of bravery and gallantry, and of how the Cresta Run had met its match that day. My adrenalin seemed to take over. My explanation for my 122 second run was this: "The muscles in my legs are so strong that I raked much harder than I realised," I informed my smirking friends." My excuse for just failing to beat the 70-second mark was as follows: "The snowfall slowed the course down by four seconds. By this reckoning, my real time was 67 seconds."
Nearby, Lady Brabazon of Tara, Digby Willoughby's assistant, and a member of a family that has a long tradition with the Cresta Run, flicked the ash from her cigarette into a tray and shook her head.
"You hear so much bullshit at the Cresta Run," she said, and laughed. "I've heard just about everything over the years. But that's a new one on me."
And with that she left me to my incredible high and to an appreciation that hits every survivor of the Cresta Run: after you have reached the village of Celerina intact and in one piece, the world is, indeed, a very beautiful place.
