I kick that one into the netting and focus on the snow.
***
Later, near the start hut, the vibe is different.
The athletes’ area buzzes with a different kind of noise now: fewer jokes, more throat-clearing, the clack of bindings, and the squeak of boots in the cold.
I peel off my warm layers, the air biting at the thin Lycra over my skin. The suit snaps back when I pull the zipper up, red and white and plastered with logos. Someone hands me my bib. Seven, crisp and staring.
Seven’s good. Not too early, not too late. The first guys will carve the line, show where the traps are. The ruts won’t be knee-deep yet when I get there.
If I’m fast, my time will sit on the board long enough to matter.
Left boot first, then right. Always. Two clicks on each buckle, top to bottom, never the other way. I tug the suit down over my shins.
Headphones on. Same songs. Tap poles together—one, two, three—until the sting in my palms drowns out the jitter in my gut.
Around me, Martin is arguing with Lukas about wax, someone’s cursing in Italian, and an American laughs too loud. It all feels a little distant, like sound underwater.
“Bib seven to the start tent,” a volunteer calls.
I duck inside the start tunnel, away from the wind. It smells like rubber matting, menthol, and nerves. A clock on the wall blinks the time to go.
I roll my neck, shake my arms out, and bounce twice on my feet. I run the course in my head—roll, blind crest, traverse, compression, bottom pitch—until I can almost feel each turn in my thighs.
When the starter sticks his head in and says, “Seven, to the wand,” my hands are steady.
I plant my skis on the start ramp, poles on either side of the wand. The valley stretches below, loud and distant, full of cowbells and red-white flags.
Goggles down. The world narrows to the fall line and the clock.
Downhill is where legends are made.
Don’t fuck it up.
The wand snaps back against my shins, and the hill drops under my skis.
The first pitch of Hannes Trinkl is always steeper than I remember it. The snow grabs my edges, my thighs light up, wind slaps my face. I fold into the tuck, chest over my knees, the hill coming at me like it’s on fast-forward.
First roll. My stomach drops as the ground disappears for a heartbeat, then punches back into my feet. Skis bite, chatter, find the groove others carved. I feel every rut through my shins.
Blind crest.
For a second, all I see is blue sky. I trust the inspection, the muscle memory gained through visualization, the way the track hums under my feet. Don’t look for the gate. It’ll be there. Hold. Don’t stand up. Let the skis run.
The blue flag pops into view exactly where it should, and I tip my whole body into it, inside hand brushing the snow. The netting flashes in my peripheral vision, orange and hungry.
Middle section. The course opens and screams at me to tuck and pray.
Earlier this season, I would have. Point them straight, close my eyes, hope my legs don’t explode.
I take a breath I don’t have time for and choose the slightly rounder line we talked about, one more tiny adjustment before I lock back into the fall line. It costs me a couple of inches of snow. Saves me a couple of months in rehab.
The next compression comes up like a fist. I stay a hair taller going in, just enough so it doesn’t fold me. The G-force slams into my thighs, my stomach tries to escape out my spine, then I’m spitting out of it, skis free, the finish in the distance.
Last gates. Legs burning, lungs on fire. There’s a final little bump that always feels too small and too big at the same time. I let it pop me, keep the skis flat when I land.
Then my skis cross the blue line in the finish, and it’s over.
