I´m pleased.
He eyes the snowman with an amused expression: “My dick is prettier.”
“I have never seen it,” Martin shrugs, but Bellini is already turning away.
“Hey, Matteo,” I call after him.“Good luck, man.”
“You too, Kern,” he nods.
“Time to get ready,” I say.“Good luck, guys.”
I bump fists with all the guys, clap the back of the closest youngster, and enter my pre-race routine.
I plug my ears, play the Tyrolean music, and start my warm-up.
The same routine I've gone through since my junior years.This race is no different; it cannot be.If I let the Olympic drama get in my head, I´m done.
I told Katharina in the morning.
She watched me eating the cereal, those beautiful eyes worried sick.She touched my arm lightly, afraid to ask how I felt.I felt like kissing her at that moment, ignoring that stupid deal of ours.Because she respects my needs, she does not push; she does whatever I need at every moment.
And still, she cares.
But I cannot afford to care too much, not about the Olympic gold, the weight of glory, the medals.They all expect me to win, to demolish the competition at my very first Olympics.And I know Icando that.
But only if I treat this super-G like any other.I have won here twice already in my career.I know the mountain inside out; I know the bumps, the tricky, curvy Ciaslat section that suits my skiing.The entire course is tailored to fit my style.
What could possibly go wrong?
It´s time; I haven't watched the racers before me.I cannot; I need to remain in this flow.
No distractions.
Just one.The image of Katharina´s eyes, as she pulls the gold medal hanging on my neck, and drags me into her bedroom.
Katharina is no longer a distraction.She´s the drive.
She belongs in my inner world; she´s part of my routine.
I raise my foot, letting Roman clean the snow and ice from it, then click into my skis and check the perfect setup.Nod to Roman, put on my goggles, strap my poles.
I´ve got this.
It´s my turn.
Beep, beep, beeeep.
I skate out of the gate, and my pole catches underneath my ski.
Shit!
I almost stumble, my concentration slipping.
No time to think this through; I have to play catch-up.
The first three turns are far from perfect.I know the light would be red.
I look for the straight line, but everything feels wrong today.A compression hits me, and I catch an edge, nearly falling over.
