“Mom, Can I ski race?” 8 year old me asked, having no clue what I was getting myself into.

Year one. Race one. Location: Ausblick. I exit the start gate, As I gain speed everything I have learned in these short few weeks is thrown out the window. The tall and scary looking blue and red poles looked like they would leave a bruise if I got too close. I fell and lost both skis two gates later, and that would be the only of six ski races I would show up to that year.

Before year two came around I was asked the question by my parents, “Do you want to ski race again?”

“No.” Without hesitation. “I hated it, I just suck and it is no fun.” I don’t think they expected that answer.

“How about you do one more year, one last try and if you don’t like it you never have to do it again?”

“Fine, but only because you want me to.” This is where it all really began.

Year two. Christmas Camp training, December 26th to December 31st. While I was good at skiing I couldn’t make it down a course to save my life. All I would do in practice was drills, but during this camp I met two coaches who would change the way I think of this sport. Coach Joe and Coach Wicker. They changed the way I skied from fearing the speed I was going to trusting the ski underneath you and trusting my abilities to ski.

Year three. Race Six of Six. Location: Tyrol Basin (my least favorite ski hill of them all). As I exit the start gate my team, the people I met only two years ago, stand on the other side of the start cheering me on. I knew before coming into this I wanted to do good, It was the last one. As I got toward the bottom I let off the gas and caught an unexpected bump, the next thing I know my skis are over my head and I am sliding on my back down the side of the course. This was my first major wipe out on my skis and I knew it wouldn’t be my last.

Year Four. Christmas Day. All I wanted for the new season was new skis. My parents outdid my expectations by a long shot. I got my first pair of racing skis, My first set of racing boots, a new racing helmet, a brand new pair of poles, and a new coat–with the team branded on it. This told me everything I needed to know, my parents believed in me and had confidence I was ready to get serious and I knew this year was going to be better than any of the previous.

Year Five. High School Tryouts. Location: Little Switzerland. This was my first real rude awakening. I thought I was getting better, catching up to the curve all those years, but I was wrong. Everyone was older, bigger, stronger, and faster than me and I knew it was going to be a competition for my spot.

Year Six. Sophomore year. I made the bottom end of the JV team, accomplishing the goal I left myself at the end of last year. But the club team wasn’t the same, the coach I had for the first five years of my time skiing for the Ausblick racing team had finally retired. The guy who taught me everything I knew and helped me grow most as a skier was gone.

Year Seven. This Year. Thanksgiving training camp. Location, Copper Mountain, Colorado. Getting out on the skis before there is any sign of snow in Wisconsin has to be one of the best feelings ever, like a sneak peak of what was to come. Every morning we loaded up the gondola before sunrise and on the way down the first or second run it would hit you–the sun just poking over the top of the peaks across from you–the best sunset I could ask for as I’m doing the thing I love most with some of my closest friends.

Ski racing, through the injuries and people who graduated or moved on to different things has been a major part of my life and makes me who I am today. There is nothing I would rather go back and do and I can’t wait for my final year to take it all in before it’s over.