Ten Feet Higher

The race room was a rectangle of pine and noise. It smelled of wet wool, stale coffee, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh wax. A single fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, casting a flat, unforgiving light over the long drafting table. Blueprints of the first downhill course were spread out like a map of a war zone, weighted down by heavy stone paperweights and empty energy drink cans. The walls were lined with shelves of helmets, each one a monument to a season past, staring down with their plastic visors. Beyond the single window, the mountain was a black void against a darker sky, silent and waiting.

I stood at the far end of the table, tracing the line of the first turn with a red marker. My knuckles were white. I had spent twelve years skiing this mountain, and I knew every bump, every rut, every hidden patch of ice. I knew where the wind shifted. I knew where the snow held. I did not know how to stop looking at the finish line and start looking at the man standing at the other end of the table.