BUDS: Snowsports without snow

Life is a relentless cycle of untold misery; the daily drudgery of existence a crushing weight on the unfortunate shoulders of the conscious and the sober. An all-too-brief respite from this grim reality was granted to the dedicated few who chose to brave the annual pilgrimage to Edinburgh for the only dryslope snowsports event ever to achieve a reclassification to Class B.

400 miles of tarmac and a severe reduction in life expectancy was all that stood between these intrepid adventurers and glory. The dampest, blurriest, and most sleep deprived event on the snowsports calendar, it is of course time once more for BUDS (British University Dryslope Championship).

During passage, nervous glances were exchanged amongst travellers as a cold sweat covered the collective brow of our firm-handed helmsman and women, skilfully navigating the 15 seater land craft and accompanying five seater “pussy wagon” to the infamous pub-toilet brown slopes of the Midlothian snowsports centre.

Truly blessed were these men and women, as the usually cruel Scottish weather Gods had gifted them a rain free weekend. The next few days were to be lost in a sweaty haze of dirty women, warm Buckfast, and filthy dubstep.

Broadly speaking, BUDS goers can be divided into three camps; the diehard participants, the nonchalant spectators, and the van warriors – who are most likely to be found draped across the front seats of the gentle diesel giant, basking in the warm breath of its powerful electric heaters.

The first of these groups put in an impressive performance over the weekend, and despite the long wait to ski ratio (think 2 hours sat at the top of the hill for a 20 second descent) our ski race team did particularly well, with Simon Federer finishing top out of the London unis for individual ski racing.

Of course the real star of the show, the untamed beast that crawls out from Edinburgh’s grimy underbelly, only rears its head at night – the freestyle comp. Luckily, Imperial had its age-old father and son duo to “reprazent” this year, with Luke Bridgestock leading the way with a slow, controlled, and confident 3, which he nailed to the dendex.

John “Scab-me-please” McGukin followed like a faithful squire in his father’s board tracks, and landed a similarly dope 3, to an eruption of applause from the capacity crowd, and supersonic squeal of “John boy!” from our club captain-cum-mother, Beth Burks.

The standard of freestyle at BUDS has increased so dramatically in recent years that on the final night we witnessed something hither to unseen at a student snowsports competition. The weathered audience was whipped into a quasi-religious frenzy by the man on the mike, resident MC Sketch, to chants of “douuuuble, douuuuble”. Moments later the atmosphere exploded as a skier landed a double front flip. Hands were thrown towards the sky, strangers were caught in impulsive embrace, as this shared moment brought a tear to the eyes of even the most soulless and battle hardened of snowsports warriors. The beats were cranked, and the audience pumped; a climatic end to an unforgettable event.

It’s at some point between the fourth “breakfast fag”, and finding yourself legs akimbo by the side of a Scottish cathedral, stinking of booze, that you are forced to re-evaluate your life. We did just that at BUDS, and came across a startling realisation. We are where we want to be. So we lay this monstrous event to rest, quivering in moist anticipation for next year, and prepare ourselves for the furious mental blizzard of the Winter trip. We went big, now it’s time to go home.