Abstract
Snow parks constitute an essential part of the drawing power of winter sports resorts. However, epidemiological studies have highlighted the increased risk of snow park accidents when compared with those of traditional piste runs. In the light of such findings, the aim has been to understand why and how freestyle enthusiasts deal with the particular dangers brought about by the various features of a snow park. Eighteen observation days in three French resorts were coupled with 38 semi-directive interviews throughout the 2012–2013 winter season. Results show that risk in freestyling does not constitute, in itself, the explanation of the behaviours adopted. It appears rather as a means that makes it possible to achieve a certain state and sensorial satisfaction, as well as a feeling of expertise and self-fulfillment. Far from the stereotypes conveyed concerning freestylers and their spontaneous and reckless risk-taking, the different elements highlighted in this article attest, on the contrary, to a well thought-out and rational relationship with the danger incurred.
Introduction
Snow parks today constitute an essential part of the drawing power of winter sports resorts. 1 Increasingly visited, they have become a place to evolve for most winter sports enthusiasts, even if only occasionally. For some, snow park practice, known as freestyle, has become their main, indeed only, resort practice mode. However, a number of different epidemiological studies have highlighted the increased risk of snow park accidents, when compared with those of traditional piste runs. In the light of such findings, the aim has been to understand why and how freestyle enthusiasts deal with the particular dangers brought about by the various features of a snow park.
Based on a review of the available literature, the article will first provide a detailed account of the context, including not only the cultural evolutions that have shaped and transformed, in the broad sense, winter board sports, but also the development of freestyle practice in resorts and the particular dangerousness of snow parks. Secondly, use of the sociological concept of bodily engagement, which has proven central to the article, will be explained, followed by a description of the data collection methodology resulting from this positioning. Finally, in the part concerning the findings of the study, the multiplicity of reasons driving freestylers to engage in accidentogeneous situations will be presented, as will individual and collective risk management methods.
Context: snow park freestyling and the danger factor
Resort freestyling in France has its roots in the evolution of snowboarding, which appeared in the 1970s as part of the quest for sensations, hedonism and creativity. As an ‘alternative’ sport (Rinehart and Sydnor, 2003), snowboarding opposed downhill skiing, which was considered to be rigid, restrictive and far removed from any form of creativity (Reynier and Chantelat, 2005; Wheaton and Beal, 2003). Rapidly established in the eyes of the public as the standard of a counterculture within winter sports resorts, snowboarding was gradually overtaken by a process of massification, ‘sportivization’ and commercialization (Coates et al., 2010; Heino, 2000; Humphreys, 1997).
It was in contrast to the normalization and mainstreamization of snowboarding that freestyling developed in resorts from the late 1980s on. By transferring practising habits inherited from skateboarding, freestylers focused on performing acrobatic figures that were assessed according to their technical difficulty, sequencing and the risk they represented (Vermeir and Reynier, 2008). Initially only for snowboarders, freestyling then began to attract enthusiasts from the world of skiing (Apilli, 2007; Drouet and Kemo Keimbou, 2005; Dupuy, 2007), in parallel with the renewed success of skiing and the advent of parabolic skis (Curtet, 2007: 47). Although relations between snowboarders and skiers were characterized by conflict for many years (Donnelly, 2006; Thorpe, 2004), the freestyling community today brings together practitioners of the two sports. This community may be described as a subculture, 2 in reference to practitioners’ deviance and their marginality (Donnelly, 2006; Humphreys, 1997; Wheaton and Beal, 2003), but could be better described as an ‘inside marginality’ (referring to well integrated and mostly conformist young skateboarders’ communities) (Jaccoud et al., 2002). Analysed by various researchers (Anderson, 1999; Coates et al., 2010; Edensor and Richards, 2007; Heino, 2000; Thorpe, 2004, 2012; Woermann, 2012), the snowboarding and/or freestyle skiing subculture is characterized by a distinctive style of clothing, language and way of life, which particularly shows that practitioners belong to the freestyle milieu. More broadly speaking, sports subcultures, as they aim to separate ‘insiders’ (‘core’ or ‘authentic’ members) from ‘outsiders’ (or ‘posers’), are partly supported on risk-acceptance and risk-taking (Albert, 1999; Wheaton, 2004). The quest for pleasure and exhilaration is also central: according to Thorpe (2012), this key motive of acrobatics carried out in snow parks somewhat extends into other areas such as drug use, alcohol consumption, and forms of hypersexuality (Thorpe, 2012). Finally, the use of videos, Internet sites and social networks likewise appears to be a fundamental part of the sport (Thorpe, 2012; Woermann, 2012).
The advent of freestyling was furthered by the building of facilities especially designed for this type of sport, i.e. snow parks. Based on the model of city skate parks, snow parks began to flourish in resorts from the mid-1990s on. They are complete pistes or part of pistes, prepared by shapers, 3 and consisting of a number of features made of wood, snow, metal and plastic, which enable practitioners to devote themselves to rides, jumps and acrobatic figures (known as tricks). 4 These different features, known as modules, may be divided into several categories, depending on the form and activity they offer: consequently, there are jump modules (springboards, tables, etc.), and so-called flat modules (rails, boxes, ramps, etc.) to slide along. Snow parks also comprise several practice areas (half-pipe, rail zone, etc.).
Increasing in number all the time, these facilities also attract an overwhelming number of visitors, including both experts, known as freestylers, and occasional users. In the USA, a park pass is usually required to get into snow or terrain parks (Thorpe, 2011), in addition to the usual lift ticket. In France, no specific regulation applies: any client can consequently reach such areas.
The growing number of snow parks, along with their dangerousness (falls being an inherent feature, so to speak, of these locations) and visitor heterogeneity, invariably lead to a certain number of safety issues. With their own specific accident rate and injuries, in comparison with traditional piste skiing (roughly 2.5 accidents for every 1000 practice days), snow park attendance presents a generally higher than average risk of accidents (4.58 accidents for every 1000 practice days), serious injuries, and hospitalization (9% following injury inside a snow park versus 5.2% outside it) (Audema et al., 2007; Brooks et al., 2010; Feuillie, 2011; Gajdzińska, 2006; Goulet et al., 2007; Laporte, 2011; Torjussen and Bahr, 2006; Watier, 2011). Last but not least, the risk of suffering severe injuries is higher for experts, due to increased speed, the greater technical difficulty of their maneuvers and, more especially, the increased number of jumps they carry out. Focus in the article will be on the group of practitioners known as freestylers.
Problematic and methodology
Initial studies on freestylers (Reynier et al., 2014; Vermeir and Reynier, 2007) reveal that they are essentially young men (80 to 90%) averaging 20 years old. They have practically all been injured, more or less seriously, while practising in a snow park; some of them even admit that ‘they have broken bits all over’. They are therefore characterized by an accident-prone past, often with after-effects, persistent and chronic pain. It should likewise be noted that all interviewees had already witnessed a number of accidents, sometimes spectacular ones, during practice. In view of these initial findings, it would appear possible to affirm that freestylers knowingly place themselves in danger during practice, and not as the result of myopia (difference established by Peretti-Watel, 2001).
Nevertheless, little remains known about actual behaviours in snow parks and, more especially, the particular relationship with risk that develops there, in comparison with other winter sports practice modes. By focusing the article on regular freestyle practitioners, to the detriment of those visiting these innovative areas only occasionally, the aim has been to gain a better understanding of their modes of bodily engagement, to borrow a sociological concept from Routier and Soulé (2012: 64–65), denoting ‘a type of exposure to danger, conscious and assumed, which is inherent in certain modes of practice’.
This article is about understanding why and how freestylers expose themselves to the risk of accident when visiting a snow park. Going beyond the awareness of the dangerousness of the activity, the why and wherefore refers to the non-gratuitous nature of the engagement. Acceptance of the dangers does not constitute an end in itself (in other words, autotelic behaviour) (Csikszentmihalyi, 1990), but rather a means to achieve various types of benefits (beyond merely experiencing intoxicating sensations) which it is worthwhile to characterize.
As for the how, it concerns the need to minimize, as far as possible, the risk of the accident waiting to happen actually happening, while at the same time reducing the potential impacts of the feared event (fall, collision, etc.) should it well and truly occur. This calls upon individual, as well as collective, methods of risk management. Moreover, engaged practitioners clearly proclaim autonomy in their risk management. It is similar to ‘ethics of responsibility’ (Routier and Soulé, 2012), which consist in fully assuming the induced situation, in contexts where error and indecision carry particular consequences.
The concept of bodily engagement does not include either activities where safety is reliant upon technological devices or supervisory measures, making it almost always possible to avoid the unwanted event, as in Via Ferrata (Boutroy, 2006) for example, or certain forms of adventure racing made ‘aseptic’ by heavy logistical assistance (Barthélémy, 2002). Being responsible for your actions (and being recognized as such) does, indeed, have its importance in a contemporary risk culture that valorizes individual mastery and responsibility (Giddens, 1991). Knowing how to act when faced with such uncertain, voluntarily induced situations thus implies a long technical learning process, as well as previous experience of near-misses and/or accidents. This is generally the price to pay if a practitioner wants to acquire the specific knowledge and skills that enable him to detect danger warning signs, maintain control over events and avoid situations falling into some form of critical instability. Together with mastery over emotions, this acquisition makes it possible, to a certain extent, to deal with the fact that their bodily integrity is hanging in the balance.
From a methodological perspective, in view of terrain specificity and the emergent behaviours studied, a qualitative approach has been favoured. 5 Throughout the 2012–2013 winter season, 18 in situ observation days were organized at different times in the season (during/outside school holidays, during the week/weekend) in the snow parks of three differing (in terms of size, attendance, reputation, customer profile, etc.) Isère resorts: Les Deux Alpes, Chamrousse and Col de Porte. These direct observations, supplemented with several exploratory interviews directly related to the behaviours noted (roughly 15 minutes in length on average), were coupled with semi-directive interviews conducted in due form with a total of 38 people, six of whom participated in snow park design and management (designers, ski resorts managers, shapers, etc.), and 32 practitioners of differing profiles, 21 of whom may be considered as regular practitioners from the subculture of freestylers (13 young men and eight young women).
The interview schedule addressed the following topics: sports practice in winter sports resorts and snow parks (experience, frequency, skill and technical expertise, feeling of belonging to the freestylers’ community, etc.); relationships with other participants in snow parks; reported risky behaviours; reasons leading to risk acceptance; accounts of past accidents (scenario, contributory factors, etc.); implemented risk management (on individual and collective plans); opinion regarding the efficacy of current risk prevention; and finally, proposals for safety improvements.
Interviews lasted one hour on average, and took place in three different kinds of venue: mostly bars and restaurants, but also university offices, and, for the youngest interviewees, their parents’ home. Interviews were recorded, then integrally retranscribed. Finally, a thematic analysis has been undertaken, with the topics framing the interview grid.
Findings
In accordance with the dimensions highlighted in the concept of bodily engagement, two successive sections will present the main results of the qualitative study: the first will focus on the reasons for the acceptance of the dangers present in a snow park; the second on the risk management methods applied by freestylers.
Reasons for acceptance of danger in snow parks
When freestylers accept that they expose themselves to danger during their snow park visits, it is because such acceptance constitutes, as it were, the necessary path towards the deeper motives that justify their engagement. These motives are presented below, starting with those that are of an essentially individual nature.
As is often the case in studies concerning practitioners of so-called alternative sports (Rinehart and Sydnor, 2003), the interviewees primarily emphasized the whirling sensations and thrills provided by freestyling. Indeed, they all referred spontaneously to the strong emotions experienced when performing acrobatic figures and jumps: ‘Sometimes, you really feel like you’re flying, it’s awesome’. The feeling of elation becomes all the more intense when the figures and/or modules tested are new or innovative. It is, therefore, a way of keeping the threat of routine and predictability at bay: ‘When you’ve done something new, you get a whole lot more pleasure and thrills than when you just do something you know how to do’. Confronting danger thus represents a means to achieve a form of ecstasy and vertigo: Thrills in the air, a feeling of freedom, yet at the same time fear, but a feeling of good fear in fact, to say to yourself, hell, I could fall, yet at the same time, that’s what it’s all about, but it’s good, it’s scary.
Such motives are crucial to understand, since they are likely to imply high (even increasing) levels of danger, as Stranger (1999) and Borden (2001) noticed regarding wave surfing and skateboarding respectively: in order to get thrilled once again, experienced participants have to confront growing technical difficulties (on bigger waves, more vertical walls in pools, higher ramps, etc.). Several interviewees made the comparison with drug use, while being careful to emphasize the lack of toxicity and non-pathological nature of the behaviours in question.
Bodily engagement likewise contributes to the construction of identity. It is a question of experiencing one’s limits to enjoy a heightened sense of being that a well-organized daily life is no longer capable of providing: I think there was a time when we used to go hunting, we’d run after animals (…) and then we’d come back and it was a bit like a moment of glory … In modern life, when, to boot, you’re a rich man’s son who’s never had any money problems, never had a hard time, it’s like fear, bodily engagement, it’s a thing you feel you need … You gotta show your … Yeah, part of it is wanting to show your manliness, that kinda thing … Looking for ways to take risks, to go higher than the others. We like to scare ourselves.
This interview extract highlights the combination of reasons underlying practitioners’ acceptance of the dangers found in a snow park: it is most certainly a question of confronting danger in order to know oneself better, but also to valorize oneself in the eyes of others, given that family and professional existence is considered to be uneventful, quiet and sheltered. Risk-taking thus appears as the way to ‘come into the world’ and, as such, to construct an identity for oneself (Le Breton, 2002). This act of ‘conquering oneself’ is also shaped by the way others see us.
Technical mastery constitutes, therefore, an undeniable asset as far as valorization is concerned: ‘The higher the jumps we do, the more difficult they are technically and the more valorized they are’. This is not the only asset: the interviews revealed most clearly that, in freestyle, the rider is assessed according to a combination of aesthetics and expertise criteria. Practitioners made reference to show sport, where you must look good, ‘do attractive things’, make them ‘appealing to the eye’. ‘Having great style’, in particular, proves to be essential, way beyond simply performing successful acrobatic figures (or tricks). ‘It’s not like a football match where you have to put the ball in the net to score a goal… freestyle is nothing like that, you need style, because it’s nicer to watch’. Just like this particular freestyler, most freestyle enthusiasts have an artistic vision of the activity, with ‘beautiful movement’ being just as important as athletic achievement and guts, which are also a necessary part of engagement. A particular expression is moreover recurrent in the freestyle milieu, where a practitioner who successfully performs a difficult figure with style is said to be ‘selling dreams’, making explicit reference to the concern for aesthetics (which loses almost all sense or meaning, however, if the level of difficulty required is too low). The display of the ability to face hazard, due to an appropriate technique and self-control, constitutes an opportunity for self-enhancement, especially as everything takes place with ease, relaxation, and style. Beyond the above-mentioned quest for pleasure, it is also a matter of viewing pleasure for other partakers, through audacious and well realized acrobatics and performance (Thorpe, 2012). In this regard, no significant difference was noticed between the staging of young men’s and women’s technical and aesthetic prowess. The former nevertheless tend to attempt more spectacular and dangerous jumps. Masculine assertion seems to be at stake, as evidenced within windsurfers’ subculture: young men, whose masculine identity is still fragile, are particularly prone to attempt hard and dangerous maneuvers in order to gain ‘beach status’ (Wheaton, 2003). Young women, for their part, favour control and acrobatic mastery on lower modules, and are noticeably less frequently injured.
It would therefore appear clear that the challenges practitioners rise to are also of an interactional nature. In this respect, it should be highlighted here that freestyle is experienced in groups, in the form of gatherings that are often informal, but nevertheless regular, and during which observation and putting on a performance are of the highest importance: ‘In the snow park, it’s a lot about representations, those who do beautiful figures, they’re thought highly of, we say to ourselves, that one, he’s good, and so on’. A further practitioner added that: When we’re together, we’re all watching each other (…) And then you’ve got the guys who are in the snow park for the show. Observation is at the heart of freestyle, it’s super important for promoting the sport and yourself, to watch the latest videos… In fact, you spend your time watching what the others are doing and being watched.
Once again, this is not dissimilar to Wheaton’s findings, since windsurfers continuously watch each other within this subculture: ‘We go down the beach and look out (…) it’s like going to an art exhibition’ (a lifestyle windsurfer, quoted in Wheaton, 2003: 83). Such displays are seen and extended through an almost invariable use of video (on-board cameras and/or recording facilities set up in some resorts). Confronting danger clearly appears to give access to strong emotions, which are all the more intense since they are shared and performed among practitioners.
Confronting danger likewise results from the desire to be part of the freestyler community and to acquire a status within it. It means having the courage and the abilities to perform engaged acrobatic feats, without ‘feeling faint-hearted’. Matching this desire for subcultural recognition is the fierce intention not to be likened to a ‘tourist’. Here, the aim is to emphasize the wide gulf that separates them from ordinary practitioners. Adopting such a differentiation approach in relation to the ordinary practitioner of winter sports is not specific to snow park freestyling, however; just as in climbing (De Léséleuc, 2004; Donnelly and Young, 1988), windsurfing (Wheaton, 2003) and skateboarding (Beal and Wilson, 2002), it valorizes the acceptance of danger, even injury, which both play an important role in terms of internal recognition.
This set of results is consistent with Thorpe’s findings, especially when she describes the ambiguous nature of such spaces as snow parks: For some experienced snowboarders and skiers, highly technical terrain parks, such as Snow Park, offer exciting opportunities to test their skills and perform in front of their peers; for others, these highly visible and exhibitionist spaces are sources of much intimidation, fear and anxiety. (Thorpe, 2011: 222)
Danger management methods
Surprising though it may seem, after having implemented various techniques in order to reduce danger on regular pistes (avalanche control and artificial release, leveling of bumps on slopes, laying of safety nets and protection mattresses, hazard signs, marking of pistes’ difficulty, etc.) (Soulé, 2004), ski resort managers purposely provided their clients, through snow or terrain parks, with notoriously hazardous equipment. The developments put forward in this second part of the findings don’t deal with risk management procedures applied by skill workers (ski patrollers, snow park shapers, etc.); they relate to individual and collective ways of managing snow park dangers, from participants themselves, who commonly show a particularly well-thought-out relationship with risk.
Individual danger management
First, an apparent contradiction must be solved: on one hand, running risks proved to be an efficient means to assert oneself and to reinforce an ‘insider’ status. But on the other hand, efficient risk management also appears as a means to gain subcultural status. In fact, beyond risk acceptance, the way danger is tackled clearly differentiates between sensible, skilled, experienced practitioners, and irresponsible or ill prepared ones, as also evidenced by West and Allin (2010) regarding rock climbers. Displaying the ability to face hazardous situations is at least as important as merely confronting risk (Kay and Laberge, 2004).
Individual danger management involves a number of elements, some of which are part of a temporality that is far prior to the resort visit. For example, a great number of practitioners take trampoline lessons, sometimes several times a week, to prepare themselves, in particular kinaesthetically, both before and during the season. Preparation of the figure they plan to perform likewise begins, in general, well before arrival at the snow park. It often includes technical analysis of the movements to be reproduced by watching videos: ‘You watch the videos, you watch again in slow motion, you get your inspiration from them’.
This advance planning is then combined with an analysis of the conditions on the day of the snow park visit, including the practitioner’s fitness level, and environmental and contextual factors: First of all, you tell yourself that the module or trick you wanna do has a certain level of difficulty, but that, that’s the assessment of what you gotta do. That’s the first thing. And the second thing, you gotta evaluate what shape you’re in. That means that if someone manages to, I reckon, if someone does the two, he’s not gonna fall. Or not that much. The danger is if someone thinks they can arrive at a certain speed… Me personally, I assess the difficulty of the performance, and I evaluate what condition I’m in at the time. Both physically and mentally. They go together, really. In fact, I reckon there are really these two parameters… for taking risks. So, in fact, that’s what engagement is all about.
As for environmental factors, it is a question of assessing the module itself (slope, condition of landing area, for instance), as well as the approach run required and speed, snow conditions and weather forecast (wind, visibility): ‘Observation, all the time. If there’s a gust of wind, you land too early, or if you’ve got the wind behind you, you can go too far. As it happens, they’re mistakes that can be avoided by observing’. Some practitioners go so far as to talk about rules that are similar to ‘mathematical calculations’: So, there’s one rule, it says ‘better a bit more speed than not enough’ (…) it’s actually almost like using mathematical calculations to say, yeah, that module gives you this curve, this curve, it gives you this jump with this amount of momentum…
Course reconnaissance, aimed at ‘testing the water’, is therefore almost invariably undertaken: practitioners rarely embark upon a jump without first having looked the course over several times beforehand, in particular to assess the condition of the snow and adapt their approach run accordingly (‘what speed do I have to start off at?’), to guarantee the good condition of landing zones (e.g. level of maintenance by shapers, possible presence of ice), etc.
In general (…), I always do at least one recce before setting off on a jump, always have a look first, because even here, things can change in the night, it only takes…, and there you go, it can change, overnight, the kick may be different, landing, a mark might have been made, a block fallen down from somewhere.
These excerpts are consistent with the way Thorpe (2011) holistically details, as a participant observer, her own runs: evaluation of snow quality, kick choice, estimate of the relevant speed to achieve the planned trick, assessment of angle and distance in the case of jumps, etc.
Course reconnaissance is also considered to be a time conducive to ‘getting going’ and includes, in particular, landing and warm up exercises, which gradually become more intense. Exercises intensify as the size of the jump increases, hence the importance of not starting with the biggest jumps. It is a question of crescendoing the level of difficulty, in order to ‘first test your speed on the smallest big airs and, more especially, reassess the speed you might reach’.
All of this requires not only the ability to analyse the situation, which may be considered a complex one, but also concentration, highlighted as being a fundamental ingredient: Concentration is the one thing I’m making an effort to work on, I’ve noticed that when I think about what I’m going to do before, if I imagine myself doing it, I can see myself actually doing the movement, that works much better than when I set off like a bat out of hell and, at the last minute, I ask myself, ‘well, what am I gonna do on the box’, even though I’m already well on my way there.
And so, planning and the consideration of multiple parameters are just two of many elements involved in individual management of the dangers incurred.
Last but not least, wearing protective equipment makes it possible, to a certain degree, to reduce bodily impact in the case of a fall or collision. It not only concerns wearing a helmet, but also back protection, crash pads (protective padded shorts) and, more rarely, knee pads. Those who devote themselves to big air jumps (the most awe-inspiring blast ramps) wear protective equipment almost without exception: Yeah, always, if I don’t have my helmet and back protection, then I do nothing (…) well, almost nothing, it’s psychological, maybe at a pinch without the back protection, but the helmet, but really without my helmet, it’s psychological, I’m too scared of banging my head after catching a stupid edge… I always have my helmet and back protection.
The relationship between practitioners and protective equipment does, however, vary: although some always wear many different sorts of protective equipment (which is less and less common as participants get on in years, and among good level participants and experts), others choose only to wear some of it, or only to wear it for certain types of practice or figures they have planned to perform (‘When it’s the big stuff, I put my helmet on, otherwise no’). Thus, experienced and skilled freestylers don’t wear a helmet on a regular basis, occasionally taking it off, depending on what trick they plan to carry out. Others stated, rather paradoxically, that they no longer wear any protective equipment following an accident they had: ‘I don’t wear a helmet anymore, because with a helmet, I feel invincible and I go way too far then’. Finally, it would appear that subcultural norms ‘forbid’ practitioners from wearing protective equipment in certain circumstances: as a result, members of a crew will prefer to wear a hat, instead of a helmet, when snowboarding in the rail zone (on rails, boxes, etc.), i.e. a series of a priori danger-free acrobatic sequences, albeit causing numerous injuries (especially in the case of collision with modules or bad landing). Contrary to back protection, for example, helmets are both visible and easy to remove, as soon as the situation does not expressly require their use. Within groups of skateboarders, Beal and Wilson (2002) noticed how ‘respect’ accorded to insiders was emphasized for those who didn’t wear protective equipment. Our results show that it is considered inadequate, even awkward, to wear excessive protection as long as basic technical mastery is sufficient to avoid harmful situations.
Collective danger management
The quest for balance between bodily engagement and danger minimization fairly regularly takes the form of collective methods.
As a result, in spite of all of the above-mentioned individual management methods, the first jump of the day, especially if on an unknown module, remains, to an extent, a bit of a gamble: ‘the first jump is generally scary, because you generally don’t really know what speed you should do’. As a result, the ‘crash test’ has been implemented, a term used to define the short ritual concerning the moment when the first group member tests a hitherto untried module, while the others watch, with the aim of ensuring their safety thereafter.
It’s the first one who goes and tests the jump, and who tests the speed… Crash test because it’s one of the things that is the most frightening, the problem of speed… if you have too much or not enough, there’s nothing you can do once you’ve set off.
Observing like this makes it possible, therefore, to collect important information concerning the approach run, required speed, height reached, etc.
More broadly speaking, observation, which is at the heart of the sport (as mentioned above), plays an important role in collective danger management, in order to make sure the coast is clear before setting off–to assess, by watching others, the various parameters to be taken into consideration to minimize the danger when it is your turn.
Implicit codes likewise make danger management collective. Indeed, based on the principle that an important source of danger lies in managing the flow of practitioners (evacuation of landing zones, alternating departures, etc.), the ‘next’ gesture consists in raising your hand before performing your jump to make the practitioners about to go aware that another person will precede them. In particular, this avoids practitioners colliding and quite simply getting in each other’s way, which may be the cause of a fall.
In the case of an incident or accident, preventing access to the module is likewise a measure all practitioners automatically implement. Initiated generally by a witness at the scene, the measure allows the practitioner in difficulty (injured, or having simply had a fall) to evacuate the site before the next one sets off. When the situation seems to be particularly serious, the other practitioners shut off the module in a more permanent way, by blocking the entrance with crossed ski poles placed in front of it.
Last but not least, it is possible to witness an informal regulation of snow park danger, undertaken by freestylers–regulation that is, at first, articulated around prevention, but which may also evolve towards repressive action. While unfamiliarity on the part of novice users and ‘tourists’ with the behaviours and codes to be followed to ensure safe collective practice gives rise to discussions and explanations, non-compliance with them may cause freestylers to ban recalcitrant practitioners from the module altogether.
Conclusion
Freestylers’ exposure in snow parks is deliberate. For all that, similarly to what has already been shown in other sports (Marsac, 2006; Martha and Griffet, 2006; Routier and Soulé, 2010; Soulé et al., 2009; West and Allin, 2010), the inherent risk in freestyling does not constitute, in itself, the explanation of adopted behaviours. It appears rather as a means that makes it possible to achieve a certain state and sensorial satisfaction, as well as a feeling of expertise and self-fulfillment, not to mention benefits of a distinguishing, interactional, personal and technical nature. The specificities of snow park freestyle practitioners’ bodily engagement may thus be summarized in the following points: the importance of putting on a performance; the way others see you; the quest for aesthetic and artistic performance; and experiential learning.
Far from the stereotypes conveyed concerning freestylers and their spontaneous and reckless risk-taking, the different elements highlighted in this article attest, on the contrary, to a well thought-out and rational relationship with the danger incurred. Indeed, freestylers refer to a tight form of danger management, which is the sine qua non of their sport–one which is necessary, moreover, to enable them to ‘last’ by minimizing the downtime resulting from injuries, even minor ones, which prevent them from practising the sport. They implement a relatively precise form of risk management because the sport is a lifestyle sport (Wheaton, 2003) and it is part of freestylers’ way of life. Furthermore, the seriousness of an injury is sometimes assessed not according to its pathology, but rather to the resulting downtime that ensues, experienced as real suffering.
Running risks provides the opportunity to exert control over meaningful situations, revealing one’s ability to manage uncertain (and somewhat frightening) situations. Moreover, acting reflexively, and self-monitoring one’s bodily engagement, is consistent with the broader, modern incentive to assume responsibility for one’s actions and decisions (West and Allin, 2010).
Rather than merely getting used to institutional risk management, and entirely relying on decisions made by others (shapers, ski patrollers, snow park designers, etc.), a handful of freestylers belonging to local crews concretely partake in the operation of ‘their’ snow park, somewhat renewing the way ski resorts are usually managed. A cooperative approach to the conception, and especially to the management of snow parks has been noticed in the three studied cases. In connection with shapers and ski patrollers, these few freestylers apply a substantial influence on the design of the modules, the maintenance of starting and landing areas (particularly sensitive in terms of safety), and the angling of springboards, thus impacting risk management. Local freestylers don’t have the last word, and skill workers frequently impose limits. But thanks to their close links with shapers, primarily, a handful of freestylers indubitably have influence on decisions. This informal functioning depicts unprecedented compromise in French winter sports resorts, since the separation between institutional, community, and individual decisions regarding risk management is not as sharp as it is in other parts of skiing areas. Combined with the voluntary, usually balanced confrontation to danger, such a room for manoeuvre incidentally contributes to the appropriation process of snow parks, 6 which become all the more laden with subcultural symbols, thanks to the involvement of these core freestylers.
Footnotes
Funding
The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This research received funding from the MAIF Foundation (France).