STEIN AND ME - ONE TALL SKI TALE

I once competed in a three mile race against one of the greatest skiers of the century. At the time, the early 1990's, I was leading an irksome existence as a poverty stricken skier in Squaw Valley. It was late spring, but it had been a good winter and I still enjoyed arriving early in the morning to take advantage of fresh corduroy and uncongested ski runs. The majority of remaining open lifts were deserted, and for that matter, except for a few fellow die-hards, so was the resort.

There was one other skier who I'd noticed recently. He was short, golden haired, and very old school Euro in his turns. He must ski a lot, I thought, because the tan on his face was a darker hue of Polynesian brown than his Bogner ski vest. Occasionally, I saw him skiing with a beautiful, graceful style that carried him effortlessly down the slope at an impressive pace. Impressive, I mention, because the skier was certainly in his sixties.

One morning I arrived earlier than usual. I was kicking into my skis at the bottom of a high-speed quad when walked past me, skis over his shoulder. He stopped suddenly and turned to me.

"Where do you ski around here?" he asked.

"Usually down a line on the Headwall or on Granite Chief, but at this time of day I like to take Mountain Runs," I responded.

"Do you race, too?"

"Sure!"

"You're probably a good skier," the man asked.

"I'm okay," I admitted. By this time both of us had our skis on and proceeded to ride the lift together. "Actually," I continued, "I used to play a lot of football and lacrosse. It¹s just been the last few years I really started skiing a lot. You¹re pretty smooth. I saw you yesterday. I bet you once raced."

"A long time ago," he chuckled. "I still like to let them run from time to time. How would you like to ski against me? You know, race down the mountain for fun I mean."

"Now?" I said. "Against you?"

"Sure. Just for fun. From here (we were just below the face of Headwall) down to the big tree in front of KT-22." He was smiling at me.

"Ok," I agreed.

We glided off the lift and buckled down. He smiled again, then said," Let's go."

Adolescent young men are often fanatically competitive and I was no exception. Though I was confident in dusting this old guy, I started out as fast as I could go, thinking I¹d build a substantial lead in the first five hundred yards, but after those 500 yards we were even. He won't be able to hold this pace for long, I told myself.

When we reached Mogul Hill we were still dead even. I was already about three-quarters exhausted, my legs heavy, my thighs burning. As we fell into the bowl toward the bottom of Cornice II, he smiled at me.

"Who is this guy?" I thought. "He doesn't look tired at all. He must be faking it. He's got to be worse off than me."

I tucked the bowl and screamed towards the flats of Times Square below Chute 75. My legs were in knots. My arms and shoulders were numb and my head ached. I wanted very badly to quit and snowplow the rest of the way. I struggled and fought, combating spring snow, that in the flats, felt like warm molasses. He glided past me, skating on his skis as effortlessly as a puma in the bush, and burst out in a mighty yodel.

The last portion of the race is a distant memory. I remember the pain of holding my tuck, the sound of that silly yodel, his huge smile, and the back of his Bogner, fur collared ski vest.

"Just about even," he said when we finally stopped in front of the KT-22 lift.

I was panting.

"Guess so," I said, trying not to show it.

"Thanks for the fun."

"Sure, yeah, right."

"You're pretty good alright, but you might as well of stuck with your football or whatever it was you grew up with. You know, you can't change how you were raised," he told me.

"Well...sure," I responded , not knowing what to say.

He got out of his skis and walked over and onto the Sundeck behind Bar One. There he was met by a very beautiful blond woman and a group of friends.

I stayed at the bottom of KT, recovering. Five minutes later, my friend, a local product named Edgar, arrived, and I told him what had happened.

"See that old dude standing near the wall over there?" I said. "That guy's a pinwheeling freakhucker, braa'ah. I just raced him down the Mountain Run and damn near threw up. Who is he, anyway?"

Edgar laughed. "You're kidding me, brudah? Where you been all your life. Wake up and die right. That's Stein Eriksen. He won gold medals in the Olympics and everything. I guess he's pretty good for sure!"

That evening I looked it up in an almanac. Stein Eriksen won a gold medal in the giant slalom in 1952 while representing Norway. He placed second in the slalom, receiving a silver medal, and finished sixth in the downhill. His winning time in the giant slalom had been 1.9 seconds over the nearest competitor.

Days later I ran into him and asked him about his skiing career. What I really wondered was how an athlete could become good enough to win the Olympics.

"How hard did you have to train?" I asked. "I mean, how many gates did you ski everyday?"

"Oh, I trained," he said. "But not that much. I did most of my skiing near my home. I skied because I loved it. It was always fun and I was pretty good at it. We trained alright, but freeskied even more. It was natural. You know you can¹t change how you were raised."

I was disappointed at the time because he'd admitted there was no easy answer, no secret formula to divulge. Thinking back on it now, however, I find his answers very appealing.