I almost didn’t sign up.
Even after we talked about it, even after I stalked the Masters calendar and found this race, I hesitated. Clicked on the registration form, closed it, and opened it again. Told myself it was too much money, too far, too late in the year. Told myself I could just keep “training” without ever putting a number on my chest. These races are different. At home, I race with pensioners and hobby racers; here, most of the people are either retired racers or people who take skiing seriously. A few are like me, especially in women's categories. I still don't feel like I fit in.
Fabio had looked at me like I’d grown a second head when I mentioned my doubts, though.
“If you’re thinking about trophies,” he’d said, arms folded, “you start somewhere. You don’t wait until you’re magically ‘good enough.’ You sign up, you show up, you ski your run. Everything else comes later.”
So I signed up.
Now I’m here, bib on, breathing the spring air, skis leaning against a snowbank, trying not to grind my teeth.
“Stop chewing your lip, Golden Girl,” a voice says behind me. “You’ll need it for the finish photo.”
I turn.
He’s leaned up against the back of his car like he hasn’t spent the winter leaning into start gates on TV. Beanie pulled low, sunglasses on, softshell jacket over jeans. If you didn’t know who he was, he’d look like any other ex-racer uncle who came to watch the kids.
Except for the way he stands. The way his eyes flick automatically up toward the course every few seconds. And the man next to him.
Max—my personal fairy wax-god for the day—is bent over my skis on a portable stand, iron in hand, steam rising from a layer of fresh wax. He’s muttering to himself in German, something about structure and spring snow, checking the light on my edges like he’s prepping for Kranjska.
“You realize this is overkill,” I say, nodding toward the stand. “For a girl in the women 30+ category.”
“Overkill?” Fabio raises an eyebrow, pushes off the car, and strolls over, hands in his pockets.
Max snorts without looking up. “Top equipment for top woman,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Heat crawls up my neck, but it’s the good kind. I roll my eyes anyway. “You two are insane,” I say. “Somewhere on this hill is a woman who sharpened her skis in her bathtub this morning. You’re waxing like I’m fighting for a globe.”
Fabio shrugs. “She can sharpen however she likes,” he says. “You race on my watch, you get my standards.”
“Your standards gave me a nervous breakdown in Saalbach,” I remind him.
“Yeah, and then they gave me the overall,” he counters. “So clearly they work long-term.”
He reaches out and flicks my bib with one finger, right over my number. “How does it feel?” he asks. “Having this on and not hiding it under a hoodie.”
“Feels,” I say slowly, “like I might throw up. And also like the best thing I’ve worn in my life.”
He grins, quick and bright. “Good,” he says. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”
***
The start gate looks smaller than it does on TV. I've never stood in an actual start gate, with tech and the famous beep I use as a mobile ringtone.
But it’s nothing elaborate. It’s just two bits of metal and a wand, a timing cable snaking away under the snow. No cameras, no big sponsor banners, no helicopter buzzing overhead. Just a row of plastic numbers screwed into a post, a volunteer in a Masters race jacket, and the little digital clock over my head counting down in red.
My heart still manages to pound like I’m in the World Cup.
“Seven,” the starter says, checking his clipboard. “Ready?”
I click my poles into the snow, feel for the groove my skis left when I slid in. The hill drops away under the wand, steep enough that my stomach does a small, nervous flip. The course looks short after all the World Cup GS I’ve watched, but from here it’s a proper wall of blue and red.
Somewhere down there, out of sight from the start, Fabio is standing on the edge of the fence with his arms folded, pretending not to coach. The thought makes my lungs tighten.
What if I screw up in front of him?
Stupid question. Of course, I will screw up; it’s a race. The real fear flickers in behind it.
