You can feel it in the way they fidget, their fingers restless, their mouths tight, like they've been robbed of the one thing that might take the edge off.
Years ago, this space would've been hazy with ritual: cigarette tips glowing between arguments, smoke curling around tension.Now it's just dry air and sharper words.
Heavy coats hang off the backs of chairs, ski boots squeak against tile, and no one meets anyone's eyes for too long.
I sit near the wall, a little out of sight but close enough to catch everything.Laptop open.Voice recorder running.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I haven't started typing yet.This isn't about quotes.It's about reading the room.
Leitner starts:
"It's not the steepness," he says, arms crossed, shoulders tight."It's how the terrain shifts through the middle third.That compression after the Carcentina turn throws people off-balance, and then the snow changes.You're not giving them a chance if you don't adjust the line."
The Italian coach beside him leans back in his chair like he's heard this a hundred times—and probably has.
"This hill has history," he replies flatly."You don't tame Bormio.You survive it."
Another voice jumps in.Swiss, maybe.
"It's not about taming it.It's about not flying home with two broken legs.We've had two crashes in two days, both in the same section—how many more before FIS steps in?"
At the front, the FIS delegate clears his throat and speaks like a man who's already had this conversation four times today.
"We'll inspect the passage in question again at sixteen hundred.We'll consider softening the impact if snow can be pushed safely into the trench.Otherwise, the gate stays.Line choice is up to the athlete."
He says,consider.Notpromise.
I glance around the room.
Thomas is standing near the back wall, arms relaxed, hands tucked in his jacket pockets.He's not talking.Not shifting.Just watching.
Not the coaches.
Not the delegates.
The map.
The course diagram is projected on the screen up front, and someone's gone at it with red circles like it's a murder scene.Five trouble spots.Overlapping like bruises.
The Carcentina turn is circled twice, no surprise.That diagonal drop has a sick sense of humor.You think you've nailed the rhythm, and then it throws you into the compression with just enough tilt to ruin your line.One mistake, and the hill doesn't correct you.It punishes.
Right after that?La Konta.The wall.If Carcentina unbalances you, La Konta finishes the job.A full commitment drop, steep and slick, with no chance to recover if you're off-axis.It's the kind of pitch that doesn't care about talent.Only guts.
Power down, they've flagged Fontana Longa, tight, grooved, and mean.Looks fine on screen.In reality, it rattles the fillings out of your teeth.Then Canalino Sertorelli, narrower than it should be, has a reputation for hiding soft spots even on inspection.
And last, the finish traverse, nothing special, unless your legs are fried and you clip the wrong edge on the wrong panel.Then it's a crash reel.
But everyone's staring at the top section.The Carcentina–La Konta combo.That's where things go sideways fast, where people break skis.Or knees.Or worse.
And this year, the compression that follows that deadly diagonal is supposedly even worse, thanks to uneven terrain.Coaches and athletes blame the surface changes for the crashes we've seen there over the past two days.
And I don't blame them.
Training runs aren't races.You don't risk that much.
So you definitely don't expect to see a helicoptereveryday.
I glance around the room.Some of the coaches are nodding, arms folded, as if this is just another day in the office.But they're all watching the same circle I am.
