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Outside Magazine January 2004

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Gate Crasher (Cont.)


	Bode Miller in Sölden, Austria, October 2003 (Jake Chessum)

A FEW HOURS EARLIER, I was standing slopeside at Treble Cone with John McBride, 39, the men's speed coach for the U.S. Ski Team. Miller had just blown by us on a slalom training run, leaning back on his tails, arms flailing in the air, his legs whipping back and forth like a marionette's—an unorthodox, go-for-broke style that's become his signature. But he only looked out of control. McBride pointed out twin crescent-shaped incisions that Miller's edges carved in the snow, a mere handbreadth from the base of a blue gate.

"Not many guys can ski that line," he said. Proving his point, the next U.S. skier, 23-year-old Bryon Friedman, cut the blue gate just as close, and then blew out of the course three gates later.

In the hypercompressed world of alpine ski racing, where the distinction between immortality and obscurity can come down to a fraction of a second, the line is everything. Push it too tight and you'll hook a gate, getting ripped violently off track. Ride it too wide and you'll never stand on a podium. To hold the perfect line requires an elusive combination of strength, timing, and unflappable concentration, all working in sync as the skier roars down the hill. That ability is the hallmark of the legendary racers—Jean-Claude Killy, Alberto Tomba, Hermann Maier—whose skills are often testament to well-oiled national ski programs run by coaches who understand precisely how to turn talented youth into champions.

Though the U.S. has produced some great racers—Phil and Steve Mahre, Bill Johnson, Tommy Moe, Picabo Street—not since Phil Mahre took first in the overall World Cup standings back in 1983 has America served up a skier who can consistently dominate, and doesn't crack at big events like the Olympics—an athlete who isn't sniffed at in Austria, a ski-mad nation that produces medal winners the way Mercedes churns out cars. Over the past two decades, when Americans snagged a rare win, the Europeans just shrugged. They were lucky, people said. It was a fluke.

Until, that is, right now.

Last year, despite completing only four of eight World Cup slalom races, Bode Miller finished second in the overall World Cup standings (taking home two golds and a silver medal from the World Championships), behind Austrian Stephan Eberharter, 34, an Olympic medalist. In October, Miller kicked off the current season with a bang, nailing a win in the giant slalom at Sölden, Austria, by more than a second—a huge margin. It was Miller's best start yet, and many believe he's still a year or two away from hitting full speed, particularly in the downhill and super G, which he started skiing regularly in 2001. Just as important to those banking on Miller's breakout potential, he has started to capture a devoted audience in the U.S., which traditionally pays attention to skiing only during the Olympics. The draw is Miller's talent, his attitude, and his breakneck style. "Nobody knows what's going to happen when he skis," says teammate Scott Macartney, a 26-year-old downhill and super-G specialist. "He'll either win by a second and a half or go into a fence."

Indeed, one of the most heart-stopping moments during the last Winter Olympics was Miller's near catastrophe in the alpine combined, in which skiers compete in a downhill in the morning, followed by two slalom runs. Three-quarters of the way through the downhill, he lost an edge and wound up sliding on his hip at 60 miles an hour toward certain disaster. At the last possible moment, he somehow found his feet, sprang around the next gate, and finished the race to clinch a silver medal.

A second silver followed, in the giant slalom, but it was the stunning recovery that made him a hero. It also didn't hurt that Miller had a great back story: the untethered kid who'd been raised by hippies on a sprawling farm in Easton, New Hampshire, in a rustic home with an outhouse. He can be charmingly unpolished with the media, spouting off about everything from a bad ski performance to the war in Iraq. He not only wins races; he's making ski racing cool again.

Miller's success has brought with it the usual wampum—a pair of signature Bode One skis from Rossignol, a $500,000 endorsement contract with Barilla, the same Italian pasta company that signed up Tomba, and several other handsome sponsorships, including deals with Chevrolet and Charles Schwab. He's already a celebrity in Europe, but he's beginning to show the kind of stateside recognition that allowed Lance Armstrong to transcend the fringe sport of cycling, prompting media outlets like OLN to up their coverage (see "World Cup Fever," page 64).

If Miller continues to excel in his World Cup specialties of slalom and giant slalom, plus super G, downhill, and the combined, insiders are speculating that he will not only nab the World Cup overall title from Eberharter, but could medal in five different events at the 2006 Winter Games, in Turin, Italy, an unprecedented achievement for any skier.

If that happens, "Bode will be the story of 2006," says his agent, Lowell Taub, of SFX Sports Group Inc., "both because of his results and because of who he is."

"He's gonna be bigger than the sport," adds his manager, Kenneth Sowles. "But it depends on how much he wants to work it. He could be the greatest skier of all time, or he could quit after next year and go play golf."

Miller already seems to be losing patience with the demands that stardom brings, the endless interviews and annoying travel. "You're always being scooted around," he says. Follow him after a race or at training camp and you're likely to catch him in a bar downing Red BullÐandÐvodkas with adoring babes (he recently broke up with his girlfriend of two years) rather than glad-handing sponsors and the press.

"He thinks the medals and awards and ceremonies are a pain in the ass. He just wants to go skiing," says Phil McNichol, 40, the U.S. men's alpine head coach. "He's approaching this rock-star status. And we have seen that completely derail someone's career."

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