The moment you push off, you’re not a man anymore.
You are a legend.
Push.Explode.Fire.
Glide.
Skate.
The Starthand, with its 51-degree gradient, welcomes me.I can feel the speed building, revel in the air gushing at my sides.
Mausefalle comes in a blink, and then the jump.I soften my knees, launch, and fly.
Sixty meters of freefall, straight into the fall line.I nail the landing like a pro and get into the tuck to be as fast as possible.
Karusell comes fast.I can feel the G-force pushing me to the ground, challenging me to cling to the outside ski.I don´t slow down, don´t skid, hold my breath, and go for the straightest line possible.I am deaf to anything but the skis screaming as they carve the ice.
But I know the audience is holding its breath, screaming with fear, smelling blood during my stunt in the Karusell.
Steilhang looms.The wall.The steepest pitch on the course is icier than it looks on TV.
I enter low, knees flexed, breathing through the burn.It’s not just steep; it's turny.You want to survive, but you also want to retain the speed for what comes next.
So, I hold and get into the tuck, this time hearing the audience go wild at my split time.Or perhaps I imagined it.
I enter the gliding section and shift my weight to gain more speed.The race is won or lost here, not in the turns, not on the steepest slope.Only the champions know how to glide when the track goes flat.
And of course, my speed is Roman’s work.His wax works, like it always does.
Then the Seildelamprung.
Blind transition.One shot.A place that ends careers.
I crouch.Drive off.Remember the landing from the training, take the position.
Shit.
I’m late.Tiny error above, my left edge caught for a split second.
The jump comes too fast.
And in that second of suspension—flying off the rim, body twisted slightly wrong—I know it.
I’m not sure how I’m going to land.
***
Katharina
I can handle this.
I can handle the chaos.Half of Europe jammed into a snow-blown funnel of ringing cowbells and yodeling.I can handle the live broadcast schedule unraveling in real time, and that the VIP section just ran out of hot wine and is somehowmyproblem.
I can handle Arnold Schwarzenegger asking if Thomas will come and say a few words before the award ceremony.
I can handle running after Hermann Maier, shouting into the wind like a lunatic, trying to get a quote about gladiators and ice.
I can handle the sponsors, all of them, calling like stockbrokers during a crash:
