how I really feel about ski racing

A few days ago I drove up Parley’s canyon from Salt Lake City. I could see the mountains dressed in a vibrant blanket of white, but I didn't expect there to be snow on the ground in Park City. After all, it was only October 20th....But as my rental car tires crunched through the frozen layer, I came to the realization that winter is no longer merely a thing I am planning for, but a reality that is at my doorstep.
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Regardless of the snow, I initially didn’t really feel winter. Because of my plan to take this winter off and recover fully from my latest knee injury, I have tried to distance myself from the concept of winter altogether. I’ve been unable to understand winter as a “season” for as long as I can remember. It’s always been more like a feeling. Or a theme, an ambition, a spirit. A kind of religion. Like almost everything I do is dedicated to this essence — I chase it and love it desperately but also fear it somehow, and bow at its feet. So attempting to view it simply as a “season” is a very strange adjustment that I’m still trying to conceptualize. And seeing all that snow in Park City was a gentle and early reminder of how difficult it may be to take the winter off. A reminder to consider how I really feel about ski racing.

I took this trip to Utah so that I could go through physical testing and meet with my team physical therapists. The physical testing was my main concern: I’ve been on my own workout program over the last 6 months, and let’s just say I’ve been having more fun than I have had in past summers: more mountain biking, more yoga, more hiking and dancing and art…and less time spent in the gym. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been committed to my knee rehabilitation, but less committed to a regimented strength program and a strict schedule. Which has been amazing. But, needless to say, I was a little nervous about testing. Because if I didn’t pass, then my hopes to return to my skis at the end of November would be crushed. Well, maybe not crushed, but at least reevaluated.

Thankfully, though, I passed. And that’s when I started considering my relationship to snow and winter. Because now that I knew I was cleared to ski, I started to realize and remember how I actually feel about ski racing.

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Winter and ski racing have always come hand in hand for me. I cannot create a distinction between the two. I see snow, and I can’t help but dream of the possibilities on a pair of skis. I feel a chill and I think of an early morning jog, warming up for a day on the mountain. I see dusted peaks and I feel, especially at this time of year, a pang of anxiety, mixed with wonder. I blink and I see myself in a start gate, I hear the beep, I can’t help it.​

My relationship with skiing and winter is one of great complexity. It is at once loving and intense; passionate in a way that can be considered unhealthy. I love skiing so much that it scares me — a dangerous love. I am addicted to the feelings: pushing out of the start, flying through a downhill course, crossing a finish line. A minute or two of sheer terror, pure bliss, intense presence. The feeling of resolute emptiness, contentment in an unrealized sense. Like I said…it’s complicated.

Ski racing brings out the best and the worst in me. It makes me do things I’m not terribly proud of. Some examples: hoping for another person to fail, posting selfies, and perpetuating an unsustainable lifestyle. But it also forces me to be present, to be humble, to dig for and show courage I never thought I had and to embrace occasional humiliation. Ski racing has taught me how to fail, how to grow, how to express myself, how to come to terms with the unknown.
(I’m still working on all of this, by the way. It’s a process :) )

The feelings I get at the beginning of the winter season are almost all directly connected to ski racing. Even now, when I know I’m not racing this winter, I get this constant low level angst that just lingers — uninvited but so freaking familiar it’s frighteningly comfortable. My old friend, anxiety, here to stay for at least a few months.

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I wonder if my whole life will be lived like this…
Mostly I hope I’ll be able to settle into a calm and easy relationship with winter, but part of me loves this game, this passionate fight, this fire. Yeah, it’s probably not totally healthy, but it makes me feel alive.

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So, as it turns out, sitting this winter out of ski racing is going to be a huge challenge. I already miss the rush, the roller coaster and forced self-discovery. I’ve got a pretty packed schedule all the way through March, which I believe is necessary to keep me calm and the FOMO at bay:
I will likely do my return-to-snow at the end of November after completing a design internship in New Mexico. Then I’ll take off for Europe to meet and free-ski with my team for a few days, fulfill some sponsor obligations, explore with friends and watch Tommy race a bit. When I get home at the beginning of January, I’ll head straight to Eugene for my final (!) undergraduate term at the University of Oregon. That ends around March 20th, which is basically the end of the ski racing season. I’ll hopefully be coming home regularly to ski at Mt. Bachelor on the weekends during winter term, and maybe even do a bit of coaching! It might be an even busier winter than if I were to be ski racing, but I have the feeling I will need that preoccupation….

And I’m actually really looking forward to it. To exploring some other passions in my life, getting strong, and learning how to have a healthy relationship with winter.

​Maybe….

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When all is said and done, I know I will miss ski racing dearly. I already do. Hopefully that yearning will help to fuel my passion for skiing, and my hunger will become enjoyable. Or maybe I’ll start down another path that has the capacity to fulfill my desire for more. Who knows? All I know is that, right now, I’m okay with not knowing. Yeah, I already miss skiing in an unsettlingly strong way, but I’ll let that feeling of emptiness inspire me in other ways. Or I’ll carry it into the future, to be filled at a later time. Or to light the way for others.

​Ski racing never really filled the emptiness within, per-se, but it at least reminded me: that emptiness can be a good thing. Maybe that search for the unknown, for something to fill that space will never end. And it feels good to acknowledge that; to respect it and let it drive me. It feels good to admit this: damn, I miss skiing.