“Trust your line.Not your fear.”
Beep.
I drop.
The top is mine.Perfect pressure on the edge, skis slicing exactly where I want them.The rhythm clicks in my body like a song I was born knowing.The splits flash green.Brilliant.Gold line.
I prepare for the compression pushing me down and sideways, and even enjoy the feeling as I listen to the sounds of cowbells, horns, and shouts, with fans standing along the course cheering me on.
I fly the Camels, land balanced, charging.My chest is wide open, lungs burning clean.For a moment, I let myself feel it.The run of my life.My legs burn, as they always do in this part of the race, but I block out the pain.I am trained to do this; pain is part of the game we play.
There is no gold without the pain.
Then, near the bottom—Ciaslat.First turn.Wide.Too wide.The rhythm is gone; I must chase and cut the other turn.Too hard on the edges, I return to the perfect line, but the maneuver costs me speed.
And I know it.
The green light vanishes.
I fight, push, send everything I have into the glide.But not too much pressure, I am a pro, I know the balance.
The finish jump, the last tuck, air tearing at my suit.I cross the line.Look up.
Second place.
For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe.My legs give a violent tremor.Because I gave everything, and this time, there is no golden rush to fuel me back.
When I unclip, my knees nearly go out from under me.A staff hand reaches for my arm, instinctively, but I shake it off too fast, forcing a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes.The mask slides back in place, just barely.
The cameraman is close, and I know he caught the slip for all the world to see.
The bare, unguarded truth on my face.No shrug, no smile, no mask.Just the raw pain of almost-gold.
And once it’s broadcast, it’s no longer mine.It belongs to the world.
***
Katharina
By the time the medals are handed out, he looks almost happy.Almost.Silver on his back, flag over his shoulders, cameras catching his smile from every angle.For the world, it’s joy.For me, it’s paper-thin.
Later, I find him alone.The team lounge is dim, with the overhead lamps turned low; the hum of the heating is the only sound.He’s still half in kit, compression pants under a hoodie, boots unlaced, hair damp.No music, no phone.Just him, sitting hunched on the couch as if he’s not sure whether to stand or collapse.
I sit beside him.Close, but not too close.I don’t offer comfort.Just presence.
For a long while, neither of us speaks.
Then, without looking at me, he says:
“It’s not the medal.Silver is still a dream.It’s that Iwasgood enough.And I still lost.”
The words hang between us, heavy as wet snow.I reach out and touch his shoulder lightly.He leans into my hand, just for a breath, then straightens again.
“Why do you race?”I ask softly.
He turns my way, frowning, thinking about the question.
“If it’s only about gold,” I go on, stroking his cheek.“It’ll never be enough.Someone always wins, someone always loses.But that’s not why I’m here.”
