Laying up short, part 2

When you think of Olympic Superpowers, you'll not likely consider Austria or Switzerland. If your mind turns to skiing the two alpine nations will vault to the top of your list. And these two nations are to skiing what the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees are to baseball: they are the bitterest of rivals.

During the winter of 1976, the eyes of the world turned to Innsbruck, Austria. The Cold War was at its most frigid. Vietnam was behind us and Afghanistan was ahead of the Soviets. This was before Jimmy Carter and after Richard Nixon. The specter of Munich lay four years past in sportsman's memories. Bragging rights were at stake, and all nations were present.

I can only remember one thing from Innsbruck, 1976, but it remains chiseled in my mind with indelible detail.

Bernhard Russi of Switzerland had mastered the Alpine downhill for years. He owned the Olympic gold medal in the event from 1972 in Sapporo, Japan. Russi's time at Innsbruck locked him in for another gold medal.

At the top of the mountain stood Franz Klammer, an Austrian, bedecked in taxi cab yellow skiing tights, red boots and red helmet. The hometown hero. But there he stood facing the insurmountable time set by the Switzerlander and a mountain with no sympathy for his heritage.

When downhill skiers race, they'll top 90 mph as they careen down the slopes, their only protection a helmet that might prevent the crushing of the skull but will do little to deter the smashing of their brain inside said skull. No pads elsewhere; too much drag. Achieving championship speed, earning world-class victory requires speeds that dance the athlete on the edge of disaster. Many a skier has retired himself from the sport when the mountain scoffed at such ludicrous speeds.

And there stood Klammer. Three...two...one...

From the moment the Austrian cleared the starting gate, it was clear to this then thirteen-year old Minnesotan, Klammer didn't consider what the mountain thought. Most skiers slow before the tightest turns, hoping to keep their bodies from becoming one with the towering pines. Not so the brightly spandexed Klammer. He cared not a lick about completing the run. He skied to win.

The only drag he created occurred in digging his skis into the snow, just enough to get himself turned some other direction. When skiers would go over a hill, they try to tuck themselves, providing as small a target as possible for demon air to slow them down. When the skier's velocity gets away from him, the tuck deteriorates as he does everything in his power to maintain his balance. A Klammer released himself, velocity was no problem. Control was his issue and very few tucks were seen as he hurtled over ridges and around tight corners.

It was breathtaking.

The commentators didn't think he could keep up enough speed to get close to the Swiss giant coming out of his aerodynamic crouch. Klammer couldn't hear the commentators.

Had the young Austrian concerned himself with his life's peril, broken femur bones, or sloshed gray matter, he'd either have slowed to avoid such disaster or he'd have kept his speed and wrapped himself around an aspen. He did neither and the cameras pivoted trying to keep the speeding lemon drop framed for the network.

Over one of the final hills flew Klammer contorting himself like some twisted X to keep his weight over at least one ski and then somehow, back into his tuck for the race to the wire.

Thirty three one hundredths of a second, the bat of an eyelash, and Franz Klammer wrenched the gold from Russi. Had he throttled back or taken any turn or any hill with certain conservatism, he would not have clipped that whisper of time to dethrone the Swiss giant.

What if I crash? So? My body will heal. I'll never have such an opportunity again. The time is now. Tomorrow may never come.

I have only one life. God has set me atop the mountain and He has given me one run. Only one. Do I play it safe or do I fly like Klammer?

Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on, that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus has also laid hold of me. Brethren, I do not count myself to have apprehended; but one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 3:12-14)

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating the air. No, I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize. (1 Corinthians 9:24-27)

May my eyes rivet themselves upon Christ alone. It's long past time to point the ski tips down the slope and press on for the Gold.
------------------------------------------------------
An aside: As we near the Olympics, I recommend a trip down memory lane with the movie "Miracle." Disney did a superb job recreating the magic of the 1980 story of David and Goliath. The first time I heard Kurt Russell master the Minnesota "Iron Range" accent, I laughed my head off. Besides, you just gotta love a movie about hockey! "AGAIN!"

Klammer photo by Steve Sutton