She made her choice back in Wengen.Let Bellini pour her wine and soak up her attention.Let her text the enemy between race runs like it’s just business.She can stay as professional as she wants.
I’m done chasing ghosts in lipstick.
She’s just another girl today.
And I’m just a man with a mission.
The Golden Gams trophy doesn’t land in your hands because you want it.
You have to take it.
Beat the Streif on its own terms.
A few hours later, the place is already packed with glittery people and genuine fans alike.Cameras everywhere.Phones clicking.I shut it out and shift into full focus mode during course inspection.
The track’s closed to the public.Course workers line the edges with rakes and drills, faces red from cold and too much coffee.They’ve been working all night to get the piste into perfect shape.There are places on the Hahnenkamm course that snowcats can’t reach.Places that are just too steep.So, people with shovels replace the machines.The Austrian army gets the honor every year, along with thousands of volunteers.
I click into my skis and slide out of the start.
Course inspection is like walking the edge of a cliff with a notepad in your head.Everything counts.Every bump.Every groove.Every tenth of a second, hiding in terrain.
The Mausefalle: it’s not just a jump.It’s a trapdoor.You hit it 3.5 seconds in, land 60 meters later, on your edges, with zero visibility and legs already screaming.
Then comes the first jump.You take off, land 80 meters farther, and enter the Karusel, where the 3.1 g-force hits you as you maneuver the turns.
I trace the Steilhang line with my eyes.It’s glazed and angry today—steep, glassy, and just waiting for someone to blink.If you come in late, you’re toast.If you try to force the turn, you’re toast.You have to dance on that edge like it’s not trying to kill you.
Wind worries the panels; the safety net hums left to right.A low warning only your edges can hear.
Lower down, in the “Alte Schneise”, the entire course tilts sideways and dares you to hold your tuck through the transition because a jump is coming.At theSeidlalmsprung,you don´t see the landing as you take off and have to rotate mid-air to land the next turn.Scary.
All that with burning thighs and sometimes with blizzard fogging your vision.Luckily, the weather is playing along today.
I stop beside a younger guy—Fischer, maybe?Europa Cup call-up.Eyes wide.Breathing shallow.
“You good?”I ask.
He nods.Too fast.
“Steilhang’s worse than it looks in training,” he mutters.
“It always is,” I say.“Trust your skis.Don’t try to win it there.Survive it.You´ll always remember your first time on the Streif.You´ll be fine.”
He nods again.This time, a little slower.
Niko swallows, nods like he’s swallowed a cliff: “Okay.Low.Commit.Don’t—don’t over-rotate—right.”
I nod and say nothing else.
Because you don’t win the Streif by talking, you win it by listening.
To the snow.
To the turns.
To yourself.
And to your older buddies, if you’re clever enough.
