Lindsey Vonn’s retirement not only means the closing of what
was unquestionably one of the most exciting chapters in the entire history of
alpine skiing, but also the end of a significant cycle of my own career.
My first interview with Lindsey was 15 years ago when she,
at 20 years old, landed her first World Cup victory at the Lake Louise downhill.
Her description of the race is priceless (my
Vail
Daily story is here), particularly when she mentions how incredulous she
was at the finish when Austrian champion Renate Goetschl crossed the line so
far behind her. When she commented, “Gosh … what did I do?” little did she know
at the time that she would go on to do a whole lot more … that she would handily
usurp Goetschl’s record and become the world’s most successful female skier of
all time or win so many races at Lake Louise that they'd start calling the place "Lake Lindsey."
She also had no idea of the profound test of resilience the
universe would throw at her when she pummeled back-first into the ground in a
horrific crash during a downhill training run at the 2006 Olympics in Torino,
Italy. At 21 years old, Lindsey was the only U.S. woman competing in all five
alpine events. I was there covering the Games for the Swift News network and
was staying in San Sicario, site of the ghastly crash. My knees literally
buckled when I saw her go down. As she was airlifted off-course, I was actually
crying, struck by a profound sadness that here was this promising young athlete
who would probably never race again. Little did I know at the time … that this was one of the most irrepressible
human beings to ever walk the earth.
In spite of splintering her plastic back protector and being
in the unfathomable pain that comes from hitting a rock solid surface backwards
at 60 mph (which she went on to personally fathom countless times), she did not
suffer any major injuries and managed, a few days later, to limp to the
starting line of the downhill race. She ended up eighth (
Story
here) and then took seventh in the super G after yet another crash during
the combined event. (My recap of her
2006
Olympic performance is here). I recall being utterly mystified at her
toughness, thinking, holy shit, how is this girl even still standing?
Years later, as a FIS media correspondent covering the
women’s World Cup tour, I was standing next to Lindsey after she’d won one of
many races in Val d’Isere, France. We were watching the men’s race on TV while
Lindsey was waiting for her press conference. When she bent down to loosen her
boots, she suddenly jerked up with pain. She started laughing at how stiff her
back was, calling herself an old lady and saying how if she stood in one place
for a minute or two, she required several uncomfortable seconds before loosening
up enough to so much as take a step. At the time I reflected back on that
Olympic crash – and many others that followed (with the worst yet to come) –
and again marveled at her bionic strength.
I was at almost every race throughout those colossal years. It was an electrifying time, documenting her
unprecedented reign of dominance, one victory and/or comeback after another, made
that much more rewarding by the compassionate side of Lindsey of which I was
both first-hand witness and recipient. I got to see a side of America’s
greatest skier that not everyone got to see. I’ve written stories about her
kindness and big heart – how she’d drop everything to sign the bib of an
adoring young racer or wait for an hour in the finish area to cheer on her
teammates – but on a personal level, she’s always treated me with generosity
and genuine warmth that I will never forget.
As cool as my job was traveling through beautiful European
venues covering the World Cup tour, it got lonely at times. I spent hours and even
days by myself. When I wasn’t eating alone, I’d often have dinner with a bunch
of men holding conversations in German that I was not a part of. On more than
one occasion, Lindsey was sitting at a nearby table and, upon witnessing my
alienation, invited me to dine with her and her sister. Regardless of whatever
record she’d just broken or internationally heralded feat she’d just
accomplished, she was always down to earth and easy to talk to. At one point,
I’d fractured a couple of ribs following an ill-fated January bike ride on my
day off and when Lindsey found out I was back on skis a couple of days later,
she launched into a motherly scolding about how I needed time to heal (yes,
this came out of her mouth).
Another time, races were canceled in Sestriere, Italy, after
snow began falling in blinding, fluffy sheets (I took
this foggy video while
everyone was waiting out the storm). All the teams and tour officials were
staying at the same lodging facility, where the front desk held onto your
passport when you checked in, and everyone left in a mass exodus when the event
was canceled. I didn’t have anywhere to go, however, and was out in the
blizzard making glorious powder turns, when my phone started ringing. I didn’t
recognize the number and tried to let it go to voicemail, but it kept ringing,
so finally I answered. It was Lindsey. As part of the mass exodus, she’d believed
she was the last to leave the resort and upon learning that my passport was
still at the front desk, she thought I’d left without it and earnestly began
tracking down my number (calling a former coach to get it). When I told her I
was still there, sticking around to ski powder, she said she’d see me at the
next stop and to be careful where I skied because Sestriere (like so many
European ski areas), was speckled with unmarked obstacles (or, in some cases,
unmarked cliffs with 2,000-foot drops) that were especially hard to see during
whiteouts. I appreciated her advice but stupidly did not heed it, proceeding to
plummet unwittingly over an 8-foot retaining wall (but luckily landing softly
in the powder) in the middle of the slope. I was afraid to fill her in on that
incident.
On another occasion, I was sitting alone having a late
breakfast – somewhere in Austria, I think – and Lindsey walked into the
otherwise empty dining hall. She was taking the day off from training in order
to nurse a concussion. A staff member asked if she wanted a private table and
she told him no, she’d sit with me. We both drank lots of coffee and chatted
for a long while. Somehow we got on the topic of fathers. I knew that her
relationship with her dad was quite tenuous at the time. While I told her about
my own estranged relationship with my dad and how grateful I was that he and I
had begun reconnecting before his unexpected death, she listened intently (and
she, too, ended up reconnecting with her father). At the end of this
conversation, she asked me what I planned to do that day. I told her I wanted
to ski but didn’t have a lift ticket yet, so was planning on skinning up the
mountain. She pulled a lift ticket out of her pocket and handed it to me, telling
me to have at it.
As her global fame grew exponentially over the years,
Lindsey has, like any public figure, also dealt with a certain degree of meanness
and hatred. I don’t need to dredge up any examples of this, but along with her
immutable fearlessness on the race track, Lindsey’s never been afraid to say
exactly what she feels or to stand up for what she believes in regardless of
the emotional blows she’s been dealt. I’ve always admired her for this. Her
mental fortitude has always been at least as stalwart as her physical
resilience.
The night after her hard-earned Olympic gold medal in 2010, after
numerous glasses of gold flake-infused champagne, I sat with Lindsey and the
late, great Hank McKee of
Ski Racing in
a far corner of her victory party in Vancouver. Although my memory is hazy, I
recall countless strangers accosting Lindsey for selfies and mindless banter
and sensed that the Olympic champion, while overjoyed, might have been a bit
overwhelmed. I couldn’t help but feeling privileged that she was hiding out in
the back with me and Hank.
Sadly, my online written coverage of her 2010 Olympic
success has disappeared from the FIS and Ski Racing Websites, but there is some
janky footage out there in cyberspace –
this silly video I made
during a car ride in Cortina d’Ampezzo just before the Games and
this video with her mom
the night before she landed gold.
It was thrilling to be in the thick of it when Lindsey
overtook Goetchl’s record in 2011, landing her 47
th victory (that
would become 82 before it was all said and done), also for the first World Cup
giant slalom victory of her career that same year, after which I got to
interview her on live TV (
captured
here at Universal Sports).
My FIS World Cup job ended after 2012, but I continued to
document Lindsey’s struggles and triumphs. Every time we’ve crossed paths, even
when months or years had passed and I’d wondered if she’d remember me,
Lindsey’s started off the conversation with a big hug. I was there for her bittersweet
comeback on home snow
at
the 2015 World Championships in Beaver Creek after missing the previous
Olympic season, her return at the
2017
World Championships and the
charitable
foundation she launched to help young girls fulfill their own personal
dreams. We met up last November as she outlined her (yet to be foiled)
plans
for her final season and I provided an
instructional
guide to the last race of her career, in which she, impossibly, on the
heels of yet another devastating crash, managed once again to triumph, winning
one final medal.
While it felt truly amiss to not be on site to witness this final
performance, it was heartwarming to see her end things on such a joyful note. She
seems genuinely happy … and I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.
It’s been a true honor covering the career of this great champion.
Lindsey’s talent, work ethic and heart are truly unparalleled. I hope I get to
stand next to her again sometime, somewhere. There is no doubt in my mind that
her next step, painful as it may be, will be extraordinary. Because that’s how
she rolls.