Thrill or terror
Text 1: Upon the Ice Run at Davos, by Bertram Ashdown
An original letter written in a nineteenth-century voice; a period simulation, not an archival document.
My dear Tom, you will remember that I was sent to Davos to rest my lungs, to sit wrapped in rugs upon a balcony and do nothing more violent than read. I have done something more violent. Behind the hotel the English visitors have built a run of solid ice, three quarters of a mile long, which twists down the hillside between banks of snow higher than a man, and every afternoon they hurl themselves down it, head first, upon little sledges of ash and steel which they call toboggans. On Tuesday Captain Lowther lent me his.
I will be honest with you. The first run was the worst minute of my life. I lay on my face with my chin an inch above the ice, somebody pushed, and the world became a white roar. The first bank rushed at me like a wall, and I shut my eyes, which is precisely what one must never do, and felt the sledge climb the bank and swing down again without any help from me. Ice spat into my mouth. My elbows burned. I believe I prayed, but I could not hear myself. At the bottom I lay in the snow for some time, quite unable to stand, while Captain Lowther enquired anxiously after his toboggan.
And yet, Tom, I went up again. I cannot tell you why. On the second run I kept my eyes open, and saw the pines go by in a dark smear, and felt the sledge answer my toes like a horse that knows its rider, and something rose in my chest that I can only call delight. On the fourth I came off at the bend they call the Churchyard and flew a good ten yards into a drift. I emerged with snow in both ears, laughing like a schoolboy.
The doctor says I am to rest. I have entered for Saturday’s race.
Text 2: Never, Ever Again, by Rhys Pemble
An original contemporary blog.
I agreed to do a charity skydive in a pub, which is where most bad decisions are made. By the time I realised I meant it, I had raised four hundred pounds for the hospice that had looked after my gran, and backing out was no longer an option. People kept telling me how exciting it would be. I nodded and felt sick.
The plane was tiny and loud and had no door, only a gap in the side through which the fields were visible, absurdly far below. My instructor, a cheerful man called Gaz who had done over three thousand jumps, clipped himself to my back and shouted something encouraging that the wind took away. Then we were sitting on the edge, legs dangling into nothing, and I understood in my whole body that this was wrong. Every instinct I had, built up over millions of years of ancestors who did not fall off things, was screaming at me to hold on. Gaz rocked us forward. I did not decide to go. I simply went.
People describe freefall as flying. It was not flying. It was falling, very fast, with air forced so hard into my face that I could not breathe out, for forty-five seconds that lasted about a year. When the parachute opened and the world went suddenly quiet, I was so relieved that I started laughing and could not stop. Gaz said everybody does that. The view, once I could look at it, was beautiful. I am glad I did it. I am proud I did it. I will never, ever do it again.
‘Both writers find danger thrilling rather than terrifying.’
How far do you agree with this statement?
In your answer you should:
Support your response with quotations from Text 1 and Text 2.
40 exam-style questions on OCR GCSE English Language 2.3.9 Explore connections across texts. Each one has a worked solution and a mark scheme showing where the marks go.