There are a few moments in your life when you realise you really are out of your depth, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Those moments when you’ve gone past the point of no return, and you’re no longer in control of your own destiny. The instant the car leaves the road, the dream girl breaking up with you or the plane making the emergency landing. Mine is now.I’m stood at the top of the Chabrières piste in Vars, dressed in 3mm of British Ski Team lycra, and I’m about to straight-line the steepest ski slope in the world as part of the FIS World Cup. It’s 22 below freezing and I lost all feeling in my hands and feet half an hour ago. My legs are cold and stiff, and I’d probably struggle to ski a blue slope right now, let alone the vertical abyss I’m now facing. Attached to my feet are a pair of used downhill skis I bought on eBay, and until 2 weeks ago my right leg was in a cast after a surfing accident.
The numbers alone are pretty frightening. With a vertical drop of about 500m in the space of the 1,200m course, when I point my skis down the slope, I’ll accelerate from 0 to 100mph in about 4 seconds. That’s as fast as a Formula 1 car, but Jenson Button has brakes. And a steering wheel. I have 5 year old bindings attached to 3 year old ski boots, attached to 32 year old legs. If all goes to plan, in 25 seconds time I’ll be about a kilometre away at the finish. If it doesn’t …..well not making it doesn’t really bear thinking about as there is no such thing as a small crash in Speed Skiing.
I can remember being transfixed to Ski Sunday at the age of 7, dreaming that someday I could ski for Britain. Summer and winter seasons, university and “proper jobs” in London all put paid to that plan for me. Or so I thought, but somehow I’m now stood here, a quarter of a century later, wondering whether I’ve achieved my ambition, or I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. Because I’m pretty sure that when Usain Bolt proudly represents his country, he doesn’t have a nagging doubt that he might not make it home at the end of the day. Nobody really talks about the dangers of Speed Skiing, but there have been 2 fatalities at competitions in the last 5 years and lots of crashes. The helicopter and doctor at the bottom of the track are not there by coincidence.
So why aren’t we at Vancouver at the moment? Why are we in the background despite having a British world champion 2 years ago? In 1992 at Les Arcs, Speed Skiing was a winter Olympic sport, but gained a dangerous reputation after a Swiss competitor died. It was never brought back, despite being the second most watched event after the men’s downhill. Speed skiers talk in hushed tones about it’s possible return in 2018 at Annecy, but that’s far from guaranteed, so for the moment we’re limited to the FIS World Cup tour.
I’m edging forward. In front of me are just 3 more competitors before it’s my turn. I’m still not quite sure why I’m here after all. So do I have a ski racing background? Nope, a few seasons as a Mark Warner ski host and some big air competitions on a snowboard a decade ago, but that’s it. My only ski lessons I’ve ever had were a week in Wengen at the age of 6, where I didn’t want to turn, instead insisting on straight-lining every slope I came across. That lasted until I discovered moguls. Maybe it was a sign after all.
2 to go. I really have bitten off more than I can chew here. I’m pretty sure I’m the only rookie here. Due to a strange set of events, I got the chance to briefly try speed skiing at a race in Verbier last year, but was cut due to “dangerous technique”. I ended up plumb last. My entire training from Marc Poncin, (the British and ex-World Champion) before the event consisted of one terrifying phrase: “If you make it to the bottom, I’ll tell you what you did wrong”. My first run was 94mph, but more importantly I survived it. My personal best now stands at 166 km/h, about 104mph, and that was my previous run. I’m going faster than I’ve ever gone before as we move rapidly up to higher and higher start points. This one is certainly the penultimate run, if not the last one.
Last person in front of me.
“Man or mouse” time. My heart is trying to bounce out my chest. The Frenchman in front of me is shaking, and I’m not certain it’s from the cold. The guy behind me looks physically sick. 70 or so metres below us sits our previous start, and it’s a long way down to the 500 or so people watching from the bottom at the finish. This is going to be new PB if I make it to the bottom, and by quite a way. At 104mph my skis had minds of their own, skittering all over the slope and I could barely keep them in a straight line. This really is a big step into the unknown.
He’s off.
Edge forward carefully into the middle of the track. A slip here is guaranteed to send you sliding down for at least half a mile on the slick suits, picking up hefty ice burns and even more embarrassment on the way down. Deep breaths. The starter looks at me, waiting for the radio signal that the track is clear. More deep breaths. Easier if I don’t look down. Concentrate. “Piste libre” comes from his radio. He looks at me for what seems like an age, his eyes boring into me, and then…”Quand tu veux”.
Final breath. Visor down. Jump, turn and tuck.
And at that moment, it strikes me again why I do this. Far from the hyperventilating mess I was a second ago, everything is now clear and focused. As I start to accelerate, I’m suddenly aware of everything around me in minute detail. I can see every imperfection in high definition on the slope ahead. A calmness descends and everything feels right, and like a junkie taking a hit, I feel more alive than ever before.
As I barrel down the slope, the wind starts to scream in my ears. I’m being forced backwards on my skis by the drag, but I need to get my weight as far forward as possible, fists punching through the air. I see a football sized piece of snow and ice 50 yards ahead of me that’s rolled onto the slope. I adjust slightly, rolling onto my edges and steer a smooth path round it. Hitting something that size at this speed would be catastrophic. The only really way I can judge my speed is the volume of the wind, and it’s getting louder…and louder…
A racer’s speed is measured over a 100m distance between two timing beams at the bottom of the course, and about 50m before the first I get hit by a sudden cross-wind. I’d been warned it was there, funnelled through a gully, but there’s not a lot you can do to prepare and I’m thrown sideways catching a big inside edge. I come out of the tuck to balance, get some weight off that leg and with all my strength drag the ski back into line. It straightens after what seems like an age, I scrabble back into the tuck as I cross the first red line.
Over the timing course, my skis are virtually uncontrollable, rattling about, constantly threatening to catch another edge. At this speed the small lumps and rolls in the snow are causing so much vibration my vision is blurring, and I have the stability of a new-born deer on an ice rink.
Second red line. Timing over.
Green line indicating that I can gently stand up now. Slowly does it. One of the biggest dangers is standing up too fast; the sudden impact of 100mph airflow causing a skier to back-flip out of their ski bindings. A quarter of a mile to slow down passes quickly and I’m skiing into the finish area.
I spot Tom Horn, the other member of the GBR team and British record holder “How did I do?”
“182.74 km/h. Faster than me”
Shit, that’s 114mph, and a good 10mph faster than I’ve ever been before.
“Bloody hell. And Marc?”
“Not as fast as you. You’re in 6th"
Of the 19 competitors in our class, the top 7 got invited to run again from a higher up the next day. I (and last year’s world champion) decided to call it a day there as I didn’t want to run out of luck or talent before I ran out of balls. Marc Poncin ran again, and won the event from 7th place. I dropped from 6th to 7th, but wasn’t disappointed. As the British team, we got 1st, 7th & 8th, and apparently that’s the best ever result for a British Alpine Ski team in a FIS competition, and with another 5 events still to go on the tour we hope we can beat it.
