Blow me down I nearly forgot!!

I'm so sorry Ronners - I've been so manic of late that I'd forgotten that I'd left untold my tale of terror from Oslo!

You will recall that I visited the city to seek some advice and guidance from some Norwegian Olympic motivational specialists.

You will also recall that I hinted that Norway wasn't exactly stuffed with marathon household names. That can be partly explained by the fact that they haven't got any. Anyway I arranged to meet these three blokes in Oslo after they promised to show me one of their favourite techniques for sharpening up the reactions and mental strength of their athletes.

I should have been wary when I was given the address of the place we were to meet. I'll not bore you with the postcode dear Ronner - but just check the place out below!




Its called the Holmenkoll and it only happens to be the Olympic Ski Jump arena. And the three blokes I'd met didn't know one end of a 10K race from another - but they were Olympic coaches alright. Coaches to the Norwegian Ski Jumping squad.

To cut a long story short they insisted on taking me to the top of the blessed thing - and if you want to know what that's like .....



I have to admit I'm not too keen on the old heights. I usually ask the Half Share in the House or the middle daughter, The Droog, if any ladder work is needed (to be honest, The Droog doesn't even need the ladder now). Now, if that wasn't bad enough - one of the three guys stood eyeing me up, rather unnervingly scratching his beard and then, muttering something inaudible, chucked a load of ropes at his two mates and, nodding and smiling in my general direction they began to strap me into some kind of harness.

I cannot begin to describe what was going through my mind at this point. In a strange kind of way I was comforted by the fact that I couldn't see any skis - so I didn't think I was going down the ski jump. But what on earth were they going to do with me?

The answer was as swift as it was terrifying.

They were only going to hoy me off the top of the chuffing thing!

I kid you not. And that's exactly what they did. They strapped me into a boon and swung it and me over the side of the ski jump tower some 300 feet above the ground and then ... well, basically I was told to make my way down. Yup, I was doing something called freefall abseiling. As I went over the side I do remember breaking wind in one of those worrying ways. I think I also whimpered something.

Then I shat myself.

I'm sorry for being so graphic but it was quite simply one of the most frightening three minutes of my life. So, I made my way gingerly down the rope and after what seemed like ten minutes I looked up to see a Norwegian head about a yard from my face. The face seemed to be rather taken aback by the fact that I was still there - I'd only dropped about two feet at this point - only another 298 to go! As I made a brave attempt to lower myself I was caught repeatedly by gusts of wind and battered against the side of this towering structure.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, whimper by whimper I made my way down. The technique is to pull on the rope to lower yourself. And after about ten minutes I got used to this technique. I didn't say I was enjoying it - but I got used to it. It was then that I had a sudden horrifying thought. I recall Mr Benzone, our Science teacher at St Gabs Primary indicating to me that I may need some knowledge of some of his 'stupid' scientific theories at some point in my life. And I think I was about to reach such a point in my life.

Yup. I'd reached half way. And that pulling motion to ease my down? No longer required. Instead just a desperate need for this kiddie to hang on to the blessed rope for dear life to stop myself plummeting to a painful and lonely death on the side of some Norwegian mountain.

I managed it dear Ronner. Managed it with smoke billowing from my hands after gripping that chuffing rope so tight.

And, in conclusion, let me tell you this. I will never, ever, ever, ever trust a Norwegian in my life again.

"But you must feel great now?" "Wow what a sense of achievement". They crowed.

Rubbish.

My pants still smell now.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Never trust a country with holes in its coins

Well, Ronners, I've been a touch on the qt side these last few days - but it’s all been for a good cause.Looking ahead to 2012 and dreaming of Olympic glory is one thing. But actually living, breathing and sniffing the dream is something else altogether.That’s why it is so important that I’m as well prepared as I can be for that sprint down the Mall in six years time. Consequently I decided to take myself off and visit a real life, proper Olympic site and try and get an insight into what life is like when I perch myself on that bar stool and order my first Leffe in the Olympic Village bar.

Of course we couldn't visit the sights in London because they are either a) not there b) contaminated with asbestos or c) impossible to reach without a team of huskies. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I booked a flight with ConAir and after a couple of snifters in the bar at Gatwick, I was on my way to Barcelona.

Arriving in Spain, I took myself straight down to the site of the old Olympic Village and was I pleased I did. It’s now a network of bars, cafes and restaurants. The weather was quite pleasant too and, to be honest, it was so damned hot though that I stayed in a bar and sunk a few San Miguels - that got me feeling very Olympic so I took myself along to the offices of the City Mayor and presented myself at the front door. The result, I have to say, wasn't spectacular.

I ended up in the nick.

I'm happy to admit that the San Miguel may well have lubricated my tongue. And I know I might have been wrong to include the phrases 'bag snatchers', 'car thieves' and ‘your mama’s got a moustache anyway’ in my attempt to persuade the chap on the door to let me in. But that was no excuse for the display of wanton violence - not helped admittedly by me insisting I show them my now famous Ron handshake to demonstrate that I was indeed the real Ron.

Oh – and I also tried the 'Don't you know who I am' routine!

It didn’t work!

Anyway after some careful negotiation with a very nice filly from the Consul’s office I agreed that as I'd done the place before - and it wasn't that much to write home about anyway – it might be best if I looked for an Olympic experience elsewhere. So I jumped on another flight and made my way to that home of Olympic Marathon greats.

Oslo.

Now I have to say that if lived in that place for longer than a week I'd top myself. It never gets light. It's dark until 9.30, gets gloomy until 2.00, then dusk arrives and its pitch flippin' black by 3.30! What kind of place is that I ask you? Add to that the fact that a snifter is about eight quid a pint and every dish contained remnants of Rudolph and you get the general drift of my stay.

I had the misfortune to arrive bang in the middle of their Christmas celebrations – it’s not actually until the 6th December that the real day comes along – but Norwegians need absolutely no excuse to get ratted. In fact I can put hand on heart and say I’ve never, ever seen so many people fall over drunk in one place. Each day brought a new demonstration of this art – always with the same result. A final stagger, buckling of the knees, a sickening thud as cranium meets pavement, the gentle raising of the head – and then the stupid grin as they staggered to their feet.

A truly amazing bunch of people.

They did make me feel quite special although most of those I met pretended they’d never heard of me. But I did get an invite to join one bunch of people for a traditional Norwegian Christmas Dinner of something called Lutefisk.

Big mistake.

Lutefisk is dried cod that has been soaked in acid – I kid you not – then soaked in something called a lye solution to rehydrate it. It is then boiled to kingdom come, then baked and served with butter and salt and pepper. The finished lutefisk usually has the consistency of jellied eels – but with the taste of something that has rotted in urine for three months. Understanding why Norwegians love it so much is impossible. The only reason I can think of is that after eating it, you really appreciate whatever is served next.

Anyway I completed three days of R & R in the place and that included a visit to some motivational guys who work with the Norwegian Olympic Squad. Now the meeting was set up by somebody with half a brain because when I turned up at the appointed hour the three guys I'm faced with turned out to be not marathon runners but .... wait for it ... ski jumpers.

What followed that fateful afternoon can only be described as the most terrifying 90 minutes of my life.

My story follows soon!

Keep on tapering.

Ron