A seasoned picnicker on the cross-country skiing race circuit, I was well known for my idle finishing times, and the delight I took in the high GI fare offered by support stations out on the windy, iced climes of the Australian high country. I was, it is fair to say, competing only with myself, in that my pace was embarrassingly slow - slower than the cool-down pace of most veterans. So it made perfect sense that having never mastered cross-country skiing, I should throw another variable into the pot: a laser rifle.Biathlon enjoys an even smaller prominence than its scorned cousin. Many Australians are unaware that there are ski hills to venture in, let alone a sport propped on the will of competitors to ski uphill. To add the unorthodox element of shooting to that sport seems comical at first, though an additional rest stop during a race is always welcome.
In Perisher Valley, part of Kosciusko National Park, actual firearms are banned, and so the NSW Biathlon Association conducts its spectacle using Phaezor laser rifles, which look to have been made out of lego and old plumbing parts. "Shooting" these instruments is somewhat reminiscent of laser tag, only the pleasing Space Invader sound effects are absent. So, too, is a recoil. You would think, given practice, that the sport might be easy, even fun - even given a giddy heart beat after so much aerobic to-do. I can attest that it is not.
In the sport of biathlon, every missed "shot" is penalized either with addition of time to your finish time, or by penalty laps. Out of a possible 15 shots in my stint as a biathlete, I missed 14. The 8 and under division was back in the warming hut before I had barely finished my tenth penalty lap; gluwein and orange wedges were far from my reach.
But what set this event apart from other failures was that a wayward photo of me, in lycra, clutching the Phaezor clumsily, made its way to the internet, thanks to the gung-ho advocacy of the biathlon organizers. At one time, it was the top Google hit for my name in images. So I raise a glass to Fitzy, who talked me into the damn affair, and to the fauna of Koscuisko National Park, without which we would never have ridiculous Phaezors.
