On February 29^th I head to Winter Park, Colorado for my first ski race in about four years. It will be a pro-format race, which means duel, side-by-side courses, and single elimination until there is only one left standing. After my accident I went to Winter Park, the Mecca for American disabled skiing. It was the first time I saw a group of disabled racers. At the time, I could barely make it down the hill, but that didn’t stop me from trumpeting my future. I was twenty-one and knew everything. Now, I’m returning, almost forty, and I realize that I don’t know too much.

One of my favorite quotes is from Mark Twain, who said,

            “When I was fourteen, my father was so ignorant it was painful to be around him, but by the time I turned twenty-one, I was amazed at how much the old man had learned in seven years.” I thought I knew everything then. I predicted that I’d be the best in the world. Maybe I  did know a fair amount, but maybe I know a whole lot more now than I think I do. Maybe like Mark Twain’s dad, I’ve learned a lot in the years since.

Winter Park was the site of one of my greatest victories. In the Giant Slalom in 1993, I beat Dave Kiley, then the greatest monoskier in the world. Just the year before at the Paralympics I listened to Kiley work one of the better psych jobs ever. Swiss skier, Jacques Blanc sat just a half second behind Kiley after the first run of the GS. Prodding for information, Blanc asked Kiley about his run. Dave said his run was good, neglecting to mention that he’d gone down on his hip mid-run. Blanc’s confidence swelled. Then Dave beat him by three seconds the second run.

I wasn’t even close enough that they knew I was in the race, but a year later I beat Dave both runs of the GS. It was an important step in becoming the best in the world, but even more gratifying was watching the video the next summer. Our coaches usually turned off the sound when we watched video for obvious reasons. As I passed through the frame of video, Stephan Hienzsch let out an exuberant “Whoohoo.” At the start of my US Disabled Ski Team career, Stephan had made me feel like a beginner. He had a European approach that never found my skiing to be good enough. He never gave out a compliment, and here was this unabashed exclamation. I’d arrived.

But, that was a long time ago—back when skiing had been my primary focus. I started when I was six and ran my last race when I thirty-five. Thirty years of ski racing is a long time. It’s longer than I spent in school—longer than I did anything. When I retired I knew I had to do something else. The love for the sport had slipped from my heart. I didn’t want to denigrate it by continuing, but there’s still a part of me that searches for the perfect turn.

I think I’m skiing better than I ever have, which is partially the result of  the surgery I had two and half years ago to straighten a scoliosis. I say that I think I’m skiing better, but I don’t know for sure. Part of me wants to know and part doesn’t. Dave Kiley was a notch on my belt that day at Winter Park. I don’t want to be a notch on someone else’s belt. I won the last time I raced, beating all the US Team guys. I hadn’t become a notch on someone’s belt, though maybe that accelerated my retirement, because I knew that it was only a matter of time before some twenty-one year old, who thought he knew everything, beat me. So as I enter this race, I think this could be the time, but I also worry that maybe I’ll be good. Maybe I’ll beat everyone and then I’ll have thoughts that I want to return—that I want to win and that I want to renew my quest for that perfect turn. Then I remember what I learned when I retired from competition. Skiing is fun. That’s something I lost when I raced and I don’t want to lose it again. We’ll see who becomes notch on whose belt.