Last year, I represented Britain in the Kicksled World Championships in Norway. It sounds impressive, doesn't it? Imagine icy wastes and winds howling across Europe's largest highland plateau, home to reindeer, and you have half the picture. The other half is like something from Wacky Races.
A kicksled, or spark (the word means "kick" in Norwegian), has a pair of parallel, two-metre-long skate blades, with a footplate on each. Gripping the handlebars, riders scoot along, kicking with one foot, as if on a scooter made for ice. On downhill sections, you can stand with a foot on each footplate and, if you're skilled, slow yourself down with a kind of snowplough action, pushing the flexible blades outwards. If you're less skilful, you brake by scraping your boot on the ice.
With a perch on the front for a passenger, or belongings, a kicksled is a versatile piece of kit, a human-powered equivalent of a husky sledge, a last resort when you have had to eat your dogs, or so I thought. When I heard that the spark world championship, held annually in the mountain ski resort of Geilo, is open to all-comers, I persuaded a friend that we should take part.
We arrived in Geilo (pronounced Yeah-lo) a day ahead of the race. The resort looked a picture in snow and sunshine, surrounded by gentle, flat-topped mountains. We arranged a spark training session with tour guide Niklas Sørensen, a stubbly-chinned twentysomething, dressed in black and, ominously, with two fingers bound in a splint. We set off, scooting along icy roads. It was remarkably easy. Downhill sections were a bit of an adrenaline rush, but using a foot to brake worked. World championships here we come.
Then we saw another sparker. She had a wicker basket on her kicksled and was at least 70 years old. "Sparks are usually used by old ladies to do their shopping," said Niklas. Suddenly, our kicksleds seemed more like Zimmer frames on skis than daredevil speed machines.
But we kept on kicking and scooting. We passed tiny, wooden 18th-century houses from the days when Geilo was a farming settlement. We saw Dr Holms Hotel, the village's oldest and grandest accommodation: it began life 100 years ago as a retreat for people with respiratory illnesses. We scooted past the little wooden railway station (the construction of the railway across Norway from Oslo to Bergen – which climbs to more than 1200m, the highest mainline track in Europe and one of the most scenic train rides in the world – was what enabled Dr Holms to open his hotel). We saw some of the 40 (virtually empty) ski slopes and sparked beside a frozen lake around which cross-country skiers raced, arms and legs pumping like pistons.
Back at the office of Hove Stott, the adventure tour company that organises the spark world championship, Niklas told us more about the next day's races. There would be four categories. The "trim" or exercise class, for which we had registered at a cost of 250NOK (about £25) each, follows a signposted course along mountain bike and hiking tracks over and around the lake and village. It was when we learnt that contestants stop half-way around for hot dogs that we realised this would not be the challenge we had expected. The course is only 4km long.
"Yeah, and then we have to herd some of the stragglers to the finish line," added Niklas. "They take some refreshment with them in backpacks – you know, some 'energy drinks'," he said, with a wink.
The other categories are a relay – a speedy jaunt around a short circuit in teams of three – a fancy-dress "parade" and a children's race. It seems no one has ever died or even broken a limb while kicksleding. Niklas's splinted fingers were not the result of a racing accident but from a block of ice falling on his hand during the previous week's annual full moon ice-music festival, where harps, guitars and more are carved from ice.
That evening, I wanted to track down some of our rivals. The bar of Dr Holms Hotel – its walls mounted with elk heads – was buzzing.
"Most of these people are here for the spark championship," said the barman.
"But do you know which ones are competitors?" I asked.
"Look for the drunkest," he advised.
That was how I found myself being lifted into the air by Henning, a burly man in lederhosen, while Morten tugged down his trousers revealing a tattoo on his bottom. "Born in Bergen," it read. "If anyone finds me, they know where to send me back," said Morten. When I left, they were singing D-I-S-C-O.
The next day, at the starting line, Henning and friends were nowhere to be seen. Over the public address system, we were introduced as "Team GB". We were the only non-Scandinavians. After some old women out shopping on sparks had shuffled out of the way, we were off. Within two seconds, we had crashed on a steep icy slope. Untangling limbs from sled, we dusted ourselves off, and immediately smashed into a wall of snow at the foot of the slope. It was not a good start. Thankfully, racers leave the starting line at 30-second intervals, so we didn't entangle others in our incompetence.
Away from guffawing spectators, we continued, carefully, on our way. After doubling back from a wrong turn, we slid down a gentle slope to a man dispensing the free hot dogs. Before we could wipe mustard from our mouths, other competitors had joined us. Their false beards and deerstalker hats matched their Norwegian jumpers. Bottles were passed around.
"Have some Norwegian oil," one said, offering us a bottle containing a black liquid tasting of liquorice.
With conditions now blizzard-like, we continued sledding in a group, alcohol flowing and long skates entangling, back to the village and the finish line. Team GB's time was a pitiful 57 minutes and 53 seconds. The fastest team took just 23 minutes and the slowest just over an hour; some entrants never reached the finish line.
After dark, at the after-spark party, we found ourselves in a crush of 50 women dressed as strawberries while a rabbit danced on tables. Everywhere, there were arms waving in the air and drunken people singing along to Let The Sun Shine. A biting wind buffeted the walls of the canvas extension adjoining the bar. A nun opened a thick Bible and took out a flask of spirit hidden in its pages. Amid all this merriment, trophies were presented.
According to a practice familiar to many Scandinavians from their school days, the team that won the exercise race – and walked off proudly with the world championship trophy – was the one that completed the course in closest to the average time. So, it was mostly luck that determined that Team GB won … nothing.
• Next year's championship is on 26-28 January. A ferry from Harwich to Esbjerg with DFDS (dfdsseaways.co.uk) costs from £71pp. From there it's a three-hour train ride to Copenhagen (about £84 return, see bahn.hafas.de for times). In Copenhagen, stay at Bertrams Hotel Guldsmeden (hotelguldsmeden.com, doubles from around £120). Then take a DFDS ferry to Oslo (from £51pp) and a train (nsb.no) to Geilo. Dr Holms Hotel (drholms.no) has doubles from £220
