Reflections on and Reframing of a past Lifetime: What I Learned from a Chance Re-encounter with Ski Racing

Many of you in social media land have no idea that, in what feels like a past lifetime, ski racing was the center point of my existence. From the first time my dad put me on skis at age two until just after my twenty-second birthday, I was “all in.” As a kid, I spent nearly every weekend (and many weeknights) lapping the local 187-foot ski hill (an old garbage dump) in Wisconsin, dreaming of someday racing in the Olympics like my heroes. First it was Alberto Tomba and Picabo Street. Then, Kjus and Aamodt, Daron Rahlves, and of course, Bode Miller. What began as a junior racer training slalom under the lights at my home ski club, Ausblick, progressed to three years of boarding school at Crested Butte Academy, and then to two more years of FIS (International Ski Federation) training at Steamboat Springs Winter Sports Club. NCAA racing brought me first to Western State College and then ultimately to the University of Nevada. While that childhood dream of skiing in the Olympics didn’t pan out, the lessons I learned, the relationships I forged, and the experiences I was so privileged to have had, impacted me profoundly in the best of ways.    

A few seasons ago, when the pandemic shut down the music industry, I re-entered the world of ski racing—initially as a coach for Diamond Peak —and then this past season, to my own great surprise, as a racer. If you’d told me even a year and a half ago that I’d end up spending much of the winter of 2022 ski racing, I’d have called you crazy—but that’s exactly what happened. Racing FIS again at age thirty-five after thirteen years of hardly even skiing was a surreal experience, to say the least. It was thrilling, scary, gratifying, cathartic, and occasionally frustrating. Most of the time I was overwhelmed with gratitude and just dumbfounded to be doing it again at all—I was certain that my days of ski racing had ended years ago, right along with George W.’s presidency. 

When I quit racing abruptly in 2009, I was bitter as hell and suddenly directionless—as if I had “failed” myself and my community, and lost a fundamental part of my identity. In recent conversations with fellow former collegiate racers who also came up short on their dreams, I found that my disillusionment was quite common, though most of us just buried the emotions back then and moved on with life. Much of that time period remains a blur, but I do recall making the decision that January to move on from ski racing over the course of only a few short weeks. My previously unwavering and infinite devotion to the sport seemed to flip on a dime and my motivation evaporated. I made no announcement even to my family, coaches, teammates or close friends; I just didn’t show up the next season. That was it. I promptly put ski racing behind me and consequently lost touch with so many amazing people. I’m deeply regretful that I didn’t handle things differently, but at the time I guess I just wasn’t equipped to face a proper reckoning. Even with the welcome distraction of new and exciting musical opportunities, I entered a period of depression that persisted for several years. In hindsight, I was also clearly beginning to contend with another major variable that further complicated my mental state (for more on that, check out my previous blog, “On Coming Out”—button below.)

This past winter was a nourishing walk down memory lane, full of the most pleasant nostalgia. Any negative emotions surrounding the sport I’d previously felt had long since faded and I made a point of reframing my perspective. I was ecstatic to be part of the ski racing community again, particularly in Colorado, where I got to reconnect with old friends and former coaches after over a decade of little or no communication. I also had the pleasure of meeting a whole slew of new coaches, athletes, and parents—many of them immediately kindred spirits, who I believe will become life-long friends. 

I was pleasantly surprised to end the season with a handful of decent finishes, for an “old guy”—but many of the notable moments were untethered to results. One such moment was hurling myself FULL GAS down a GS course at CB’s at Park City (the 2002 Olympic venue) running bib 103, only to straddle a gate and epically crash right before the finish line. THAT made me feel quite alive, and oddly satisfied. You see, at age twenty, I would have been furious at myself for “failing” to finish and squandering yet another opportunity. But at age thirty-five? I was almost euphoric at how perfectly committed I’d been to my plan for the run. In racing (and in life), we have some degree of control over our approach, but generally very little over specific, short-term outcomes. Sometimes things work out great. Other times you crash. That day in Park City, I was fully committed to my plan, and that was enough for me. (On risk of injury: I don’t mean to sound flippant about crashing. To be clear, the few seconds after straddling the gate—and before realizing I was “OK”—were quite terrifying, and had me thinking about the details of my health insurance plan. To be clear, I’m well aware of the risk presented by this latest ski racing venture. That said, most things worth doing in life entail some risk, and for the time being, these are chances I’m willing to take.) 

Another particularly special moment was being greeted by my parents at the finish line during the spring series at Palisades Tahoe. My parents attended as many races as they could when I was a junior racer, and have enthusiastically supported all of my crazy endeavors in life—whether on skis, on stage, or in other arenas. So to share the experience with them once again was precious. 

With Mamma at Palisades spring series.

Some general observations from the season:

1.) Damn. In case I’d forgotten, ski racing is an incredibly difficult sport! It requires a tremendous amount of physical conditioning, coordination, tactical training, and mental grit. Most notably, it gives you ample opportunity to master failing with grace. Even the best skiers on the World Cup have many more “bad” days than good ones, as measured by race results.

2.) Older age isn’t as significant a limiting factor in ski racing (and in most sports) as many people think. Not racing (and only skiing a handful of times) for thirteen years definitely compromised my technique and tactics considerably. From a fitness perspective, however, I felt as capable—or even more so now—than I was at age twenty-one to meet the demands of the sport. If one trains intelligently, avoids injury, and consumes the right diet, thirty-five is still plenty young enough to excel in athletics. These days, there are more athletes than ever from a wide range of sports competing well into their 40s, while performing at or near peak level. And from a mental perspective, there’s just no doubt that a few more years of experience living on this planet is an asset. 

3.) Like most things in life, the better I became, the harder it was to get even a little bit better. I got back to a respectable level, not far off my 21-year-old self pretty quickly, but what I believe to be my top potential at this age (all factors considered) proved to be elusive—at least in any complete race.

4.) There are very few environments in typical adult life that resemble anything like ski racing. Having the opportunity to give one’s full effort in a specifically prepared race arena (firm snow, safety fences, timing, etc.) is a unique privilege that requires the cooperation of a village of coaches, parents, volunteers, and mountain employees. Without sounding too much like a dad, I tried to impart to any of the younger athletes who would listen to me, just how lucky they are to have such opportunities—and how present in these moments they ought to be. Of course, it’s hard to fully realize how good you have it at age seventeen, or even twenty-one, when you’re right in the thick of it—but after some space and time in the “real world,” it’s not lost on me.

5.) Going into the season, I was definitely worried that I might be unwelcome at FIS races—that athletes, coaches and parents might find me competing in that category to be inappropriate or even laughable. As it turned out, I was met with a level of support, encouragement, and camaraderie I would have never imagined. To all of the kind people out there who embraced me: Thank you!

Some GS action at Alpine Meadows (Palisades Tahoe) - April 2022.

Regrets? 

1.) I didn’t take enough pictures. I don’t have many from my actual racing days (1994-2009) either, and I always wish I’d taken more. Someday these experiences will all be distant memories and any documentation of them will surely be cherished.    

2.) I wish I’d had the opportunity to prepare more for the races I entered. Between irregular snow conditions, my coaching job, and recording and performance commitments, I only got a handful of actual gate training sessions in this season, and didn’t get started at all until mid-January. 

Life is all sorts of complicated, strange, unpredictable, hard, and often beautiful—as this wildly unexpected left turn in my life’s journey reified for me. Reflecting on the past six months, I’m well aware of how lucky I am, to have had the chance to explore this sport again, in this way, and at this stage of life. When considering the masses of people on the planet who live in a constant state of emergency, the entire endeavor can sometimes feel selfish. Ultimately, this window of opportunity for me—one where I’m healthy, single, have the career freedom, and don’t have children, felt like a moment worth seizing. I know these circumstances won’t last forever, and I wouldn’t want them to. 

Will I race FIS again next year? I don’t know for sure just yet, but if I can find a cost-effective way to do it for one final season, in conjunction with adequate training, that doesn’t compromise my musical pursuits and professional life, well, I probably will. Beyond the “fun factor,” I feel compelled to give it one more season because I get the sense that with the right training plan and a touch of luck, I could still do quite a bit better. Of course, the best race that I might be capable of these days will still be a long way off the guys on the world cup—but that’s not what I’m after now. I just want to have my best race. And the process of pursuing that elusive race is intrinsically rewarding, whether or not I ever actually achieve it. If I can inspire and share some insight with some up-and-coming athletes, or anyone else along the way, even better. If I do race next season though, that will truly be it for me racing FIS. At this stage of the game, the novelty of the experience makes up much of its appeal, and is by definition finite. It has indeed been a venture in the spirit of exploration and personal growth—but I never intended it to be any sort of serious “comeback.”

Considerations of racing aside, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed coaching these past few years and I definitely plan to continue that in some context in the future. This incredible sport and surrounding community that has given me so much has undoubtedly hooked me back in—and in one way or another, I have a feeling I’ll remain connected to it now for life. 

Ultimately, working towards a goal, evaluating progress, recalibrating, honing technique and tactics—these are the methods by which learning and improvement happen in all aspects of life. Ski racing just happens to be a damn good environment to develop and test these skills, as well as a bundle of fun. Regardless of what the future holds, this past winter offered me the chance to put a bow on an important chapter of life that never got the resolution it was worthy of—and for this, I’m immensely grateful. To be continued.  

Love to all,

Eric 

P.S. Thank you so much to my home program, Diamond Peak, as well as SNU, TPT, Winter Park, CMC, SSWSC and all the other teams and individuals who helped me out along the way this winter!

P.P.S. As a touring musician, if any of you are interested in hosting me for a house concert or any other type of performance on the road, please don’t hesitate to reach out!