Downhill Racer

Steve Podborski , book cover from a painting by Ken Danby

"Do you realise what these guys are doing on a pair of skis? - going down a hill at 90 miles an hour - they really must be crazy!" - Gilles Villeneuve

Villeneuve was talking about the Crazy Canucks, the team of daredevil Canadian ski racers whom he knew and admired. They took Europe by storm, skiing the way Gilles drove: all out all the time. After Gilles was killed Steve Podborski, World Cup Downhill Champion in the 1981-82 season (the first non-European champion), gave ski lessons to young Jacques Villeneuve, who showed considerable aptitude for the sport.
Podborski, an Olympian and Canada's Chef de Mission Sochi 2014, wrote a book about his Crazy Canuck days. (It was my privilege to work with him on it.) In the prologue he describes a breathtaking run down the fearsome Hahnenkamm, a race where he had known both the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat...


I stand in the darkness of the start hut perched on top of a mountain in Austria. Outside, in brilliant sunshine, two miles of treacherous ice and snow plummet spectacularly down into the picturesque Tyrolean village far below. In just a few minutes I'll be down there, in Kitzbuhel, if I survive the Hahnenkamm, the most difficult and dangerous Downhill race in the world.

My heart pounds. I feel the blood surging through my veins. I breathe deeply and rhythmically. I grip my poles to keep my hands from shaking. I stand in a line of ski racers in brightly coloured skintight suits. Barely restrained chaos surrounds us in the hut. Walkie talkie radios hiss and crackle between bursts of excited voices babbling in several languages. Equipment technicians fuss over last minute adjustments to boots, bindings and skis. Team masseurs scramble among us, slapping thigh and leg muscles into readiness. Harrased race officials gesticulate and scurry about, trying to keep us on schedule.

Suddenly the racer in front of me leaps from the shadows of the hut into the brightness of space and disappears. About a minute and a half to go!

My pulse quickens. Inside my helmet I can hear my heart thumping at nearly three times its normal rate. I shift my weight as Toulouse, my masseur, moves to my other leg. He chatters about something but I don't reply and he quiets. Hans, my ski rep, stands up from my skis, grips my arm and mutters, "Good Luck", and moves away. I nod but continue looking straight ahead out over the deep Alpine valley. Now I'm just a ski length away from the timing wand that separates me from the course...from the rest of my life.

"One minute," the Starter turns and announces the remaining time to me in German. I nod acknowledgement.

Toulouse rubs my lower back and mumbles something in my ear. The radios blare out reports of another racer crossing the finish line...or crashing off the course. I hear only the pounding of my blood. In my mind I'm running down the hill, feeling the tensions of muscles and ligaments as I plunge onward, making every turn perfectly. I will my body to do it now to win! not to fall. I've won Kitzbuhel before. I've also been very badly hurt here. But I can win again today. I force away the awful memories, the sickening feeling of tearing ligaments, the gut wrenching pain and the terrible hopelessness and despair. Not this time. Never again. I finish my perfect mental run and start over, repeating a single phrase: 'Gotta go for it Gotta go for it Gotta go for it'...

"Thirty seconds".

Toulouse gives me a final pat on the butt and says, "Good Luck". I nod and try to swallow. My mouth is dry. I slide forward into the gate. "Good Luck". The Starter says it too, a tradition between him and me. No one else. I blink in the dazzling sunlight. My pupils contract as I see the course for the first time today. The TV camera swings around and zooms in on my bright gold suit and black helmet with the red maple leaf on it.

The huge crowd below the start area focusses on me, screaming, yelling and jumping up and down in anticipation. I shut out the wall of noise and movement. A girl standing behind the start clock weeps with emotion. I ignore her. I concentrate hard with every fibre of my being, analysing and assessing the conditions. In my mind's eye I see only the snow, feel the cold air, hear the wind. 'Gotta go for it Gotta go for it Gotta go for it!'...

"Ten seconds".

Carefully, methodically, I lift my poles over the the wand in the starting gate and plant them in the snow. They must not stick or slip when I push off. My heart slams in my chest. My body is awash in adrenaline. My mind is stripped of all conscious thought. The last sound I hear is the final countdown of the electronic beeper: beep beep beep

I spring forward out of the darkness of the hut and into the light of the day, my boots snapping open the timing want to start the seconds ticking. Nothing matters now but speed and survival. 'Gotta go for it! Gotta go for it! GOTTA GO FOR IT!'...

I explode down the hill, accelerating wildly. My wood and fibreglass skis bang and clatter crazily over the rock hard ice through the first two gates. Right left and I'm airborne over Mausefalle. Seventy feet later I smack down onto the course again and readjust my line instinctively. It's a screamer today! The sun has warmed the snow and Hans has nailed the wax!

I rocket through the compression at the bottom of Mausfalle at 75 miles an hour. My thighs burn from absorbing the tremendous g forces. The wind howls in my helmet as I carve around the sweeping left hand turn. I dig in the razor sharp edges of my skis...just enough, not too much, or I'll slow down. 'Go for it Go for it Go for it!'

I shoot up onto the bank on the left, then plunge into the 180 degree right hand fallaway. My skis send up a roostertail of snow and ice chips as I hurtle towards the dreaded Steilhang, the toughest turn in ski racing. 'Go! Go! Go!'

Over a hump at 70 miles an hour. Dive onto the Steilhang. The gate whips past on my left. My skis rattle and slap violently across the glare ice that clings to the sheer rock face. The vibration blurs my vision. I slam on the edge of my inside ski for the fallaway right. I will my skis to change direction: 'Turn!'

I curse and yell. It's steep too steep! 'Turn! Harder! Turn!!' Over the first roller and my skis go light. Drop lower. Bounce off the last roller. Thump down onto the road heading for the safety net in front of the Bamboo Curtain at 55 miles an hour. I've hit it before and it hurts. 'Turn!'

I dig in, turning as hard as possible. The net looms closer. My projected line heads straight for it. I think I can make it safely by. Fight against centrifugal force. Must not panic or I'll lose control and hit the Curtain for sure. I struggle for more grip. But violent contact with the net seems inevitable. I will not give up! 'TURN!!!'

My ski runs over the edge of the net! I pull it in and drop into my tuck. I crouch down as low as possible to regain momentum. Nothing counts but speed. I'm down to 50 miles an hour. My average has to be nearly 70 miles an hour to win. And there are other slow sections to come. Tuck Tuck Tuck. Faster Faster Faster!

I slash through the shadowy forest, along the road, only thirty feet wide and bordered by threatening fences. Clearings are momentary flashes of light in my consciousness. My world is the track. I focus on the crystals of snow. I feel the ruts beneath me. I concentrate on keeping my skis as flat as possible. They are part of me. 'Go for it Go for it Go for it.'

I hit the Alte Schneise at 80 miles an hour. I careen over the very rough sidehill. My legs judder up and down like a jackhammer. The wind wails like a banshee in my ears. The sunlight flickers in my eyes like a berserk strobe light. I blitz through the Larchenschuss and tuck harder as the Hahnenkamm tries to shake me off. I bear down. My whole body aches with effort. I'm just over half way down the hill...

Left right, over the Hausbergkante cliff and into the air, soaring like a ski jumper. In mid air I switch edges to prepare for landing on the sidehill swinging left. I crash down at 60 miles an hour, turning. I'm close enough to the fence to hit it with my pole. Involuntarily, I growl deep in my throat. I don't think about the day I blew my knee to smithereens here in 1976. Just 'Go for it Go for it Go for it.'

I rocket across the sidehill approaching the fastest part of the run. The course bucks like a wild mustang beneath me. The ice tries to knock my skis off. The edge of the Zeilhang flies toward me at 75 miles an hour. I'm exhausted but must concentrate on hitting the right spot on the launching pad. I take off into orbit. My air speed accelerates as I fly for over 130 feet, bang down and ram through the compression at the bottom.

I hold my tuck and skip and dance over the frozen terrain a human projectile travelling at 90 miles an hour. The snow is sucked up in the turbulence of my wake like the contrail of a jet aircraft. My velocity is such that I steer with my helmet, turning my head a fraction to make adjustments in my line. Only a few hundred feet to go, a handful of seconds. I tuck even harder, willing another hundredth of a second off my time.'Go Go.'

My mind and body are numb. Instinct and relexes still work. I reach out at the finish line to cut the beam with my hand. I've worked it out and know it will save .05 of a second. People have won Kitzbuhel by that margin. I flash under the banners and stand up. The wind tears at me, slowing me down. With my last dregs of energy I throw my skis sideways. I skid to a halt in a shower of snow.

My body sags and I support myself on my poles. Panting, I lift up my goggles, hang my head and take deep gulps of the fresh Alpine air. It seems I've spent a lifetime racing down Kitzbuhel. And I have. But this time it has taken me less than two minutes.

Gradually, the sensations of my run fade. My heartbeat recedes. I feel the chill of the air on my skin. I smell the stale saliva on my face mask. The noise of the wind is gone, replaced by an ear splitting roar as the finish line crowd goes mad. I look up at the scoreboard...