Lindsey Vonn’s retirement marks the end of a great era for me, too

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.