Nickelback: Rockstar
Kitzbühel, Austria, January 20
Thomas
I wake up before the alarm.
Kitzbühel downhill morning.
The air sings of the decades of pressure, of broken bones and twisted spines.
Let us not be that dramatic and just go piss.
The room is dark.Silent.Lukas is still passed out, blanket on the floor.You’d think that a luxury hotel like this would have a bearable temperature.
I sit up, blink once, twice, then swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
This is the Hahnenkamm.
This istheday.
I piss, splash water on my face, stare at myself in the mirror.
Eyes a little hollow.Jaw tight.
Good.
This isn’t a day for beauty.It’s a day for grit.
Downstairs, the breakfast buffet looks like it belongs in a five-star spa, not a race hotel.Silver platters, miniature croissants, an entire honeycomb dripping into porcelain bowls.The Austrians do love a show.Most of the top thirty starters are already here, eating quietly; no one’s new to this.
I skip the eclairs and take what I always do: muesli with yogurt, a banana, and black tea.Fuel.Nothing more.You don’t ski the Streif on an empty stomach.But you don’t ski it on sugar-glazed bravado either.
Across the table, Martin is peeling an egg with the solemnity of a monk.
“You sleep?”he asks.
“Like a rock,” I say.Not exactly a lie.
He nods, expression unreadable.We’ve all got our own rituals.Some stare into space, some joke too loud, some go silent.It’s the calm before the storm.The kind you only feel at Kitzbühel.
Lukas joins us already in ski gear.It’s his morning ritual: never to eat breakfast in his pyjamas.“Race-suit up to spread your jam,”he once said with a straight face, and we’ve never let him forget it.
Outside, the village is still dark and quiet.But we know what’s coming.In two hours, it’ll feel like a beehive stuffed with cowbells and sponsor money.Helicopters.Reporters.Kids screaming behind the barriers.Ski legends shaking hands like popes.
“The president’s coming again,” Lukas mutters.
I shrug.“He always does.Can’t miss the one day Austria turns into a cathedral.”
The clink of spoons and whisper of boots sounded more like liturgy than prep.
Lukas smirks.“Yeah.Bless us, O Lord of cowbells.”
“Can I get the trophy if I didn’t vote for him?”Niko asks.
“You’re not getting a trophy, Niko, so no pressure,” I say, elbowing him.Just lightly.He’s young, still learning to handle mornings like this.
