Category: art

If hell froze over and if pigs could fly, then perhaps there would be an additional host-venue candidate for an upcoming Olympics — and Kevin Bacon and Mia Hamm could be on the US Alpine Downhill Ski Team? Until then, Lindsey Vonn, Bode Miller and all the international skiers are flying down the frozen slopes in Vancouver, BC… so this is a short prose piece I wrote a couple of years ago, but have never posted here on image & Verse — and to celebrate the 2010 Olympics, I am unveiling it here.

On The Edge

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It has all come to this. No turning back now, no room for doubt, no fear, no place for mistakes. Years of preparation, visualizing my dream, of tenacious conditioning, practice, of sacrifice, of hope, is finally culminating in this one moment in time.

I hear the winds whistle in the shell of my headgear, the snow crunch crisp and fresh underfoot as I step off the aerial tram and stride to the starting gate. My skis, waxed to perfection, are thrown over my right shoulder, both poles gripped in my left hand. I vibrate with nerves and pure, refined energy.

As I make the short walk I reflect, “over 90 miles per hour for 90 seconds, airborne, hurtling down the mountain like a rocket, free-falling just at the edge of control, at the edge of disaster… at the edge of euphoria! I love this! I can do this, just don’t catch an edge!” I push that brief slip of negativity out of my head, and begin to visualize, while repeating, “tuck tight, knees flexed, eyes down the mountain, fearless… fly!”

I sit to tighten my boots and affix my skis. I hear the chatter of coaches and officials, the mantra-like self-talk of my competitors, and the clamor of the crowds that collect along the course, gathered exuberantly dense at the bottom.

I begin to slowly tune all that into a background monotone buzz, then a quiet hum, squelching –– until finally, I tune it out altogether. I focus, dialing myself into my personal space, my place of vivid concentration, intense presence… my zone.

Here I wait until my coach comes to lead me to the starting gate, where I check in with the race officials, and queue up. It seems just a blink of an eye and he comes, and I go –– go to what I believe will be victory, my time of destiny. I am ready!

Standing behind the next racer poised to start, I acutely envision the entire course, racing section by section, successfully making and re-making the run in my head, the same one I’ve made many times in practice. I imagine the gate fly open, see myself push off, thrusting with all my might into that first steep drop, accelerating fiercely into the first turn, building a torrid pace, knifing down the mountain, as if an apparition, a vapor, a blur… gone 90/90!

At last, alone in the gate, I see the mountain stretch out below me, the crystalline white falling and twisting –– down, down. This is it, it’s here, my dance with fate; but this is no gamble. I am so totally ready for this, ready to roar down the icy slope, surge across the finish line… ready to fly!

The starting tone begins to pulse. My mind links into the cadence, my body feels the rhythm. My vision grows sharp, my senses keen, my surroundings –– vibrant. Time is folding into slow motion, honing down to the long-awaited instant, the critical split-second. My legs are wound springs, my arms and shoulders are powerful pistons, my heart, a thunderous locomotive. The brink is reached, then crossed. The gate swings away as I launch, in one mighty explosion…