As the evening winds on, we eat, drink, swap stories, and get a little obsessive about snowboard gear before heading to bed, buoyed by the numerous tales of excitement and adventure, and the expectation of what lies ahead.

Sunday morning arrives and light beaming through the curtains makes me rush out of bed to see if we’ve been treated to picture-book blue skies and sunshine everybody hopes for. Sadly, I’m met by a sea of grey clouds and driving rain – far from ideal snowboarding conditions.

“All of a sudden, something goes wrong… Silence.”

The four of us head to breakfast where we are joined by Rory, another member of The Rider Social team, He’s a tall, quiet man who I imagine could not only set and light a fire in seconds, but also fell the tree with his bare hands to get the fire wood. 2015 marks his seventeenth year in the French mountains, so he knows the area like the back of his hand, making him the perfect guide for a splitboarding trip.

Together, we all head to the slopes and, after a quick avalanche safety talk from Rory, we catch a gondola up the mountain. The first run of the day is a leg warmer down an easy blue and we’re quickly back on a chair lift where a trickier red piste was waiting for us.

The group take off, one by one. My legs and the board are still getting accustomed too each other and it feels like I’m still some time away from splitting the board into skis and searching for powder. I keep heading down, when, all of a sudden, something goes wrong. The edge of my board digs into a rut of hard snow and stops suddenly. Inertia throws me into the air.

Silence.

Dr Jerry offers to give me a quick medical examination. Luckily, it involves little more than shining his iPhone light into my eyes, doing a few nerve and balance tests, and absolutely zero lubricated latex gloves. Post Concussion Syndrome is the diagnosis. What that really means is staying off snow for a minimum of 48 hours.

The next two days creep by glacially slowly. Every morning, Evan, James, and Dr Jerry head out while I contemplate whether I can fill my day by figuring out a one-player version of Scrabble.

I can’t.

“Blue skies and a fresh dusting of snow… I’m going out.”

Wednesday morning brings with it a headache and a stiff neck, just as the previous two had done before it. I open the bedroom curtains to find blue skies, a few wisps of cloud, and a fresh dusting of snow.

The purists would suggest that this is still some way from a hallowed ‘Blue Bird’, but greeted with such a sight, I care little for the opinions of the purist. As far as I’m concerned, this is my Blue Bird. Conditions were perfect. I’m going out.

With the other three, more experienced riders heading out with Rory, Paul and his wife Fiona are to be my guides. Before we go anywhere, I’m given all the equipment required for splitboarding. There’s a lot of equipment. A lot.

I juggle space in my backpack to find room for a transceiver, ski poles, a collapsible shovel, a probe, and a set of skins that fit on the bottom of the board when it’s split. Oh, and of course, the splitboard itself. Fitting it all in is a struggle as I’m already carrying a camera, a bottle of water, and a couple of emergency Mars bars (medicinal). It’s like an expensive game of Tetris.

I strap in to the weird part-snowboard, part-ski contraption, and feel immediately compelled to prove that this little bit of material cannot possibly prevent me from going backwards. I tentatively try to shuffle back, but nothing. I try harder, and still nothing. I manoeuvre myself so I’m pointing up a slight gradient. I try again to shuffle back, but still I’m held in place. The sensation is weird, and completely counter intuitive.

Time to begin our accent, and Paul leads the way. We have to start by traversing across a busy piste. Skiers of all shapes and sizes fly past, seemingly irritated by the small group of people walking across what they clearly consider a one way street.

It takes some practice to find the technique required to traverse the slope. I feel naturally compelled to lift the skis off the ground but this is proves completely counter productive, as it means moving this seal skin away from the surface of the snow.

Instead of lifting, it’s imperative to shuffle forward, keeping your splits and therefore the skins, in contact with the slope. “You know when you were a kid, and your mom used to shout at you for being lazy and not lifting your feet when you walk” suggests Paul, helpfully “Well, this is the opposite. Keep your feet in contact with the deck. Your mom will never know.” he promises.

Once into a rhythm, what was initially a battle starts to be a little easier, and it becomes a matter of honing technique. Eventually, with advice and encouragement from Paul and Fiona, I find the knack, and discover that, when done right, the skin makes an unusual zweeeping noise, not unlike somebody in corduroy trousers running for the train.

We reach the edge of the piste, away from the angry skiers, it’s time for the splits to really do what they’re designed for – going directly up hill. As we go, my confidence in the technology grows. A rhythmic ‘zweep’, ‘zweep’, ‘zweep’ tells me I’m doing something right.

We zig-zag up the slope, decreasing the work having to be done by the skins. Turning at the end of each traverse proves a skill in itself. You have to turn through  90 degrees, while ensuring that you keep the splits pointing up hill. Letting them point downhill would result in flying down the mountain, and no doubt indirectly into the concerned torchlight of Dr Jerry once again.

“Just take your time” suggests Paul, as I clumsily swing one ski around with all the grace of your drunken uncle trying to breakdance at a wedding. Once again, despite every fibre of my being thinking that this cannot possibly work, the splits do their job perfectly, and I’m ready to start zweeping up the steep again.

Progress gets quicker as my confidence grows. We head for some trees that eventually break and lead to an opening. The view is breath taking, and having worked for it as opposed to sitting on a chair lift, somehow makes it even sweeter. “Not a bad view is it.” suggests Paul with a smile.

We press on for a further twenty minutes of zigzagging through powder until I breathlessly ask if we can stop. “Yeah, this looks like a good spot” suggests Paul, charitably making it seem like it was the location, and not my lack of fitness that decided that we’d climbed far enough.