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28
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 5 — 2011
Sports | Snowboarding
On the high pass to Akureyri, a crashed
18-wheel truck foreshadows the may-
hem to come. Friday afternoon is full of
promises and, after settling into the tiny
apartment we’ve rented for the week-
end, we’re off to inspect the downtown
big jump.
After lending a helping hand for a
while, my friend Bjarni and I decide to
renew our acquaintance with the bot-
tom of a beer bottle and take in the
soothing, middle of the road tones of
Cliff Clavin and their awesome drum-
mer.
ALCOHOL UPHEAVAL
Up at the Hlíðarfjall ski area the next
day, the chair lift rumour mill spills
glorious gossip of Thursday night’s
shenanigans at the Burn energy drink
sponsored vodka event. Allegations
abound of the Nikita top brass running
amok in their underwear and upper tier
teenage snowboard pros lying coma-
tose on the floor after relieving them-
selves on the bar counter. But the top
news is the epic encounter of last year’s
X-Games big jump winner Halldór Hel-
gason and diehard Bláfjöll local rider
and makeshift mentor Daníel Magnús-
son over a never ending line of vodka
filled shot glasses. To no one’s surprise
Halldór emerged victorious, mostly, one
can only assume, because of his daily
drin… training regimen.
We bash our heads against the wall
for not having been there a day earlier,
although last night’s activities of people
spitting beer in each other’s faces, a
blond snowboard pro repeatedly grab-
bing the tits of the chair of the Icelandic
Snowboard Association, and a dizzy-
ing proportion of those in attendance
at Græni Hatturinn got forcibly ejected,
were not too shabby either.
A SWELTERING DISAPPOINTMENT
It’s a whooping 17 degrees on the
slopes on Saturday, and by noon most
of what constitutes the core of Iceland’s
snowboarding scene is laying tracks in
the extremely sticky slush. Yet many
are back in a downtown gully working
in preparation for tonight’s big jump
spectacle. An admirable work ethic
given that the work is voluntary, and
that most of them have been here all
week despite the ski area being closed
up until now due to the mischievous
nature of Icelandic weather.
Under the welcome sunlight the rail
park sees much sessioning, as the lo-
cals—knowing what fame and riches
p-tex on metal has brought their small
town heroes—aspire to ever more tech-
nical trick combinations. The headlining
act on the slope is however a sizeable
big jump with a punishing gap, which I
am loathe to take my chances with, and
which, by my opting out, leads to much
jeering and ridicule later that night.
Feeling dejected I take some spite-
ful schadenfreude-filled comfort in the
series of brutal slams performed off of
the kicker by a pint-sized 16 year old
school girl with cojones twice the size
of mine. Any hopes of seeing some next
level trickery laid down by the Akureyri
professional threesome is quashed
by what in one instance can only be
a massive hangover, in another a bro-
ken clavicle and in the third perhaps a
lack motivation to go riding without the
other two.
AND THE SHIT GOES DOWN
It is a testament to the enduring force
of the snowboarding community that
although six winters of disappointing
snowfall have passed since this event’s
demise, the much awaited reincarna-
tion of the competition sees many of
the old guard down in the trenches
making shit happen, along with a sur-
prising glut of up-and-comers ready to
both do battle and lend a hand to make
this thing come into fruition.
The testing of the kicker side flame-
throwers fires up excitement among
the lurkers, and many, but mostly me,
are shaking in their snowboard boots at
the prospect of dropping down a twelve
metre high, 60 degree incline covered
with ice.
Before even getting to the top of the
danger zone there is the nerve crip-
pling ascent on the swaying platforms
of construction cranes being operated
by the riders themselves, and the pre-
carious climb from the platform to the
top container—as the cranes rise short
by a full meter and there is nothing to
hold onto.
Once topside the view ahead is
magnificent, but looking down the
in-run chute is terrifying. One should
never pause to reflect on such under-
takings as hurling down a monstrous
maw of imminent wreckage. Just calm-
ly strap in, watch one rider take the
plunge and then, without a second of
hesitation, fling your body to the whims
of fate and fortune. And, in a minor feat
of redeeming myself to myself, I pro-
ceed to do just that. In a split second
of gut wrenching terror it is done, and
relief washes over me.
Seeing Halldór launch into one of
his trademark backflip cross rockets
is amazing when one considers that a
mere six years (and untold international
success) ago this same skinny little kid
had stood atop the same construct with
terror in his 14 year old bones.
Much suicidal upside-down-ery
takes place in the air above Akureyri
central while daylight slowly dies and
competition time draws ever nearer. But
as style dominates among the seniors,
reckless abandon within the younger
ranks and technicality issues from the
two pros present, the standout moment
comes in a tweaked out daredevil dis-
play of defiance as Gulli Guðmundsson
drops in switch and once again triggers
the debate regarding what his natural
stance is with a method so beautiful
that Jamie Lynn would applaud it even
if it were performed the natural way,
and anyone who has ever gone off a
jump facing the wrong way would pro-
fess the sheer implausibility of it having
gone down.
As Árni Ingi Árnason rules the style
department, Halldór is his right hand
man. Many a double flip transpires as
the competition, as per usual, descends
into a bona fide huck-fest, where
merely landing feet first gets you into
the super finals. Some young guns cut
notches in their pistol handles, while
others go down in the flames of disap-
pointment. In the end it comes down
to single stomps by Halldór, Gulli and
Danni. Gulli is the undisputed winner,
while Danni snatches second place
away from Halldór.
THE PERFECT STORM
Knackered, Bjarni and I retreat to our
rented apartment across the road
from the afterparty venue. And as
high pitched cheering washes over us
in waves of annoyance from the high
street outside, issued by guests of the
national high-school song contest that
also took place in Akureyri tonight, we
both drop into a light slumber.
Sunday turns out to be a wash out,
as high winds reappear on the slopes.
This later develops into a full-blown
storm that follows us on the drive back
south to Reykjavík. We power through
the tempest in the nick of time, leav-
ing later departing friends stranded for
hours in podunk towns and desolate
roadside rest stops.
Out Of The Ashes: AK-Extreme 2011
Exploring the sordid underbelly of Icelandic Snowboarding
Akureyri, April 7–10
Words
Bogi Bjarnason
Photography
Erlendur Magnússon
Hey! On a completely different note, do y'all think we should have
covered the US' finally eradicating its boogeyman? Is there an
'Icelandic angle' to that story?