What do all the best skiers have in common? A ready stance, a laserlike focus on the moment at hand, and the downslope vision to cope with any surprises.
Watch any good skier, and one of the first things you’ll notice is his composure. No matter the situation, he seems to flow down the mountain without effort or a care in the world. It takes a lot to rattle him, and when the mountain does present him with a sudden challenge, instinct takes over, keeping him well in control of his destiny.
Terrain-based instruction recruits the slope itself as a teacher.
There never has been a truly easy way to learn how to ski—there just are too many moving parts, both gear and human. And that’s part of the sweet satisfaction of becoming an expert rider: It takes a bunch of time and hard work. But there’s an innovative new terrain-focused instruction method catching on at resorts nationwide that strives to shorten the skiing learning curve.
Fischer's ski tuning guru Leo Mussi dishes on the secrets of fast skis.
Leo Mussi knows ski tech. The 45-year-old is Fischer Sports’ go-to tuner for its alpine ski team. Based in San Candido, Italy, he took some time leading up to the Olympics to chat about what makes skis fast.
Pro skiers get all the fame, but it's often the techs that can make or break a race for the pros. What goes into making sure skis are always ready?
Good news for trying to keep up (survive?) with your kids on the slopes. Yeah, you really can teach an old dog new tricks.
“I’m not so sure about this.” That’s the thought playing in my head as I step up to the thick blue mats inside Woodward at Copper’s vaulted space, known as the Barn. Am I nervous about flying down a 41-degree slope of synthetic snow into a seven-foot-deep pit filled with blue foam blocks? Well, yes. Am I nervous about sliding down said slope in front of a dozen 10- to 16-year-old park rats? Totally.
Self-doubt can be paralyzing—or it can be empowering.
In my experience, chutes always look their steepest, narrowest, and scariest from above. So I’m caught off guard by the paralyzing fear that grips me when I’m standing nearly a quarter-mile away from La Parva’s La Chiminea. The tributary cut from the Andean rock walls looks ominous. Catch an edge in there and you’re toast. Are those tears pooling in the foam liner of my goggles? What is wrong with me?