What the fuck do I write into it?
Whatever comes to mind,comes the answer in my head in Julius’ voice.
I shrug:
I don’t know how this is supposed to help.I write in a scrappy script that shows just exactly how long it's been since I did any handwriting. I stare at the almost blank page for a moment,half expecting the sentence to disappear and show some magical answer for me. Guess it’s not that kind of diary. Shame, I’d take anything to rescue me from the boredom of staying alone with my fuzzy brain, pen, and paper. Not to mention reading my messy thoughts back. That hits me.
I’m worried… I’m scared to read my thoughts.
I hesitate and put the pen back to paper.
That makes them real.
Wow, writing does weird stuff to my thinking. Still, it doesn’t bring me any closer to focusing on points hunting and globe chasing. But I write anyway.
Winning was easy. I thought I was the mentally strong guy. Nothing gets to me. Mental training is for the others, those who don’t have my mind. But maybe I was just stupid, young, arrogant, lucky. The kid who got lucky.
I cross the last out. I’m good; I deserve every trophy I've ever won.
Somehow it’s harder this season…
I stop.
I miss my Golden Girl.
My right hand starts hurting. I’ve never learned to hold the pen properly, driving my first-grade teacher mad. Now I pay for it. A few lines make me shake my fingers to relax them. And my head hurts. How long am I supposed to keep writing the stuff? Like, until I have some answers? How many lines or evenpages?
I throw the pen down angrily, it rolls off the table and touches the floor with a silent, yet eloquent clink.
“Damn you,” I say aloud, not particularly sure to whom, and stand up andhead to the bar.
I rarely drink between races; alcohol messes with your recovery, but tonight I feel one beer, perhaps even two, will do me good. Better than this devil’s device made of paper and ink.
***
The journaling thing got better after a few days. I got into a habit of dumping things on paper right before the gym, then sweating it all out. When I came back to the pages after a shower, the words started to make sense. I was nowhere near figuring out what to do, but at least it felt like I was doing something. Working on it.
Training was still shit in Saalbach.
Kern’s times in every run crept closer together, cleaner, faster, while I felt like a rusty old wolf chased by the pack. Even Martin slipped in front of me at times, and it drove me mad. Just Saalbach and the Finals left. Neither the GS globe nor the overall was safe, and with Thomas’s times, it felt like both were slowly sliding out of my grip.
I was so close.
And worse, I’d been so sure both would be mine this season. The moment Luca announced his retirement mid-summer, I’d decided this year was mine. Nothing in my way. Now here I was, a rusty piece of equipment being out-raced in everything, including mindset. It was easy for Thomas. He was the young gun, just like I’d been all those years.
“You coming, or will you admire the scenery all day?” Martin calls from the lift line.
I wave him off and click into my skis. Last training day before the GS tomorrow. With a sigh, I skate over to the start of our lane.
At the start, I plant my poles and let the world narrow. Course, sound of the radio, the usual nerves. As I set my poles, a flash of Zlata hits me out of nowhere—her in the ski depot that first day, the way she texted after Adelboden. My chest does a weird little squeeze.
“Not now,” I mutter into my buff, almost annoyed. “Later.”
I let the thought go, like I’ve been taught since my junior years. Not fighting it, just putting it on a shelf, and focusing back on the snow.
Out of the gate.
The first gates are routine. Edges bite, legs burn the good way. I’m running the line we set with Roland: a touch higher here, cleaner over the breakover. For a few turns, it almost feels like it used to—simple, direct.
