Chapter 16 #2
“I have,” I admit. “Luca used to do it, some guys do it. I just think it’s for the other kind of people, those who read and write like it’s their second nature. I’m more… going-for-a-run-to-clear-my-head kind of guy.”
“Then write it down, and then go clear your head in the gym,” he grins. “That is actually the best way to do that.”
“I’m still not convinced.”
“I can present you with some studies,” he says. “There’s science proving there is a special connection between writing things down and our neurons. But I think that since I am the expert here, you could take my word for it and give it a try.”
I look at the blank notepad between us, then at his unbothered face. Part of me wants to walk out and go do squats until my legs forget this conversation ever happened. Instead, I nod once.
“Fine, your journaling thing, try I will,” I say.
He’s not the only one here who can make Star Wars references.
“Good,” Julius says, standing up and handing me a simple notebook. “In case your excuse is that all stationery stores are closed for the weekend,” he adds, grinning.
I grab the notebook. “Thank you,” I mumble.
“When do we meet next time?” I ask.
“That, Fabio,” he smiles like a fox, “is entirely up to you.”
***
Entirely up to me. Great.
I only get to try the journaling thing the next afternoon after the physio session. I tell myself that it’s because I was so busy, but I do know the truth of it.
Great Fabio Baier, looking for excuses to skip the “dear diary” session.
I lie on my back and make myself stop the mindless scrolling I dove into just to put off the journaling thing even further. The little green notebook lies on my nightstand, the pages neat as if to ostensibly show me I have not touched it for 24 hours.
I sigh and pick it up, fishing a pen from my racebag, and carry both to the small table, slumping into the hard wooden chair.
What the fuck do I write into it?
Whatever comes to mind, comes the answer in my head in Julius’ voice.
I shrug:
I don’t know how this is supposed to help.
I write in a scrappy script that shows just exactly how long it's been since I did any handwriting. I stare at the almost blank page for a moment, half expecting the sentence to disappear and show some magical answer for me. Guess it’s not that kind of diary.
Shame, I’d take anything to rescue me from the boredom of staying alone with my fuzzy brain, pen, and paper.
Not to mention reading my messy thoughts back. That hits me.
I’m worried… I’m scared to read my thoughts.
I hesitate and put the pen back to paper.
That makes them real.
Wow, writing does weird stuff to my thinking. Still, it doesn’t bring me any closer to focusing on points hunting and globe chasing. But I write anyway.
Winning was easy. I thought I was the mentally strong guy. Nothing gets to me. Mental training is for the others, those who don’t have my mind. But maybe I was just stupid, young, arrogant, lucky. The kid who got lucky.
I cross the last out. I’m good; I deserve every trophy I've ever won.
Somehow it’s harder this season…
I stop.
I miss my Golden Girl.
My right hand starts hurting. I’ve never learned to hold the pen properly, driving my first-grade teacher mad.
Now I pay for it. A few lines make me shake my fingers to relax them.
And my head hurts. How long am I supposed to keep writing the stuff?
Like, until I have some answers? How many lines or even pages?
I throw the pen down angrily, it rolls off the table and touches the floor with a silent, yet eloquent clink.
“Damn you,” I say aloud, not particularly sure to whom, and stand up and head to the bar.
I rarely drink between races; alcohol messes with your recovery, but tonight I feel one beer, perhaps even two, will do me good. Better than this devil’s device made of paper and ink.
***
The journaling thing got better after a few days.
I got into a habit of dumping things on paper right before the gym, then sweating it all out.
When I came back to the pages after a shower, the words started to make sense.
I was nowhere near figuring out what to do, but at least it felt like I was doing something. Working on it.
Training was still shit in Saalbach.
Kern’s times in every run crept closer together, cleaner, faster, while I felt like a rusty old wolf chased by the pack.
Even Martin slipped in front of me at times, and it drove me mad.
Just Saalbach and the Finals left. Neither the GS globe nor the overall was safe, and with Thomas’s times, it felt like both were slowly sliding out of my grip.
I was so close.
And worse, I’d been so sure both would be mine this season.
The moment Luca announced his retirement mid-summer, I’d decided this year was mine.
Nothing in my way. Now here I was, a rusty piece of equipment being out-raced in everything, including mindset.
It was easy for Thomas. He was the young gun, just like I’d been all those years.
“You coming, or will you admire the scenery all day?” Martin calls from the lift line.
I wave him off and click into my skis. Last training day before the GS tomorrow. With a sigh, I skate over to the start of our lane.
At the start, I plant my poles and let the world narrow. Course, sound of the radio, the usual nerves. As I set my poles, a flash of Zlata hits me out of nowhere—her in the ski depot that first day, the way she texted after Adelboden. My chest does a weird little squeeze.
“Not now,” I mutter into my buff, almost annoyed. “Later.”
I let the thought go, like I’ve been taught since my junior years. Not fighting it, just putting it on a shelf, and focusing back on the snow.
Out of the gate.
The first gates are routine. Edges bite, legs burn the good way. I’m running the line we set with Roland: a touch higher here, cleaner over the breakover. For a few turns, it almost feels like it used to—simple, direct.
Then I drop into a section that’s a nasty cousin of where I crashed in Kranjska Gora. Same rhythm, same roll. A sharp thought hits like a slap.
Don’t screw this up again. Kern’s coming. Kids are chasing you.
It’s pure fear, straight to the gut, not about women, not about headlines—about being overtaken, replaced. For a heartbeat, my whole body does what it’s been doing all season: wants to brake, go safe, guard the line.
There it is, I think. The loser’s brain in the wrong body.
For once, I don’t argue with it. I don’t start a whole internal debate about pressure and expectations. I just recognize it—Okay, that’s fear of being hunted—and choose one tiny physical thing instead.
Outside ski. Two gates ahead.
I press into the outside ski like I mean it, eyes already on the rhythm past the roll instead of on the rut under my feet. The ski chatters once, then locks in. The gate snaps past my hip. The next one comes on time because I’m already there, not two thoughts behind.
I ski straight through the doubt instead of letting it steer.
By the time I hit the last offset, my legs are screaming, but something in my chest is light. I let the skis run over the last rollers, no safety brake, and cross the imaginary finish with my hands still down, chest open, pulse hammering.
I know it’s good before anyone says anything. Not perfect, not race-ready yet, but finally racing, not damage control.
Roland’s voice crackles over the radio. “That one, Fabio,” he says. “That’s the one.”
When I come to a stop near the fence, breathing hard, I see it in Thomas’s face before I see the split times. He’s standing there with his helmet off, hair sweaty, goggles pushed up, looking at me like I’ve just reminded him who I am.
“Shit,” he says, half-laughing. “You finally woke up, old man.”
I grin, bent over my poles, lungs burning in the best way. “Saw something you want to steal?” I throw back.
He shakes his head, still a little breathless. “I’ve been trying to steal from you my whole career,” he says. “That’s my job.”
The line lands deeper than it should. My rookie-brain tries to brush it off with a joke.
“Yeah, well,” I say, straightening up. “Good luck catching me tomorrow.”
But as I slide over to the side to click out, it hits me properly.
I’ve been skiing like the kid chasing Luca, but there’s no Luca in front of me anymore. I’m the one ahead. The young guys aren’t just hunting me—they’re watching me. Learning. If I keep skiing like a scared rookie guarding his lead, I’m not just failing myself. I’m failing them.
I’m the champion. It’s time I start behaving like one.
On the next lift ride, Kern swings into the chair beside me, skis dangling. We sit in that familiar training silence for a few seconds, catching our breath.
“So,” I say finally. “Anything in that run you want to see again on video, tell me. I’ll send you the clip.”
He snorts. “You offering coaching now?”
“Maybe,” I say. “You see something you like, tell me. I’ll tell you what I was thinking. Could save you a few years of trial and error.”
He turns his head, studying me with that sharp, unfiltered way only the kids have. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.” I shrug, looking down at the lane carving its way through the slush below. “You’ve been learning from me anyway. Might as well be on purpose.”
He laughs, but there’s a flush of something like pride under it. “I already am,” he says. “Since I was a junior. I had your Val d’Isère run on repeat.”
For a second, the chair might as well not be attached to anything. The world tilts.
What if that’s the new job, I think. Not outrunning them. Not panicking every time they get close and being the guy they can chase and learn from, not the grumpy bastard glaring over his shoulder.
The thought settles in my chest with surprising ease.
Less hunted, more… dad of the team. Not in age, but in role.
The one who holds the door open to the hill and says, Here, this is how you do it.
The globes would be nice. I still want them, hard.
But maybe Kern and the others are skiing their best because I showed up like a champion—that’s an achievement, too.
And so far, I’ve been failing at that.
I look over at Thomas again, at the way he’s still processing my offer like I’ve handed him a secret map. And I feel like an idiot. For years, I’ve been the angry kid, the solitary guy, focused on my performance, always standing apart from the rest of the team. I’ve been a selfish bastard.
Suddenly, a memory of Zlata emerges again.
Not some filthy image of her perfect body in my hands.
But her in the finish of the training lane, listening to my instructions.
That’s how she made me a better person. With her, I realized I have something to offer beyond my dick, money, and grumpy responses.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll meet during the inspection. With Martin, too. I’m still best acting alone, but I know this track, and I can share some secrets.”
He grins, sharp and fierce. “Deal.”
As the lift carries us back up into the grey light, I feel something shift. Not a magic cure, not a solved season. Just a new line to follow.
Same hill, same sport.
New story.