ZLATA
I roll out of Prague in the dark, city lights smearing across the windscreen. The dashboard clock says 5:57; the thermos of coffee in the cup holder is already half-gone. I loaded the car in the echoing stairwell half an hour ago—skis, boots, race bag—then crept out of the garage while the trams were still mostly empty. If I want to make an eight o’clock inspection in Pec, there’sno margin.
The highway north is quiet at this hour, just long-haul trucks and an odd car with a ski box heading the same way. Somewhere after Mladá Boleslav, the sky starts to lift from black to that flat, colorless grey that passes for morning in February. The radio slips from 80s Czech pop into the news, then a weather bulletin.
“…icy conditions and heavy snow in mountain regions, especially in the North, in the afternoon. Black ice may occur on roads and bridges; smaller roads could become impassable. Drivers are advised to expect delays and to reconsider non-essential travel…”
I turn the volume down a notch, but not all the way. Non-essential. It depends on who you ask. For the meteorologist, a Masters race on a tiny hill is the definition of stupid. For me, today, it’s the opposite. Still, I file it away: no coffee in the pub, no hanging around to gossip after the races. Two runs, podium if there is one, straight back to Prague before the blizzard rages and snow turns roads into a rally track.
The motorway gives way to smaller roads, then to the familiar, slightly battered strip that snakes up the Úpa valley toward Pec. Snowbanks start to appear at the verges, dirty and shrinking; the houses change from big houses to pensions with wooden balconies.
By the time I swing into the little P-marked lay-by below our slope, it’s just after seven thirty. The parking terminal blinks a cheery 15 Euros for the day. I feed it the coins with a sigh and stick the ticket behind the windscreen. Fifteen euros to leave the car in a patch of ice and mud and then hike. I doubt my sad, hot Austrian would believe me.
From here it’s five minutes on foot. Five long minutes when you’re carrying skis on one shoulder, race bag with the heavy boots thumping against your backside, and the road is still faintly glazed from the night. My breath smokes in front of me as I trudge up. Above the trees, the drag lift line comes into view—a short, straight scar cut into the slope, one lonely chairlift crawling up it.
At the edge of the snow, I dump my bag just long enough to take in the hill: one treeless strip, a few red and blue poles already in, a couple of sponsor banners drooping from plastic fencing. No stadium, no cameras. Just a slope and a bunch of idiots stubborn enough to keep racing on it.
My toes are already numb from the hike, so instead of changing right there, I shoulder everything again and duck into the little pub at the bottom. The door sticks, then gives; warm, stale air hits me in the face—old beer, instant coffee, overworked radiators. The place is half-awake: lights on, bar wiped down, one of the organizers in a race suit under a fleece, laying out bibs on a reserved table.
“Morning,” he says, nodding, and jerks his chin at the corner. “Registration’s over there.”
I claim a patch of bench, and wrestle my trainers off. Boots go on in their place, plastic cold against my calves, buckles snapping shut with that comforting little series of clicks. Around me, other racers are doing the same ballet, one leg hiked up on a chair, bibs rustling, spoons clinking in chipped mugs of tea.
It’s not glamorous. But it feels like home.
When I come back out of the pub in boots, the hill has woken up a little. A few racers are skating lazy warm-up arcs across theflat, the drag lift is coughing people up the line, and ski school kids are slowly forming clusters with nervous parents around.
“Zlata!”
I look up. Jana is pushing off from the side, her suit half-zipped, cheeks pink, the same crooked grin she’s had since we met here years ago. She brakes in a spray of snow right in front of me.
“You made it,” she says, a little out of breath. “I was starting to bet you’d bail and watch Kitz from the couch.”
“As if,” I snort, adjusting my boots. “Inspection at eight, remember?”
We hug, armor and all. Plastic on plastic, helmet-to-helmet. It feels like shrugging on another layer I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
“I still hate that you moved up into the older category,” she mutters when we pull back. “No more direct battles. Now we have to compare times like boring adults.”
“We can still measure races,” I say. “You get your podium, I get mine. We just argue later whose track was worse.”
She laughs, the sound thin and bright against the trees. Together we look up at Javori Dul—short, simple, a handful of racers already shuffling toward the start. For a second, if I squint and ignore the pub behind us, it almost feels like a proper World Cup warm-up.
We click into our skis and slide over toward the little knot of people at the bottom—organizers, friends, that one guy in an ancient national-team suit who somehow ended up as everyone’s “coach.” They’re all looking up at the course, arguing amiably about the surface. One of the younger instructors,wearing a rental jacket, shakes his head. “How can it be icy in this weather? You can’t even use salt here.”
“Easy,” the organizer in the race suit says, tapping his pole on the track. “You just scrape all the snow off first.” The top few centimeters do look suspiciously like someone attacked them with a spade.
Inspection is short and to the point. We are told to “have a look, but don’t overthink it,” then sent shuffling up the side of the course —racers in mismatched suits, people muttering gate numbers under their breath, one guy already complaining about his hangover. The set is exactly what I expected: honest, a bit old-school, nothing sneaky, but on this scraped-down strip, it will still punish anyone who forgets what an outside ski is for.
Back at the bottom, the little groups reform. Friends from clubs stand in circles, clicking buckles and trading jabs. Organizers who’ll race later are half in bibs, half in down jackets, joking about setting a course “we can all survive, please and thank you.”
I corner one of the officials near the timing board. “Have you heard about the forecast?” I ask. “I’m a little worried driving home in a blizzard. What time do you think we’ll end?”
He pulls a face. “We were considering making it a one-run, but if we hurry with the inspection, we’ll make it.”
I nod. I’m not a bad driver, but I’m not keen on testing my limits in whiteout conditions, with Sunday traffic and three hours of highway ahead of me.
“We’ll speed things up,” he adds. “No long pause between runs, really short inspection. Some guys came from far, we’re all in the same boat. Don’t worry, we’ll make it quick.”
