The Downhill
Professional ski racing is full of heroes... and villains. A mystery novel.
Fiction by DAVID STEERS


                                  Chapter 1

My car was dead in its parking stall three stories above an almost empty Bay Street. Toronto is never the most pleasant of places in early March but this winter was beating all others for cruelty.

Short spells of tooth-cracking cold were interrupted by long, messy thaws; it would warm up dramatically and rain after being minus thirty for three days, lulling everyone into a false sense of security regarding winter’s demise. Then the thermometer would dive again, leaving the sidewalks and pavement treacherous. Going outside required careful preparation and getting around on the crunchy roads was a nightmare. That explained why I'd walked to a bar just off College Street five days earlier.

It was Saturday afternoon and I'd been called into the office to review a new investigator’s first report. When I'd finished reading the report and made my escape I discovered I was stuck. The battery in my car was dead. When I turned the key the engine didn't even try to turn over. The guy at the auto club had laughed when I'd asked him how long it would take to get a truck over to the parking garage to try to blast enough juice into the battery to get me moving. "We're logging about 15 or 20 calls every hour from that part of the city alone. This has been our busiest week all year," I was informed by the annoyingly cheerful operator. It was the quest for a little cheer and relief from the penetrating damp that led me to a noisy bar lit mostly by giant TV screens.

Sometimes I think the legacy of the sixties is truly the rise of the special interest group. In a city the size of Toronto, if you look hard enough, you can find groups of people who share similar interests—in just about anything. There are Lord Byron fan clubs, covens, cricket clubs; the most unlikely human interests are celebrated.

The sports bar has become an institution in Toronto and proves my point. While they all show hockey, football, and other standard fare, some specialize and show things as diverse as World Cup soccer and European road bike racing. One even shows World Cup skiing, and attracts a limited but fanatically loyal crowd. I had found the bar, Figure Eleven, shortly after moving to Toronto. Old Rossignol and Head skis adorned the walls. Scott and Hanson boots were displayed above the bar. It looked like a ski equipment museum.

I arrived at just the right moment. The glamour sport in alpine skiing is the downhill, the fastest and most dangerous event in ski racing. The broadcast of the second last race of the season was just starting.

It had been an interesting season because two of the skiers running neck and neck for the title hadn’t even been picked as contenders by the experts back in September. An Austrian veteran named Heinz Stockl, who had won the title years earlier but whose resignation had been widely rumored at the end of last season, was only five points ahead of a brash young American named Eric Tindle few had even heard of last November. For the first time ever a Japanese skier, in this case Hiro Takaido, was also challenging and stood in third place while Paul Tellier, a young Canadian, was a credible but very distant fourth.

"Hey, Ian!" I turned to see John McInthey, a fellow ski-race devotee I had met at the bar a few months ago, gesturing to an empty chair in front of a screen. I'd come to appreciate John's quiet optimism, which he masked with sarcastic wit, and we'd become good friends. I moved to the chair thankfully, ordered a mug from the waitress, and sat back.

"You look just bagged, Ian," John said.

"I feel like used glue on the back of an old stamp," I replied. I'd been working pretty well non-stop for the past three months. Hard times in Toronto always seemed to generate an increase in the number of fraud cases our company was called upon to investigate. I'd had no time off for good behavior.

"Bet you'll be glad to get out there and get on the sticks again," said John. He knew I was off to Whistler on Monday. We watched the forerunners test the course, then settled back to watch the race.

Downhill racing is not the most exciting of television sports. To the uninitiated it doesn't look all that tough to ski fast in a relatively straight line. The skiers don't even look like they're moving all that fast, and the screen has a way of flattening out the steepest of hills. However, the margin for error at speeds up to 140 kph, with the ground either dropping away from the skier so quickly it launches him eighty or 100 feet through the air or suddenly rising so quickly that the force can make almost make eyeballs bleed, makes for some exciting moments.

To the initiated, a beautifully carved turn around a fall-away corner or an incredible recovery just milliseconds from disaster can be every bit as exciting as a short-handed goal in hockey or a touchdown that wins the game with no time left on the clock.

This race was being run in Aspen and the Americans weren’t going to let anybody forget it. Cowboy hats adorned many heads; western fringes and cowboy boots abounded. Skiers skiing, people dressed like animals skiing, flags waving, paragliders descending, music pounding, color commentators babbling—it was much like the opening of any big sporting event. World Cup skiing had become very big business.


The first few racers we watched were having trouble taking care of their business. Bib number one, Urs Gunther, managed to test the safety netting coming out of the Strawpile turn. Slow-motion replay revealed two and a half somersaults before he hit the netting but it did what it was designed to do, reduced his momentum and then rolled him back down onto the course unhurt. The crowd seemed to perk up a bit. Nothing like an early spill to make everyone sit up and take notice.

The next two skiers seemed to be having beautiful runs. They turned high above every gate and nailed every turn. They stayed in their tucks almost all the way through the toughest of turns and finished two and a half and three seconds respectively behind the fastest forerunner. This usually embarrasses racers because the forerunners, or snow seed, are kids from the local racing club or locals with racing experience whose function is to take loose snow off the course and ensure there are no hidden problems. To be clobbered by a snow seed skier is to have a really bad day.

I took a particular interest in racing because my brother Mac is a ski technician. He works the World Cup downhill circuit for a large Austrian ski manufacturer. The skis are popular among racers; Mac's skiers include front-runner Eric Tindle and up-and-coming rookie Canadian Paul Tellier.

I was sure the two skiers we had just watched were going to chew their serviceman out when the race was over. It's usually true—and the servicemen are the first to point this out—that when a racer wins he does it because he skied an incredible race. When he loses it's often because his equipment was not quite right. I wondered if other racers on that ski brand would also have a dismal day.

"Good thing your brother doesn't work for those guys," observed John.

"Mac would be harder on himself than those racers are going to be on their tech," I said, taking a quick sip and wiping my mouth. "He's acquired a pretty good rep for himself in the ski-tuning world. His current contract has him working with some of the Canadian and American skiers, and should keep him busy for at least the next three years."

Another racer ran off the course, disqualified. "I used to tell him there was no future in being a ski bum," I continued. "But now he's seeing the world and making pretty good money. It'll be good to see him again."

The last race of the season would held at Whistler. I was flying to Whistler Monday to meet my brother, who'd travel directly from Aspen as soon as the race was done. We hadn't seen each other in more than a year so I was looking forward to the trip. The fact that we could ski together didn't make it any less attractive. We'd skied together a lot. Our parents had outfitted us with skis and set us on the slopes before our fifth birthdays at the old Don Valley Ski Club in the early sixties.

"You're a lucky stiff, you are," said John.

"Lucky my ass!" I replied. "I've earned this trip. The old man has been on my case non-stop for the last few months," which felt like an understatement. "The projects I've been working on seem to be his particular favorites. I've had to report to him daily for God's sake! The reports alone probably added an extra week's worth of work to the last few months, and I had to go in today to check out that new guy's work!"

"Stop whining and tell me what you're going to do out there."

I laughed. "I'm flying into Vancouver Monday, arriving around three. I'll drive up to Whistler Monday afternoon, hopefully in time to do a little socializing somewhere if the highway cooperates."

"Ah yes, vacation time. Time to yourself. Get up when you want. Party all night," offered John.

"Partying all night is out for this puppy," I said firmly. It had been many years since I'd been able to do that and then face the dawn without cringing. It had been years since I'd even attempted it. Maybe wisdom does come with age. Maybe the body just rebels.

I had nothing more exciting planned than a lot of skiing, some schmoozing with the race crowd, and a few really good meals, but mostly I just wanted to spend some time with my kid brother.

On the screen the tenth racer was hurtling down the course. The race was starting to get interesting. It was sunny and cold, as the forecast had promised, and the best skiers were running at the end of the first seed. It could be a close race.

The start number is so important in racing. If the forecast calls for snow the night before the race, the first few skiers will be packing the new snow down and they will be slow. In that case it's better to start after a number of skiers have skied the course.

On the other hand, if the course is in good shape and the forecast is for clear skies and warm temperatures, going near the beginning of the pack is an advantage because the first few skiers will chew big ruts in the smooth surface of the track and make it choppy. As the track gets rougher it becomes more difficult for the racers to ski their line because their skis are bouncing in and out of the ruts carved out by the early runners.

On the other hand... The combinations and permutations are almost infinite and it's inspired guesswork that often wins or loses races. All the skiers have a bunch of race skis designed to perform under specific conditions. Racers have skis for cold, dry snow and turny courses; skis for warm, wet snow and relatively straight courses. World Cup racers travel with a quiver full of skis.

It's up to the racer to pick the right start number. Servicemen like my brother have to select the right skis and tune them properly. Then the skier has to have a hell of a race. On any given day any racer in the top seed (the top 15) can win. But every once in a while the winner will be wearing bib number 52. That's what makes it an interesting sport. Everything has to come together at just the right moment and just about anything can happen.

Times had been slowly but steadily improving. No one else had crashed, although it seemed like a bit of a hole was developing above the Strawpile turn. I knew the racers at the top of the course would already have received this information from teammates and coaches at the bottom and would be adjusting their planned line into that section to compensate.

The fourteenth racer was the American. The crowd at Aspen roared as the announcer introduced Eric, who stepped into the starting gate. He exploded out of the gate as soon as the timing gear began to chirp.

Racers say they almost never hear the crowd when they're on the course but there are exceptions. Kitzbühel, the grand old lady of downhill, and the most dangerous, has a very large and vocal crowd. More than 200,000 people line the famous Hahnenkamm course on race day. Literally millions watch the race on television. The racers hear the crowd there. Eric Tindle was hearing the crowd at Aspen.

The people lining the side of the course were cheering and screaming and ringing cowbells madly. At the first interval timing, about a quarter of the way down the course the American was an amazing half second ahead. Halfway down he'd somehow managed to increase it to almost a full second.

Eric was riding that fine line that separates winning from disaster. His technique was not exactly that of the classic downhiller but when he wasn't flailing around the tight turns he had a very tight tuck for a gangly skier and he was attacking the course. His run reminded me of Franz Klammer's gold medal win in the 1976 Olympics. Eric was either going to win or he was going to go flying out of the course. A compression near the bottom knocked his skis together and his uphill leg flew out. How he didn't start somersaulting right there I have no idea. Recovering, he put his head down and crossed the finish line almost a second ahead of the next fastest skier. The crowd went wild.

The camera cut away from the ecstatic American crowd and switched to the top of the course again as Heinz Stockl stepped into the starting gate and banged his bent poles together.

Beep, beep, beep chirped the timing gear as the starter began the countdown.

"Racer ready? Three, two, one, go!"

Racers can leave anytime they want during the countdown since the timer is activated by a wand the racer opens as he leaves the start gate. Heinz waited until the countdown was finished, then reared back on his skis and pushed out of the start gate.

At the first interval he was a millisecond behind the American. Unlike Eric who had looked like he was skiing on the edge, Heinz was a powerful and extremely controlled skier. This gave him a substantial advantage because not only was he a technically superior skier he was also a large man. Mass equals speed in downhill skiing. The crowd was politely enthusiastic. At the second interval he was a few hundredths of a second ahead.

But then something happened, something I'd never seen before.

Heinz didn't get a third interval time.


                                            Next: Sabotage on the course?


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