Lindsey Vonn - Rise: My Story

This book is dedicated to my mother. She is my inspiration not because of what she did for my skiing career, but how her perpetual positivity shaped me into the person I am on, and most importantly, off the slopes. Every adversity I have faced, I found perspective and inspiration from her. Throughout the many hardships in her life, they only made her stronger, kinder, and more humble. That type of grit is what shaped me since I was a child; whether I knew it then or not, I know it now.

Mom, I hope I am one day as tough as you are. I hope I will approach every day with as much energy and optimism as you do. I hope I will one day raise my kids to be as incredible as you are.

I love you.

I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving, but this

PABLO NERUDA

I am more nervous than Ive ever been before a race.

Im on the bike, trying to activate my leg. I feel decent. Not great, but decent.

Im doing my thing, listening to my prerace mix, trying to honor the magnitude of whats about to happen while at the same time trying to ignore the magnitude of whats about to happen. This is my last raceever, everso I am deep into all-or-nothing mode. I am engaged in a delicate balancing act between psyching myself up and psyching myself out. I tell myself its just another race, but at the same time, I know that its not.

It is everything, really. My chance to write how it all ends.

My goal, right now, is to get myself as jacked up as possible, so that I can put everything I have into my final moments as a professional skier. This is it. The last thing I want is to crash and have that be how people remember me. The next-to-last thing I want is to cross the finish line after a clean race and feel like I could have pushed harder, like I didnt give it my all.

The night before a race, I always go to bed visualizing the courseevery gate, every bump, every piece of terrain. I visualize it over and over again until it feels like its a part of me. When I wake up, a lot of times I feel tired, because if Im being honest, Im not a morning person. But as soon as I get on the bike, I start to feel better. Thats when I start to get into my laser-focused mental state.

Today, though, its another story entirely. Ive only been on the bike for about ten minutes, and already Im feeling like Ive put in enough time. I want to press fast-forward on my morning. Dont get me wrong, I dont want the race to end or for my career to be over, but at the same time, Im anxious to be on the snow, to inspect the course, to step into the starting gate.

Im in re, Sweden, for the FIS Alpine World Ski Championships, a place where Ive raced what feels like a million times before. I rented a house just outside of town, so my family could be here with me for this last race. After everything theyve sacrificed over the years, all the ways theyve shown up to support me, it seems only fitting that we end this run together, under the same roof.

Its ten minutes from the house to the hill for the downhill race. I make the drive with my trainer, Alex Bunt, my physical therapist, Lindsay Winninger, and Claire Brown, one of my oldest friends, whos been an enormous help to me this season. I go to inspect the course while Lindsay and Claire stake out my spot in the lodge. Lindsays been with me for nearly five years at this point, and she knows my routines. She knows exactly where I want to be at each venueoff to the side, away from the other girls, where I can focus. Here in re, theres a nook I always claim, so Lindsay makes camp there while Claire sees to some last-minute logistics and I make my way up the mountain.

Outside, up here, I quiet my nerves. Its windy and cold, but I only notice the weather enough for it to register. I am in my element. For me, this is where my race begins. When Im inspecting the course, there is no room in my thinking for anything else. I dont talk to anyone. I am focused, calm, almost clinical in my approach. There is only me, this start, these gates. There is only what is right in front of me. For a few quiet moments, I let nothing else in.

The wind continues to rip at the top, but the coaches on site tell me the race is due to go off as planned. Theres been talk they might lower the start to escape the worst of the wind, but no decision has been made, so I head off for a couple of warm-up runs. I dont ski the course, but the free runs let me feel the wind in my face, let me feel my body position. Thats all I really want to accomplish as I move up and down the mountain. I want to ski.

I head back inside the lodge, back to all the boxes I need to check off before Im ready to race. My routine is always exactly the same, a sequence that feels safe and familiar. Ive been skiing these same hills for the past however many years, so at this point I know what I like, whats worked well for me in the past, whats maybe brought me a bit of luck, and I repeat these things into the ground. In ski racing, there are so many variables. Its not like swimming, where the pool is always the same length. Its not like tennis, where the court is always the same dimensions. In ski racing, there are no constants. I cant control the snow or the ice or the wind conditions. I cant control the light or the visibility. I cant control the competition. I cant control the risk. My preparation is the one thing I can control, so Ive always controlled it to a T. Its not superstition as much as it is comfort.

I slip my headphones back on, close my eyes, and try to visualize the course. Here at re, the athletes are assigned their own area of the bottom floor, but I like to do my warm-up in my own space, away from distraction. Theres a huge open area where the tram unloads, so I stake out a private spot there to do my thing.

Then its on to a physical warm-up, to activate my leg. You dont want to run into me during my warm-up. Usually, Im pretty cool, Ill give anyone an autograph or a picture, but while Im in the lodge, dont even look at me. From here, I start to slowly amp myself up. Usually, its a progressionyou dont want to get hyped too early, because then youll expend too much energy and not have enough left for the race. Today, though, Im starting to embrace the idea that from this moment forward there is nothing to be gained by holding back. I dont think about tiring myself out or doing too much. These things no longer matter. There is no reason to save myself for what comes next, because this race is the last of what comes next.

As I complete my warm-up, we get word on the radio that the start has been moved down the hill to the third reserve startthe same place we started the super G on Tuesdaywhich is a dramatic shift. The new start is pretty far down the hill and shortens the course by a lot. This is a good thing for me, because the top part of the course has been the hardest stretch for my knee.

On the downside, the lower start means itll take longer to get there from the lodge. Theres a cat track you have to hike up for a stretch, and its a huge pain in the ass, so I start growing anxious and leave for the start way too early. Normally, I like to get to the start fifteen or twenty minutes ahead of time, but here I am, forty minutes out, which is a huge amount of time to sit in the cold and obsess about the race. The clock cant tick fast enough.

Around three people before I go, I step into my skis. Then I start the jumping and the stomping. Ive always naturally done that. Apparently, when you slam your feet on the ground, it gets the neurological response going, gets your brain and your nerves firing. Im also a spitter. I know, its gross, but when Im in the starting gate, I spit a lot. Thats a trigger for your body to produce a natural boost of testosterone; its why a lot of athletes spit. For anyone watching, it probably looks like Im about to kill someone. People have told me this throughout my career, and now I imagine this is especially so. I quicken my breathing, getting more and more aggressive. But I always save the extra 5 percent for when Im actually in the starting gate.