Arguably the hardest thing about the course is the entry - a 300m traverse across a black mogul field on non-race skis (mine only have 3 edges left as I haven't got round to getting a new pair yet) carrying all your kit and race skis (which weigh about 15kg alone). You then have to perch on a pretty much 45 degree slope, swap skis, remove kit and then strap it all together for the sherpas to take it down to the bottom. Then there's the 40m queuing on a 40cm wide ledge, before the final launch down the slope.
Competitors started going down and I edged towards the front. 120 went, then 121. I was 125. I could feel my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest. 122. My gloves are drenched with the sweat pouring off my hands and I'm worried that I'll steam up my googles from the vapour evaporating from my face. 123. This is where I got to yesterday before being cancelled. Surely not again. I wonder if there are any get out clauses left? Fake a heart attack? - not believable enough. I left the washing machine on? - unlikely as it's 800 km away. 124. Right, now or never. I take a big look down the slope that stretches steeply down almost a km down to my left. 124 is accelerating down and away and I have to lever myself into the starting position. I know that in less than 30 seconds I will be passing through the finish like it or not. Man or mouse? Time to find out.
"Quand tu veux" the starter says. And suddenly this calm decends. When I was skydiving, I hated the seconds before the jump, but as soon as I was out of the plane I was literally on cloud 9 and everything seemed very right and chilled.
I twisted the skis through 90 degrees and pointed them down the slope. And suddenly everything was clear. I tucked up, felt the speed build beneath the P-Tex below and concentrated on making as aerodynamic shape as possible. I'm told you hit 60mph in about 3 seconds and feeling the rate I'm gaining speed I can well believe it. I see a small rut ahead, brace myself for the impact and continue on. Although its a terrible cliche, I really feel very alive. My senses are so focused on everything round me I'm feeling tiny imperfections in the snow I'd never normally notice. I'm definitely going faster than ever before, and the wind is roaring through the helmet. I can see the first red line ahead signifying the beginning of the timing area. I fly across it. Then the second. Through that too. 50 yards further on is the green line which means I can start to stand up and decelerate.
The trick is to do it gently I'm told, because if I suddenly stand up from a tuck there's a chance I'll backflip out of my skis. Arms out first, slowly raise my head and feel the wind slowing me. Try a gentle turn, but realise I'm still going faster than the national speed limit, so a big snowplough might be safer. Gently down to the exit gate and onto the drag lift back to the competitors area.
15 seconds. That was it. So much preparation, nerves, waxing, waiting and general faffing and it was all over in 15 seconds. But what a 15 seconds.
151.79 kph. Or about 94 mph in old money. A quick check of the scoreboard shows I'm not even last! A way off the leaders (6 kph), but not last and I've been told I'm the only rookie here - everyone has competed before. Marc comes up to me and gives me the ultimate compliment - "not bad" he says.
Second run was from slightly higher, and I clocked 157.27kph / 97.7mph. Just 2.3mph short of my target! It also felt more like 70% survival / 30% speed, whereas the first was definitely 95% survival.
For the other Brits, Marc Poncin won the Downhill category I'm in, and Tom Horn was sadly disqualified for going down without his back protector on.
So that's it for the first World Cup comp - due to weather it's just 2 runs, but it means I have done my first ever speed ski run, achieved FIS (World Skiing Federation) points, represented Great Britain for skiing, didn't make a tit out of myself, didn't come last, almost cracked 100mph. And tomorrow we start again for the second 2-day competition, weather permitting from even higher, so tomorrow could be the 100mph day...
Awesome work fella, i reckon another couple of pies on board and you'll have 100mph. Though the fact you chose to wear a rubber suit rather than come and destroy yourself in Berlin raises yet further worries about your sexuality.
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