Metamorphosis of a Dutch Snowboarder – A Girl’s Journey

sherry
7 days ago
4 min read

In the dreams of my girlhood, I was always flying.

Until I stepped onto a snowboard and discovered—That the prelude to ‘flight’ is called ‘falling,’And the price of ‘grace’ is ‘pain.’

From the magic carpet area of Snowworld to the red runs of the Alps, from ‘tactical sitting-back braking’ to ‘board-body unity carving,’ my skiing persona has undergone a three-stage evolution: human snow mop → performance artist of pain → snow-surfing socialite.

When friends ask me the secret to sticking with snowboarding, I pat the D3O padding in my crash pants and armor: ‘Ever heard of a Transformer assembled from snowfield scrap? That’s me—piece by piece, picked up from the slopes.’

First Contact with Snowboarding

As the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Day 2020, it didn’t just herald a new year—it marked the dawn of my snowboarding era. A girl from the tropical south, who’d never seen real snow, suddenly found herself on the beginner slope of Snowworld Zoetermeer. Terrified of turning into a human curling stone and bowling over unsuspecting Dutch skiers, I started with the basics: standing up on my heel edge.

What followed was the classic self-taught snowboarder’s rite of passage: the heel-side shuffle. Picture this—me, hunched over like a nervous shrimp, taking a deep breath, finally steadying myself… only to faceplant the second I tried to move forward. Splat. My butt and the snow became intimately acquainted. But thanks to my country-kid resilience, I shook it off and kept going. The entire afternoon was a cycle of fall → stand → fall again, but by some miracle, I mastered the heel-side slide before my tailbone gave out.

That day lit a fire in me. Before I knew it, I’d booked a March trip to Les Arcs with friends. With only two months to prepare, I threw myself into weekend lessons and practice. By the time the Alps trip rolled around, I could (clumsily) link turns—no butt-sliding required!

A Brush with Pain

They say skiing’s final destination is the orthopedic ward. For me, it was more like a tour of every physiotherapy clinic in the Netherlands. Hurt me a thousand times, and I’ll still love you like the first—if that’s not true love, what is?

My first real injury happened during that maiden Alps trip. On a stormy day, a rookie with zero mountain respect hit a patch of ice at speed and launched. Two seconds of airborne terror later—faceplant. As I lay there, wind knocked out of me, the opening lines of The Power of Love might as well have been playing in my head. A bruised rib muscle left me gasping on the snow for a solid ten minutes while my panicked friends debated calling mountain rescue.

But here’s the thing—lift tickets are expensive, and who knows when I’d get back? So, fueled by stubbornness and a cup of overpriced hot chocolate, I became the living embodiment of "the spirit is willing, but the flesh is bruised." For the rest of the trip, I snowboarded like a walking (well, sliding) injury report—laughing hurt, coughing hurt, but quitting? Unthinkable.

That’s the magic of extreme sports: dangerous, intoxicating, impossible to quit. Every time the mountain calls, your heart races—not just from fear, but from pure, stupid joy.

In the years since, I’ve racked up an impressive resume of indoor-slope injuries: bruised glutes, strained lower back, battered knees, shins smashed on park rails. My local physio probably bought a new car thanks to me. But what doesn’t kill you—well, you know the rest. Every rehab session just made me more determined to get back out there.

Embracing the Challenge

Thanks to COVID, my snowboarding progress plateaued for two years. But in 2022, I took the plunge and signed up for the Dutch Snowboard Instructor Level 2 exam—and oh boy, did it rewrite my understanding of the sport.

Suddenly, everything had purpose: straight-line descents to conquer speed fear, edge drills to build control, carved turns broken down into micro-movements. I realized I’d been stuck on "Mount Stupid"—kicking my back foot to turn, thinking I was hot stuff. The exam wasn’t just about teaching; it forced me to unlearn bad habits and rebuild from scratch.

Passing that exam lit a new fire. I hit the slopes weekly, drilling techniques, pushing limits—not to be the best, just to be better than yesterday’s me. The result? A CASI Level 2 certification, tentative park tricks, sketchy 360s, and a phase where I could only turn in a tuck position. Every wipeout was a lesson; every small win, a triumph.

Finding My Tribe

Meeting DABAI (大白), the first registered Chinese-Dutch snow sports club, felt like fate. Born from Beijing Winter Olympics fever, it became my snow family.

Through club events—group trainings, mountain trips, "help-a-noob" sessions—I found something priceless: a community that cheers every breakthrough, whether it’s a first turn or a flawless carve.

The highlight? Our Ollie competition at Snowworld. What started as an internal event drew Dutch instructors and riders asking to join. And why not? When the competition heated up, nationalities blurred—we were all just snowboarders, screaming for every new height cleared. The moment the record broke? Pure, unfiltered stoke.