“Ski jumping / Saut à ski” by BiblioArchives / LibraryArchives is licensed under CC BY 2.0

 

The tiny snowflakes tickled my nose as I stepped out of the travel bus. It had been more than eighteen months since I have been at this snowfield after my injury. My leg had broken and was claimed to be a spiral fracture. It had weeks in a plaster and had taken months to build enough strength to come back to my much loved sport.

The crunchy ice slipped on my poorly gripping shoes as I made my way towards the only hotel on this side of the mountain. I pushed past some tourists that have come to watch the competition that I miraculously qualified for. After almost an hour of paper work, signatures and discussion with the receptionist I reached my shared flat on the very top floor.

For the next eight weeks I trained. Ski jumping was my sport but I knew that I needed to work for what I wanted. Even though I have almost fully recovered, I am not as strong and confident as I used to be. This sport is dangerous. It is challenging. It is my life.

Every day I practiced my front tuck. Flip, fall, try again. Flip, fall, try again. Flip, fall, try again. As each day went by my confidence went with it. I wasn’t ready.

Another week disappeared and there was no sign of improvement. Flip, fall, try again. Flip, fall, try again. Flip, fall, try again.

When the day came I tried to convince myself that I was going to land my flip. As much as I tried, my brain wouldn’t believe I could. I was last to jump. I waited in the hut at the top of the terrain park until the starter called my name.

I could feel the cold air rushing past my ears. From this point onwards, every move I made would matter. I cautiously slid down the first few metres of the slope. I built up speed. There was a bump as my skis hit the bottom of the jump. I felt myself flying through the air and…

 

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