I ONCE ASKED JESSE HUNT if there was a moment when he knew the ski team's fortunes had finally turned. Edging the Austrians in practice? He shook his head.

"There was never a big bang," he said. "It's been a slow progression. What we've been able to do with our coaches is create a positive environment for the athletes, to help them reach their goals and have their individual needs satisfied. It's a positive push, as opposed to a more negative day-to-day battle."

That battle involved subtle and not so subtle tactics. Through the late nineties and early naughts, gear, technique, and training were evolving dramatically. In 1996, at the Junior Olympics in Sugarloaf, Maine, Bode Miller, then 18, became the first elite racer in the world to compete on shaped skis—short models with an exaggerated hourglass shape. He beat by more than two seconds the silver medalists in GS and super-G, races usually decided by fractions of a second. By the next year, when Miller joined the World Cup circuit, almost all the racers were using the new carving skis.

In a very short time, racers had to adapt to the new, radically shorter skis. Slalom models shrank from an average length of 200 centimeters to 165. "Not since the introduction of hinged gates in the early eighties have skiers adjusted their techniques so much," Phil McNichol writes in The Professional Skier.

The new skis held an edge better than the old models, which let racers angle their upper bodies more sharply over the

Veteran racers develop an astonishing thickness, with oak trunks, burly thighs, and asses as wide as Karl Malone's. As one ski technician put it, "Da big butts win."

centerline of each gate. The parabolic shape forced the skis to arc more—the skis wanted to turn—which meant racers could execute shorter-radius turns simply by rolling the skis on edge with their ankles rather than driving their hips and knees like they used to.

Hunt, McNichol, and the others didn't just overhaul technique; they changed the very way they coached. Ski racing has a long tradition of old men barking at young men to "Do it the right way!" The new American coaches knew that wouldn't work.

"European athletes tend to accept that one-way communication," Hunt told me one afternoon in Park City. "You're told what to do, and that's the way it's going to be. American athletes are less willing to accept that. They need more two-way communication."

It's no coincidence that Hunt developed this philosophy as the ski team's tech coach in the late nineties while dealing with the young Bode Miller, a notoriously "uncoachable" racer. Hunt knew he had to show—not tell—his athletes how technique changes would help them go faster. One tool he employed was video. Hunt was one of the early adopters of Dartfish, a program that can overlay video images so racers can easily compare their own lines with other racers who are getting better results.

"He'd say, ‘This is what you're doing, and this is what the guys who are winning are doing,' " says Morin. "Jesse put up photos, videos, and times in a way that the athletes couldn't deny."

In Sölden, I sat in on a video session with Ted Ligety, Morin, and assistant coach Greg Needell. We watched a monitor showing Ligety fly down the hill over and over again.

"Good start," Morin commented.

"Nice tuck, too," added Needell. "But you're lifting your skis off the snow here."

Ligety deflected the criticism by trying to joke around. "Air's got less resistance than snow," he said.

"Unfortunately, that's not how it works," said Morin.

"Watch Daron at full speed," said Needell. He pulled up a clip of Rahlves carving down the same section. The difference was obvious. Rahlves tucked cleanly and kept both skis glued to the snow.

Morin ended Ligety's video session with a question: "What are your goals for Sölden, Ted?"

Ligety sighed. The athletes don't often see Bill Marolt face to face, but they deal with his goal-setting edict every week. "Qualify for Sölden," Ligety said. "Race at Sölden. Place at Sölden."

"Go home a hero," said Morin. "I like that."