Biography

At the Nagano Olympics, he was stripped of snowboarding's first gold medal. The next day, he had the medal back. Today, Ross Rebagliati is a successful marijuana entrepreneur in British Columbia.

By Michel Beaudry

"I wouldn't change a thing," says Canadian snowboard legend Ross Rebagliati. Owner of one of the most notorious gold medals in Winter Games history, the happily married father of three insists he long ago made peace with his past. "Sure, it hurt when it happened," he admits. "It totally changed my life. But it also provided new opportunities for me and my family."

Today the 46-year-old is a successful medical marijuana entrepreneur in British Columbia's bucolic Okanagan Valley (use of marijuana for medicinal purposes has been legal in Canada since 2001, and the country plans to legalize the drug for recreational use in the summer of 2018). His dispensary is called Ross' Gold. It's a play on words, but also a reflection of where he wants to take his company. . . .

To read the rest of this story, see the January-February 2018 issue of Skiing History magazine. To read the digital edition online, you must be a member of ISHA. Not a member? Join today!

 

Chan Morgan Joins ISHA Board of directors

Chauncey “Chan” Morgan recently joined the ISHA board of directors. During a successful career in northern New England, Chan has led businesses across a wide range of industries, including new and traditional media, manufacturing, energy and branded consumer products. Most recently he served as CFO of Senet, a venture-backed Internet of Things (IoT) wireless network platform. He received his BA in history from Dartmouth College and MBA from the Stern School of Business at New York University. 

Chan grew up in the Stratton Mountain (Vermont) ski school, where his mother worked under legendary director Emo Heinrich, and graduated from Stratton Mountain School (SMS) in 1982 as one of the country’s top junior racers. At Dartmouth College he captained the ski team and was named an NCAA All-American and member of the 1985 U.S. World University FISU Team. Chan served as an SMS trustee for 20 years and has two sons attending Burke Mountain Academy. For the past 12 years he and his wife, former U.S. Ski Team racer Edith Thys Morgan, have served as volunteer coaches for regional USSA junior projects and the Ford Sayre Ski Club at the Dartmouth Skiway in Hanover, New Hampshire.  

Volunteers are restoring the childhood house of Norwegian ski legend Thorleif Haug. By Einar Sunde

On August 1 of this year, I stepped off the train at the Lier station, 27 miles west of Oslo, and was greeted warmly by Knut Olaf Kals. Knut is the moving force behind the restoration of the childhood home of Norwegian ski legend Thorleif Haug, who won triple gold at the first Winter Olympics in 1924 in Chamonix.

We drove to a small place called Årkvisla in the hilly northwestern end of the Lier Valley, where scattered farmhouses lie close to the forest. The 18th century house (Haugstua) is now quite charming, but a quick glance around the area was all it took to realize that life here must have been very hard in the early 1900s. Waiting for us was Knut’s friend and fellow volunteer Bent Lønrusten. I was promptly invited inside for coffee, homemade waffles and jam, and a lot of history.

Haug was born in 1896 and the family moved here soon after he started his schooling. In the winter, he skied to and from school. By the time he was a young teenager he was doing physically demanding forestry work, requiring extensive use of skis in the winter. In the process, Haug became a skilled skier and superbly fit. He began competing in local races and by 1919 he had become the most dominant Norwegian skier of that generation (see sidebar). But Knut stressed what Haug’s teammates and competitors said: What really set him apart was the combination of supreme talent with personal modesty and selflessness. In addition, he was a working-class hero at a time of intense class conflicts in Norway, when the skiing “establishment” and a high percentage of the capital’s competitive skiers were from the upper class. Haug touched people in a unique way. Journalists referred to him as Skikongen (the King of Skiing), but to ordinary people he was simply Hauer’n. After his triple gold at the 1924 Winter Games, Haug entered another realm altogether: Norway had been independent from Sweden for only 19 years and, through his skiing exploits and his character, he became the embodiment of Norwegian identity and its skiing culture.

After the 1924 season, Haug married and retired from competition to earn a living as a plumber in nearby Drammen (surfacing briefly in 1926 to compete in the nordic combined at the World Championships in Finland). His sudden death from pneumonia in December of 1934 shocked the country and an estimated 20,000 people lined the streets of Drammen to view the funeral procession and pay their respects. Posthumous honors followed, including the first statue ever of a Norwegian athlete (with Crown Prince Olav speaking at the dedication in 1946) and a memorial race in his honor that continues to this day. But as time passed Haugstua, vacant for years, fell into disrepair.

Knut grew up in the area and was quite familiar with the story of Haug. In 2014 he read an article in a local newspaper that mentioned how many locals were ashamed by the neglect of the old house. With a background in business and marketing, he decided he could make a real difference. By the end of the year he had contacted and convinced Bent and other locals to form Skikongen Thorleif Haugs Venner as an association dedicated to restoring Haugstua and promoting Haug’s legacy. Knut and Bent showed me the impressive array of projects completed to date: replacement of the roof and some structural beams, repair of the chimney, repair and replacement of windows (with period sash and glass), replacement of siding, new insulation and flooring in the attic, and painting and treating the exterior. They’ve also created a cozy interior with period furnishings and a wealth of photos, articles and books about Haug, and related skis and other artifacts. All work to date has been a labor of love by the association’s members and supporters.

Knut emphasized that while the repair and restoration work is almost finished, there is much more to do. They will soon change the legal structure from a simple association to a stiftelse, much like a nonprofit corporation in the USA. Specific projects are in the works on several fronts that connect at various levels to Haug, including a ski-making exhibit in the attic (Haug’s father made skis for the family and others), a ski waxing exhibit (reflecting Haug’s extensive experiments in creating better ski waxes), the establishment of an arboretum on the property (in honor of Haug’s interest in gardening and nature), and programs for children (Haug gave many hundreds of pairs of skis to children). The association is also campaigning to have the statue of Haug

, now in Drammen, relocated to the Årkvisla property, as well as reaching out to local, national and international private and public entities to forge relationships, collaborate on projects and seek support for future activities.

Having witnessed Knut and Bent’s passion for this mission in person, I have no doubt they will succeed. I also know they would welcome visitors by a

ppointment as they welcomed me, though I can’t guarantee you’ll be offered homemade waffles and cloudberry jam. But waffles or not, you will leave Haugstua imbued with the infectious spirit of Thorleif Haug.

To learn more or to visit Haugstua, contact Knut Olaf Kals by email: Knut.Olaf.Haveraen.Kals@polier.no or kals@skikongen.com. The association has a Facebook page at “La oss bevare Thorleif Haugs barndomshjem for ettertiden.”

Einar Sunde is an attorney in Palo Alto, California. Raised in Norway, he is an amateur ski historian, ISHA director and jury member for the ISHA Awards.

 

A woman world champion and a man before his time. 
By Edith Thys Morgan

Erik Schinegger leads the life of an Austrian world champion skier. The 68-year-old runs a thriving children’s ski school on Simonhöhe, one of the ski hills on which he learned to ski, in the farming community of Agsdorf. Off the beaten track from the celebrated ski areas in the Arlberg and Tyrol, people come to this area in the Carinthian Alps for quiet vacations, in winter to ski, and in summer to relax by the lake. Along with his wife Christa, Schinegger has welcomed them over the years at his two hotels and lakeside restaurant, and is every bit the local celebrity. 

As much as his path—from humble farming roots and homemade barrel-stave skis to athletic greatness—resembles that of other Austrian champions, Schinegger’s story is unique. 

Schinegger’s winning downhill run at the 1966 World Alpine Ski Championships in Portillo was recently memorialized in a film celebrating the 50th anniversary of the event. That downhill title, however, is not listed on the Austrian Ski Team’s own list of achievements, and appears inconsistently in record books. Schinegger’s name populates Ski–DB.com, the comprehensive ski racing results database, but no longer appears on Wikipedia’s page of world ski champions. Instead, the 1966 title is attributed to France’s Marielle Goitschel. Where the name Schinegger does exist in the record books it is as Erika Schinegger, the woman he once was. (To see the Portillo film, go to http://www.skiportillo.com/en/blog/50-year-anniversary-of-portillo-world-champs/. The Schinegger footage begins at 6:16 minutes.)

I first heard of Erik Schinegger on the eve of my first World Championships competition in 1987. Our first stop, before getting credentials for the event, was for gender testing. We looked at our trainer, in equal parts horror and disbelief, and he assured us we would be keeping our clothes on. It would be a simple process of swabbing inside our cheeks for a saliva sample. But why? “Apparently there was an Erika who turned out to be an Erik,” he said. We had the test, and later chuckled that our official “Certificates of Femininity” might come in handy at Ladies Night, if there was ever any question. 

Later that evening I asked Nick Howe, the journalist traveling with us, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of ski racing history, and he confirmed the barest of details about what the Austrian Ski Team referred to quietly, if at all. Erika had been a spirited and well-liked member of the Austrian ski team and in Portillo had won Austria’s only gold medal. In the run-up to the 1968 Olympics it was discovered, through the very same test I’d just had, that she had male chromosomes, and was thus disqualified from the Olympics. She underwent surgeries, and the transition from Erika to Erik apparently had been successful. Erik even attempted to compete on the World Cup as a man, but it didn’t work out. That synopsis left a lot of unanswered questions. A year after that conversation with Howe, in 1988, Schinegger explained much about his ordeal in his book, Mein Sieg Über Mich (My Victory Over Myself). It described in detail the remarkable journey from Erika to Erik, a triumph that was hard-won and painful. 

Schinegger was born on the family farm in Agsdorf, to a mother who looked quizzically at the baby’s genital area and a father who would have preferred a male farm hand to a fourth daughter. The midwife congratulated the couple on their daughter, who grew up as an energetic tomboy. Despite her father’s disdain of athletics, Erika learned to ski by looking at pictures of Austrian greats and walked 14 kilometers to her first ski race at age 12. Starting dead last, in the 314th starting position, she won. She skyrocketed through the ranks first of the provincial and then the national team. In her first World Championships, in Portillo, 19-year-old Erika won the downhill gold. 

Austria embraced the fairytale, celebrating her with an extended nationwide victory tour. Agsdorf showered her with gifts and a hero’s welcome. Schinegger, who was earning success in technical events as well, seemed poised to make a run at her dream of winning three gold medals at the upcoming 1968 Olympics. For Kneissl, the Austrian Ski Team (ÖSV) and the people of Carinthia, Schinegger was a source of pride and economic opportunity.

In the fall of 1967 the fairy tale suddenly unraveled. In order to quell the suspicion that Eastern Bloc male athletes might be competing as women, the International Olympic Committee instituted gender testing for all female athletes prior to the 1968 Olympics. Schinegger and her teammates had the newly implemented saliva tests in Innsbruck as a routine part of their Olympic preparation. Later, while at a training camp in Cervinia, Schinegger was called back to Innsbruck. There she was greeted by a tribunal of six men—physicians and ski officials—who informed her that based on the results of the test she could no longer compete in the Olympics or on the ÖSV. They had prepared a statement for her to sign, announcing her retirement from sport for personal reasons, and strongly encouraged her to disappear—on a trip they would arrange—until it blew over. Bewildered and bereft, she signed the statement, but on the condition that she return to the clinic under an assumed name, for thorough testing. Two weeks later the results were conclusive and devastating, though in retrospect not entirely surprising. Erika was a biological man. 

The urologist presented her with a choice: she could undergo plastic surgery and hormone therapy to continue life as a woman, thereby preserving her athletic career, the gold medal for Austria and the honor of her hometown. “Medicine can make you a woman,” he explained, “but never a real woman.” Alternatively, he continued, she could choose another, more painful option: She could have surgery to release the male sexual organs that had developed internally and become the man she was meant to be. Against the wishes of her parents, the ÖSV and her ski sponsor Kneissl, Schinegger—who had since puberty immersed herself in sport to bury doubts and fears about her sexuality—chose the latter. 

On January 2, 1968, Erika checked into the Innsbruck clinic under a false name, wearing women’s clothing. Over the next six months she endured four painful operations with no support or companionship. Words she uses to describe that time are loneliness, despair, confusion, depression, fear. She studied men’s ski technique on TV and a German etiquette guide to learn proper male behavior. On June 13, 1968, dressed in men’s clothing ordered from a catalog under a cousin’s name, Erik emerged. In a fast new Porsche, he drove away from the hospital and into an uncertain new life. 

Within days, while competing for the first time as a man in a bike race, Erik revealed his transition at a press conference in Klagenfurt. The news stories were sympathetic, but the townspeople and the ÖSV were not. Adulation for Erika turned into embarrassment and shame about Erik. Villagers avoided him, and stared when he sat on the right side of the church—the male side—for the first time. The town of Agsdorf, which had given Erika a leather-bound document availing her of a two-acre plot of land on which to build a pension, reneged on it. The document read “Erika” not “Erik,” they reasoned, so it was no longer valid. 

Of all the pain he endured, however, the worst was not being able to ski race. “It was through skiing that I felt love,” Schinegger explains simply. Only his former coach, Hans Gammon, welcomed him to an ÖSV camp, where the awkwardness with teammates was surmountable, but the hostility from the federation was not. Despite strong results against the likes of a young Franz Klammer, head coach Franz Hoppichler—under the directive of the federation—banned Schinegger, first from training camps and later from all opportunities to advance to the national team. Even after shining in time trials and winning three Europa Cup races, he was disallowed from the national team and blocked from competing for another country. Eventually, at age 21, Schinegger gave up the fight to race. 

He passed his ski school certification in 1973 and took over the Simonhöhe ski school in 1975, the same year he married a pretty young woman named Renate. The couple had a daughter, Claire, in 1978. In 1988, he published his book and publicly gave his gold medal to Marielle Goitschel. In 1996, for the 30^th anniversary of the event, Marielle was also awarded a gold medal by the FIS. She then returned Erik’s medal on a televised show in Paris. He had, it seemed, won his Sieg.

A more complete picture of Schinegger’s ordeal emerges in the 2005 documentary Erik(A), by Kurt Mayer. The film reveals the full extent of Erika’s and Erik’s struggles, through the lens of the people who shaped his story: the hometown boys who marveled at her determination, hard work and physical stamina; the mother who questioned the midwife from the start, but never rocked the boat of success (“you could see it always,” she says); the teammates who joked about her unfeminine hair and gait, and wondered why she never showered with them; the coaches who assumed her physique was a consequence of farm labor; and the medical and sport officials who contend that they denied Erika and Erik a future in skiing for her own protection.

While revisiting the people and places of her past, Schinegger shares her early doubts of her sexuality, and her fears of being a lesbian in a small Catholic town in a small Catholic country. She recalls her resolve to keep her secret hidden, even from herself, by immersing herself in the comfort of sport, the only place where she felt a sense of belonging. The most poignant meeting is between Schinegger and Olga Scarzettini-Pall, Erika’s closest friend on the team who won the 1968 gold medal that might have been Erika’s. Pall admits to being sad at losing her friend Erika—“We had a good time being girls”—and darkens when recalling the way the Austrian team took ski racing from Schinegger.

Fellow athletes, though claiming that they “knew it all along,” nevertheless did not dispute the medal or hold Erik responsible. “When I heard she would be able to have surgery and become a normal man, I was pleased for her,” says Nancy Greene Raine, to whom Schinegger was runner-up for the GS title in 1967.

“I blame the doctors and the ÖSV, not her,” says Marielle Goitschel, whose comment alludes to the question on many minds. How could the ski federation have failed to determine her true gender? Some, including Schinegger, suspect they chose to ignore it to protect the medal. Keeping Erika female was a matter of politics, economics and pride for the Austrian team. Karl Heinz Klee, then president of the ÖSV, maintains they were trying to protect Erika’s best interests by discouraging the “transformation,” which they feared would not be conclusive and would lead to a “miserable existence.” To him Erik quickly replies: “It was not a transformation. It was a correction.” 

Erik(A) explores the complicated personal struggles, as Erik tried to prove his masculinity with a series of “crutches.” First was the Porsche, then his prowess with women. His first wife Renate recalls her husband as unsympathetic and overbearingly macho. His daughter Claire talks about growing up with the feeling that her existence was “living proof of his masculinity.” 

Today, Schinegger’s journey is no longer a source of gossip and notoriety but a commentary on acceptance and understanding. Successive forms of gender verification—physical exams, then chromosome testing, then testosterone testing for “hyperandrogenism” —have been deemed humiliating, socially insensitive and ineffective, particularly in the case of athletes like Schinegger who are “intersex.” (Intersex is a general term used for a variety of conditions in which a person is born with a sexual anatomy that doesn’t fit the typical definitions of female or male.) The International Amateur Athletic Federation (IAAF) ceased all gender testing in 1992 and the International Olympic Committee followed suit by voting to discontinue the practice in 1999. Chromosome testing was last performed at the Atlanta Games in 1996. Gender is determined by a complete physical exam by each team doctor. The IAAF and IOC policies state that to “avoid discrimination, if not eligible for female competition the athlete should be eligible to compete in male competition.” Today, someone in Schinegger’s circumstances would be able to compete.

When Schinegger is brought into discussions on gender issues in sport, as with athletes like Jamaican sprinter Caster Semanya (who was allowed to compete at the Rio Games despite elevated levels of testosterone), he is encouraging but honest about enduring the experience. “It hurts but you get used to it,” Schinegger said in an interview before the Rio Games, adding his opinion that, “People should be able to decide for themselves whether they want to live as a man or a woman, once puberty has begun.”

With his second wife Christa, Schinegger has found “true warmth” and seems at peace with himself. Together they run their inns and in 2015 retired from their restaurant on the Urban See. His celebrity appearances include a 2014 stint on Austria’s Dancing with the Stars. He enjoys spending time with his three grandchildren, and proudly shepherds 3,000 plus kids each year through the Schischule Schinegger. 

Life is good, and yet he still rankles at the treatment from the ÖSV. At the federation’s 100^th anniversary celebration in 2008, the program omitted the year 1966 when listing World Championship medals. “They even didn’t mention the silver and bronze medals of Heidi Zimmermann and Karl Schranz,” says Schinegger, “just so they did not have to mention my name.” In 2016, when Austrian TV wanted to make a documentary about the 1966 World Championships, ÖSV president Peter Schröcksnagel prohibited it. The only apology Schinegger received was from the TV producers. 

Schinegger’s story, however, continues to be told. A movie of his life—in the works ever since two Hollywood screenwriters read John Fry’s 2001 story on him in SKI magazine—will be completed this year. The German/Austrian co-production, directed by Reinhold Bilgeri, is being produced by Wolfgang Santner. “This story, of how he dared to do it, has never been told in a movie…and it needs to be told,” says Santner. 

He is philosophical when taking stock of his celebrity appearances, his ski school, his popularity in France after handing the medal over to Goitschel, the 100,000 copies of his book that have sold, the documentary and the upcoming movie. “Had I been ‘fixed’ at birth I would not have had these opportunities,” he says, reinforcing what has become his life’s motto: Stein sind da, um sie wegzuraumen. Translated literally, the phrase means “rocks are there so we can remove them”—and challenges so we can overcome them. 

 

 

Edith Thys Morgan is a former member of the U.S. Ski Team and frequent contributor to Skiing History. Read her blog at www.racerex.com and see “Foreign Relations,” her article on international ski racers competing for American colleges, on page 24.

INTERVIEW by Yves Perret

In an exclusive interview, Jean-Claude Killy recalls the first season of the World Cup, 50 years ago, when he won 12 of the 17 races, all of the downhills, and finished on the podium in 86% of the races he entered, a record never surpassed.

The winter of 1967 remains one of the most memorable in alpine ski competition history. Not only did it introduce the new World Cup—skiing’s first use of a season-long series of competitions to determine the world’s best—it also resulted in an astonishing, never-to-be-repeated record. Jean-Claude Killy won 12 out of the 17 slalom, giant slalom and downhill races on the calendar. He finished on the podium in 86 percent of the 29 races he entered. 

In an exclusive interview with sports editor Yves Perret in the last issue of Skiing History (January-February 2017), Killy told about the origins of the World Cup, his motivations, and his early victories in the historic first season of the World Cup, which this year is celebrating its 5oth anniversary. Part Two is the conclusion. 

Killy had just won both the downhill and slalom at Wengen, Switzerland. Now came a high point of the season—the classic Hahnenkamm competition at Kitzbühel, Austria. . .

Kitzbühel was a special moment. What was it like for you?

Competing at Kitzbühel is the most exciting thing imaginable for a ski racer. You’re in Austria, where skiing is the national sport. We were challenging the guys who embody skiing itself, cheered on by an immense crowd of spectators. I was respected, but my relationship with the Austrian public could be complicated. To relieve myself from the pressure of fans surrounding our living quarters, I sometimes would even send Jean-Pierre Augert, who looked a lot like me, to go into the crowd and sign autographs. 

Winning in Kitzbühel is every skier’s dream. That year I won the downhill, the slalom, and the combined, and I became the first—and still the only—skier to achieve the double-double win in Wengen and Kitzbühel, or triple win including the combined. Nowadays we don’t realize what that represented, but winning the combined was important even if it didn’t count for World Cup points and was a mathematical point combination.

In the Hahnenkamm downhill, the world’s most difficult and dangerous, I came in ahead of the German Franz Vogler by 1.37 seconds, and I beat the course record held by Austria’s Karl Schranz. 

The Kitzbühel slalom is magnificent—staggeringly varied, with sidehills and rhythm changes. The atmosphere can be hostile for rivals of the Austrian team. You have to stay in a bubble, keep concentrated, be removed from the noise and the pressure, focusing on your own run. I was the fastest in both runs of the slalom. I beat by more than two seconds the Swede Bengt-Erik Grahn, who was one of the best slalom specialists of the era. 

I’ll never forget the atmosphere that weekend. The local ski instructors carried me across on their shoulders to the podium to receive my awards. This would have been unthinkable a couple of years earlier. “Superman on Skis!” headlined the Austrian daily Kronen Zeitung the next day.

After that victorious weekend, Austria’s greatest racer, Toni Sailer wrote, “Killy is practicing a different kind of skiing, a kind of skiing that is a step above that of the best skiers. His wins are those of an all-around athlete who has reached maturity.” By then I had scored 151 out of the maximum of 175 achievable points at that stage in the season. Austria’s Heini Messner, who was in second, had 75 points.

The winning streak continued with the downhill in Megève…

The Emile Allais course was very demanding, with the Bornet face being the most difficult and dangerous section of all of the international downhill races I’d competed in. I beat the Swiss Hans Peter Rohr by two seconds. . . my best downhill ever. I was amazed by the lead. It was my eighth consecutive win. We were in the last days of January, and the 1967 World Cup downhill title was already mine.

Périllat came out ahead in the slalom. He apologized for having beaten me. He had especially wanted to beat Austria’s Karl Schranz, our perpetual rival. I was sick and I fell in the first run, but I finished second anyway, and I won the combined.

I didn’t compete in the World Cup slalom at Madonna di Campiglio, Italy. I took two weeks off. I was imitating Toni Sailer in a way. Before his triple gold medal win at the 1956 Olympics, Toni took several days off from skiing. “That’s what you should do,” he advised.

After resting, I made a comeback at Chamrousse in the February pre-Olympic races, where I won the downhill, as I would the following year in the real Olympics, when I again followed Toni’s strategy of taking a week off. 

Throughout my career, I took inspiration from other top racers in order to optimize my skiing. I watched the way Adrien Duvillard carved his turns. I even copied the weightlifting exercises that I saw Soviet high jumper Valery Brummel do on TV. In 1952 at Val d’Isère when I was a boy, I watched in amazement when Italian champion Zeno Colò started so violently that the starter, who had put his hand on his shoulder, was carried down the hill.  

In the weeks that followed, I continued winning. The season was about confronting each race, one day at a time.  At Sestrières, Italy I won the Kandahar downhill. I liked the course and the beautiful section coming into the forest. We pulled off an all-French podium in the downhill: Killy, Orcel, Périllat. I also went away with a win in the combined. 

The season ended in the USA in March. What was your experience there?

I was on a cloud. I had no doubts, no worries, no anxiety. Going to the States was something we’d been looking forward to. I was close friends with the American racers Billy Kidd and Jimmie Heuga, the son of a French Basque shepherd who had immigrated to the United States. Both were magnificent skiers. I'd met Jimmie in the summer of 1964, my first visit to the U.S. Then in 1965 and 1966 I'd competed in races organized by Bob Beattie. Nothing compared to my U.S. arrival in March 1967, though. A press conference was held when we stopped in New York. We met the governor of Massachusetts. Sports Illustrated, which featured me on its cover three times in my career, ran headlines like “Lafayette, They Are Back.” TIME Magazine hailed me “King Killy.” 

For me, though, the most important thing was to stay on track for the rest of the season, and finish the job.

The Franconia event was very important…

Huge crowds—thousands more spectators than had ever appeared at a U.S. alpine ski event—thronged the slopes of Cannon Mountain, New Hampshire. I won the downhill. I made the last difficult turn above the finish faster than anyone, and it was later named Killy’s Corner. I also won the GS, the slalom and the combined. I had won decisively in all three alpine disciplines, exactly like the gold medal hat trick I performed 11 months later in the Olympics at Chamrousse.

By then I was sure to win the World Cup. It was a special moment of satisfaction, though the season wasn’t yet over.

There were two more events, Vail and Jackson Hole. How did you approach them?

Winning the Nations Cup became the objective that pushed us as a team, not to give an inch. Plus, our own Marielle Goitschel had the chance to win the women’s overall World Cup, which would have been a double triumph for France. It’s always a great moment when you win as a team.

There were four races in Vail: one slalom, one downhill and two one-run giant slaloms. I won all of them. The last race, on Sunday, counting for World Cup points, was held in a terrible snowstorm. 

At Vail, four or five of us shared the same room in the home of our host, Suzie Meyer. It was a fun time. From Vail, I traveled with Louis Jauffret and our friend Bernard Cahier, a famous motor racing journalist, to California, where racing car designer Carol Shelby was waiting for us in his workshop near LA airport. We flew in Carol’s personal plane to Riverside, where we drove all day long on the circuit. 

After a night in Las Vegas, we went to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, for the World Cup Finals. Here two more races—a giant slalom and a slalom—would be held. I was tired; I’d had a sinus infection the previous days. In order to save energy and have a little fun, I inspected the giant slalom course in a sled! I won the race. It was amazing! Including Europe, I had just won nine races in a row—three  downhills, two slaloms, and four giant slaloms. 

In the last race, the slalom at Jackson Hole, I DQ’d. But I had already earned the maximum World Cup points, 75, in each discipline, ending the season with the maximum possible 225 World Cup points. The Evian mineral water company, first sponsor of the World Cup, paid for my father to come to Jackson Hole, bringing with him the crystal trophy. The official presentation was held later in Evian, France.  

The trophy presentation took place in Jackson Hole’s Cowboy Bar. It was preceded by a reception, with free margaritas and pisco sours for all. It was wild night. I remember that the sheriff came to make order in the streets and—I don’t know how—Marielle (Goitschel) dropped him to the floor. He finally understood who we were, and everything turned out okay.  

The season was over, or almost. There were still a couple of races in Switzerland when I got home. I won a GS at Verbier, and Mauduit beat me in Thyon. But it was on the American tour that the bulk of the job was finished.

Who were your main rivals during that magic winter?

The winter of 1967 was notable for an incredible density of talent. No fewer than 14 skiers from seven different nations placed second in the races that I won. In the overall World Cup, I scored almost twice as many points as the runner-up, Austrian Heini Messner. He was a classic skier—a reserved man but consistent and hard to beat. He was followed in the standings by my teammates—Périllat, Lacroix and Mauduit—and my great buddy Jimmie Heuga. Four times during the season I’d found myself on top of the podium with Jimmie.  

It was an era when an amateur spirit was still felt in the sport. There was a real affinity among us skiers from all different countries. Once on the course, we were rivals, but it didn’t alter our relationships. People talked about a rivalry with Karl Schranz, but the battle took place on skis. The rest of the time we got along really well. With all the skiers of that era, there are plenty of shared memories, moments of laughter, and anecdotes.

This incredible season generated a remarkable level of media coverage and fame. How did you handle it?

Media attention quickly came from beyond the few newspapers and magazines that typically cover international alpine skiing. After my win at Wengen, the media following us were no longer the usual ones like Paris Match and the French television show, Cinq Colonnes à la Une. The popular mass tabloids were onto us. They wanted to know everything about us. . . not just our lives as athletes. By the end of the 1967 season, the tour was a media frenzy.

Guy Périllat warned me in January, at the Tennein Kitzbühel, where we traditionally celebrated our success. He said, “Watch out, don’t get caught up in what happens around you. It brought me down after my 1961 season [Ed. note: In that season Périllat won all the downhills, followed by a dry spell that lasted several seasons.] But I know that won’t happen to you because you know how to keep things in perspective.”

With my experience of 1967, I learned how to deal with the constant presence of special correspondents from the French and international press. I had to be able to open the doors, then close them. That was also what I did the following Olympic season in Grenoble. A 30-minute press conference every day and that was it.

The American tour proved hugely rewarding for me. I had offers from sports agents. I was offered $200,000 to join the professional circuit and manage a ski school in the States. A lot was expected of me, but I had to stay focused on the Olympics the following year.

When did you become aware of the exceptional nature of the 1967 season?

I never really grasped it entirely. I didn’t realize what I’d achieved. Of course, there were the numbers: winner of 19 races out of 29, including 12 World Cups out of 17, and seven of the season’s combineds for a total of 26 first-place finishes. But I never said to myself, “Wow, that’s fantastic!” It’s taken me 50 years to realize how remarkable it was.

In Grenoble in 1968, by comparison, things were actually relatively simple. There were three races within a set period of time, at a date identified well in advance, with an objective that was fairly clear. The 1967 season was a more complicated, elaborate construction. Comparing them is like comparing a sprint and a marathon. 

 

In the summer of 1967, I quickly moved on to something new. I had an overwhelming passion for motor sports. I won The Targa Florio with Bernard Cahier and drove 1000 KM of Monza, the 24 hours of Le Mans, and the 1000 KM Nurbürgring behind the wheel of a Porsche or an Alpine. It was good to experience other sensations, and new challenges. Now, 50 years later, I’ve had the pleasure of revisiting this incredible season at the request of Skiing History. Thank you!

Yves Perret, who heads a sports media agency in Grenoble, is former sports editor of the Dauphiné Libéré newspaper, and was editor-in-chief of Ski Chrono.

By Michel Beaudry

Nancy Greene of Canada came from behind to win the 1967 inaugural World Cup overall title by the slimmest of margins in a thrilling final race.

Nancy Greene Raine is a force of nature. A two-time overall FIS World Cup champion (1967-1968) and an Olympic gold and silver medalist at the 1968 Winter Games, Greene Raine was raised in the ski-mad town of Rossland, British Columbia. Her contributions to the sport are legion. Along with husband Al Raine, she was an early promoter of Whistler and Blackcomb Mountains in BC before being drawn east to Sun Peaks in the mid-1990s, where the couple has played an integral role in making it one of the country’s most successful year-round mountain resorts. Her namesake program—the Nancy Greene Ski League—has been the gateway to racing for young Canadians for nearly 50 years. In January 2009, she was appointed as a Conservative member of Canada’s Senate.

In this exclusive interview, conducted in November 2016, Greene Raine, 73, looks back at the 1967 World Cup season, which she won by the slimmest of margins after mounting a late-season comeback.

Only one race left. And the young ski racer they call Tiger knows exactly how high the stakes are. Considered by many to be out of the running for the inaugural World Cup after failing to score any points for nearly two months, 23-year-old Nancy Greene of Canada has mounted an impressive comeback these last few weeks. It started with a third in Franconia, followed by a big-time win in Vail; then came Jackson Hole and a crushing victory in yesterday’s giant slalom. Suddenly her main rival is within reach again. But France’s Marielle Goitschel is still the overwhelming favorite. The only way Tiger can be crowned 1967 overall champion is by winning the slalom today. It’s all or nothing.

Still, Greene is coming into Sunday’s race with a big head of steam. “By this point in the season,” she explains, “I know that if I ski well I can beat anyone. So I’m going for victories, not for fourth-place finishes.” Her giant slalom result on Rendezvous Mountain the day before underscored that attitude: She dominated the one-run race by 1.72 seconds. She’s now only one win away from the title. She knows she can do this.

But the two-run slalom offers its own challenges. “The first run is always a bit of a gamble,” she says. “You want to go flat out and take risks, but you also want to make it to the second run.” Clearly, the same thing is running through the minds of her opponents. For when Sunday’s first run is completed and the times tallied, barely a tenth of a second separates Greene from Goitschel and French teammate Florence Steurer. The ski gods obviously want a dramatic finish to the season.

Who is this Canadian woman who dares to challenge the French skiing juggernaut of the late 1960s? And how the heck has she managed to hoist herself atop the World Cup standings?

Disappointment in portillo

Although Nancy Greene’s story really begins in the remote mountain town of Rossland, British Columbia, one need only revisit the 1966 World Alpine Skiing Championships in Portillo, Chile to get a glimpse of her exceptional drive to succeed.

“I went down to South America with very big goals,” she begins. “I fully expected to be on the podium there.” Makes sense. As a sixteen-year old newcomer to the Canadian Team, Greene had witnessed her mentor and roommate, Anne Heggtveit, win gold at the 1960 Olympics in Squaw Valley. And it had inspired the teenager tremendously. Now, six years later, the experienced racer thought she too could bring skiing glory to her country. But could she really do it? “I was too nervous in the slalom and didn’t perform very well,” she says. “But the downhill was coming up and I knew I was skiing fast.”

Alas, the downhill proved even more disastrous. “I remember my coach quietly telling me in the start gate: ‘Win it! Win it for me, Nancy.’” She sighs. “I guess that got me a little too excited. Near the bottom of the course there was this big roll over a road tunnel. In training, I’d always wind-checked before hitting it. But on race day I decided to take it straight.” Bad decision. “I crashed and somersaulted right into a retaining wall made of ice. I knew I had a good run going. I could even see the finish line…So frustrating.” 

Her best event, the giant slalom, was next. But badly bruised from her downhill fall (and skiing with an undiagnosed fractured tailbone), Greene finished just out of the medals in fourth place. 

Meanwhile, the French team, Les Bleus, had dominated the championships: Two out of every three medals had gone to them. As for Marielle Goitschel, she had won everything but the slalom…and only teammate Annie Famose had skied faster in that race. 

But Tiger didn’t come away from Chile entirely empty-handed. Says Greene Raine: “Rossignol had just come out with a new fiberglass ski they wanted me to try, called the Strato. So I tested a pair in La Parva before the World Championships. And I loved skiing on them. But I decided that I shouldn’t switch skis before such a big event, and I hid them under a huge stack of ski bags so I wouldn’t be tempted.”

Nancy returned home with her new skis and an even greater determination to win. “My coach, a former racer called Verne Anderson, also lived in Rossland,” she says. “And together we trained with a veteran who’d been a fitness trainer in the military. He knew nothing about skiing. But he knew everything about weight training.”

Greene had another secret weapon. The Canadian Team was now based out of Notre Dame University in nearby Nelson, BC. “It was so practical to have a place where everyone could live and work and study together,” she says. Smiles. “Besides, training with the men’s squad meant there was always somebody to chase.”

Things were also progressing well on-snow. And the more she skied on her new Rossignol skis, the more Nancy realized how much they suited her style. “They were 207cm giant slalom skis, and they really set me up for the season. In those days the thinking was that fiberglass skis were great on hard snow but you needed metal skis to go fast on softer snow.” She stops. Laughs. “Well, I trusted those Stratos so much that when I left for the first European races of the 1967 season, I left my metal skis at home.” 

It was a radical decision—and a risky one, given the dramatically different way ski races were being organized that year. “We really didn’t know much about this new circuit called ‘The FIS World Cup’ when we got to Europe in January,” she says. “I’m not even sure the Canadian Ski Association fully understood what was going on. We were all a bit surprised by the changes.”

And yet from the moment she came charging out of the gate that year, Tiger made her presence felt. Two World Cup races in Oberstaufen, Germany (a slalom and a giant slalom) and a gap of 1.24 seconds between her and the next finisher in the GS. At the second World Cup stop, in fabled Grindelwald, Switzerland, Greene won twice more, this time adding downhill points to her mounting World Cup lead. Five races, four victories. The Europeans were in shock.

Greene continued to ski well, if not quite at the same scintillating pace. In Schruns, Austria she was third in the slalom and fourth in downhill. Though they were closing the gap, the French women were still behind in the race for the overall crown.

But the members of the Canadian Team had race obligations back in North America and were scheduled to return home. Would Greene be forced to accompany them? “It wasn’t common practice to leave athletes behind to compete on their own in those days,” explains Greene Raine. “But at the last minute, our coaches decided that my teammate Karen Dokka and I would remain in Europe for one more event.”

They didn’t have it particularly easy. “We were responsible for everything,” she says. “We even had to prep and wax our own skis. Still, it was a lot of fun. It felt very liberating to be left alone like that.” But the lack of team support began to show and she failed to earn any points at the next two races in St-Gervais, France. Still, when she left for home in February, many on the circuit were convinced Tiger was making the biggest mistake of her career. By missing the last European stops, they argued, she was leaving the door wide open for her rivals to score points.            

The World Cup points formula was complex that year: only the top three results in each discipline would count toward an athlete’s total in the race for the overall title. “But my dad, the engineer, had crunched all the numbers,” she says. “He was confident that there were still enough races in the spring for me to make up the point deficit.”

And so was Nancy. “I knew that I had to start strong in those first March races in New Hampshire. And if I could do that, well…” Although it was less than the victory she needed, Tiger managed to scratch her way onto the giant slalom podium in Franconia. But it was during the slalom the next day that she had her big revelation.

“The Canadian Team had been working with plastic boots since the previous spring,” she remembers. “One of our coaches, Dave Jacobs, had struck a close relationship with Bob Lange and so the Canadian men had been testing his boots for some time. Well, my feet were so small that it took Lange a long while to make a boot my size. But by March of ’67 they were done, and I received my first pair just before the slalom in Franconia.” A pause. “I remember skiing with them that afternoon. I couldn’t feel a thing. ‘I can’t ski with those,’ I thought. ‘Way too stiff.’”

But the skies cleared that night and Nancy watched the day’s mushy March snow freeze into a hard, firm surface. “I was still struggling with my decision: go with my soft leather boots or try the stiff plastic ones. But then I realized: ‘It’s going to be boilerplate tomorrow. What better time to use the new boots?’”

It wasn’t love at first try. “I was all over the place on my first run… skiing really raggedy. But I got the hang of those boots by the second run and skied really well. Unfortunately I didn’t finish—I caught a tip near the bottom of the course. Still, I knew what I could achieve in those boots with a little practice.”

She never looked back. By the giant slalom in Vail, Greene was in full form again, winning the run by more than half a second. Only the World Cup finals remained. “My dad was still tabulating the points,” says Greene Raine. “’All you have to do,’ he said, ‘is win the last two races and the title is yours.’”

Last Stop, Jackson Hole

For some athletes the pressure would be unbearable. But Tiger thrives on it. Like a laser-guided missile, Greene launched into her Grand Teton weekend by blowing her competitors away in the season’s penultimate race. By the next day and the start of the slalom’s second run, Greene was in a three-way tie for the race lead. The overall title was now within her grasp. But the Canadian had to win the run.

“The course-setter for the second run has provided the racers with a choice,” she remembers. “There’s an elbow set halfway down the course. The rhythm goes one way, but if you jam your skis hard, you can straight-line the gates, and come out of the elbow with way more speed. But it’s risky…” 

Greene sees the trick passage during inspection and thinks, ‘I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m going to shoot the gate.’ But it might prove costly. While most of the women take the easier route, the racer just ahead of her attempts the straighter line, catches a tip at the top of the elbow and takes out all the gates.

Now it’s the Canadian racer’s turn to worry. “There I am standing in the start gate thinking to myself: ‘If they re-set the course any different than it was, I’m hooped.’” 

Meanwhile, the announcer at the finish line is whipping up the crowd. What he doesn’t know is that there are loudspeakers at the start too. Says Greene Raine: “I’m still in the start gate, waiting for the course to be cleared, and all I can hear is the emcee saying over and over: ‘The next racer is Nancy Greene. She needs to win here, folks, second place isn’t any good.’” She laughs. “I think it’s around the fourth time that he says ‘this could be the most important moment in her life’ that something snaps inside me. ‘This is ridiculous,’ I think. ‘It’s Easter Sunday. Look at the view. What a beautiful place this is.’” She pauses for a beat. 

“I’ll always remember that moment,” she says. “It was like an out-of-body experience. And it put me in just the right frame of mind to race that final run.” Another stop. More laughter. “Well, I shot the gate just like I’d planned, and made it safely to the finish line. I think I beat Marielle by 0.07 of a second in the total time.” But it was enough. Tiger had just won history’s first ever World Cup of skiing by the merest of margins: four points (176-172). It was a racing tour de force rarely matched since. And it ensured Nancy Greene’s place in the ski pantheon of all-time greats.  

Sa saison 1967 est un plus grand exploit que son triplé olympique. Dans une interview exclusive, Jean-Claude Killy se souvient de la première saison de la Coupe du monde, il ya 50 ans, quand il a remporté 12 des 17 courses, y compris toutes les descentes, et a terminé sur le podium dans 89% des courses qu'il a entrées, un record qui n'a jamais été surpassé.

Interview de Yves Perret, Skiing History Magazine, 2017.

Read this story in English.

Cinquante ans après, la saison 1967 reste un des moments les plus aboutis de l’histoire du ski alpin. La première Coupe du Monde de l’histoire coïncide avec un de ses exploits les plus marquants.

Vainqueur de 19 courses sur 29, dont  12 de Coupe du Monde sur 17, et des six combinés de la saison dont la Coupe des Nations pour un total de 25 « 1st places », Jean-Claude Killy a remporté le premier globe de cristal avec le maximum de points possibles (225) soit 101 points d’avance sur l’Autrichien Heinrich Messner, son dauphin.

Autre chiffre incroyable, il a terminé 88.9% des courses ou combinés auxquels il a participé  sur le podium…

En juin dernier, chez lui, à Genève, « King Killy » comme l’ont surnommé les journaux de l’époque, nous a reçus. Sur la table, il a ouvert les épais albums où sont classées avec méthode les coupures de presse qui retracent les moments forts d’une destinée hors normes. Sur un cahier où sont inscrits ses résultats, d’une écriture rectiligne, une phrase : « La victoire aime l’effort ».

Pendant plusieurs heures, Mister Killy est redevenu le meilleur skieur de la planète.

 

INTERVIEW

Jean-Claude, comment s’est dessinée la saison 1967 au cours des saisons précédentes?

Cela a été une lente construction, avec des étapes importantes et la même obsession : gagner.

En 1963, je termine onze fois à la deuxième place.

Les Jeux de 1964 à Innsbrück avaient été un désastre technique.

Je perds ma fixation avant dans le slalom. Je chute dans le premier dévers dans la descente. Mes carres avaient été mal travaillées.

Je finis cinquième du géant. Je n’étais pas prêt.

La semaine suivante, je remporte le Kandahar devant Jimmy Heuga, mon copain américain. Ce qui prouve que la base était présente mais que je n’avais pas encore tout résolu.

En 1964, je n’avais pas encore trouvé les solutions à mes problèmes de santé contractés durant la Guerre d’Algérie. J’étais maigre, je n’avais pas d’endurance.

Je faisais des coups comme au Critérium de la Première Neige en 1961 mais je manquais d’un système pour avoir de la constance dans les trois disciplines. Se spécialiser, c’est enlever des chances de gagner et je ne le voulais pas.

Je souhaitais mettre en place une organisation qui me permette de gommer un maximum de ces impondérables qui font la spécificité du ski alpin de compétition.

Un des moments importants fut lorsque Michel Arpin a été engagé par Dynamic pour s’occuper de mes skis. Nous étions très complices et il m’avait pris sous son aile depuis mes débuts.

Il était originaire de Saint Foy en Tarentaise, tout près de Val d’Isère, et nous parlions le même patois local. Je savais que mes skis étaient entre les meilleures mains car j’avais une confiance aveugle en lui.

 

Comment qualifiez-vous le processus qui vous a conduit jusqu’au sommet ?

Ma démarche était personnelle. En équipe de France, on passait tout l’hiver ensemble mais avant le premier stage d’automne, chacun avait sa façon de faire. J’étais à la recherche obsessionnellement de ce qui pourrait me faire progresser.

L’équipement était capital. Il était impératif d’avoir les meilleurs skis existants. On ne peut pas perdre une course à cause du matériel car c’est l’élément déterminant. Je skiais avec le matériel de deux marques, Rossignol et Dynamic, sans contrat d’exclusivité, ce qui me permettait de choisir à chaque course la paire qui me convenait le mieux.

Cela impliquait d’adopter une ligne de conduite différente … et de faire des sacrifices financiers dans l’instant.

En 1963, je termine même 2^e du Kandahar avec des skis de descente autrichiens. A Portillo, j’ai utilisé des Rossignol en géant et des Dynamic pour les autres épreuves. Monsieur Bonnet nous comprenait. Le but, c’était de gagner des courses de ski.

J’ai toujours fonctionné ainsi. J’étais animé d’une passion débordante pour le ski, mais tourné vers la compétition.

J’ai fait l’impasse sur les études. Cela laisse du temps… mais cela ferme des portes et peut compliquer la reconversion.

La compétition était une obsession saine car je conservais ma liberté intellectuelle.  Le ski était mon métier.

Pour moi, seule la victoire comptait. Je n’avais pas le choix. C’était simplement ma seule forme d’expression.

 

Quelles ont été les clés de votre réussite?

Il y a à partir de 1965, la conjonction d’éléments qui, liés, ont permis de poursuivre la montée en puissance.

L’organisation Bonnet  qui nous accompagnait vers les sommets en était une.

L’industrie française qui  nous soutenait avec Rossignol, Dynamic, Look, Trappeur, Salomon une autre.

Les stations françaises et les hôteliers n’hésitaient pas de leur côté à nous ouvrir leurs portes pour presque rien.

Nous entrons dans une des plus belles périodes de notre sport avec l’avènement du ski moderne.

Il y a la conjonction de moyens financiers accrus, d’hommes et de professionnels expérimentés.

La diffusion télévisée devient mondiale et contribue à faire des sportifs des mythes.

 

Il règne alors en France une atmosphère miraculeuse. De Gaulle l’affirme : « Nos sportifs sont nos meilleurs ambassadeurs. »

 D’un coup, on passe des dortoirs de l’UCPA à un hôtel quatre étoiles.

J’ai posé une à une les pièces du puzzle et cela ne s’est fait pas du jour au lendemain.

En 1965, je suis élu Skieur d’Or Martini et Champion des Champions du journal L’Equipe, je remporte 9 victoires, je finis sept fois à la deuxième place.

 

Quelle est l’importance de la création de la Coupe du Monde dans la réalisation de cette saison incroyable?

Cela faisait plusieurs années que les skieurs ne supportaient plus de jouer une carrière sur une journée de Championnats du Monde ou de Jeux Olympiques. En outre, à cette époque, il était rare, par exemple, de participer à deux Jeux olympiques.

On était tous passionnés de Formule 1 et, pour nous, la référence, était le classement de la saison de ce Championnat du Monde. L’idée d’un classement sur la saison nous semblait la plus juste expression de la réalité de notre sport.

Nous avons souvent discuté de notre frustration  et de ce qui pourrait résoudre le problème et il nous semblait facile d’adapter cela au ski.  Le plan de la Coupe du monde de ski alpin formulé en 1966 par le journaliste Serge Lang, en collaboration avec l'Américain Bob Beattie, le Français Honoré Bonnet et l'Autrichien Sepp Sulzberger, soutenu par le quotidien sportif parisien L'Equipe et des journalistes comme Michel Clare - et John Fry, qui a ajouté la Coupe des Nations au mix, allait dans ce sens.

A Portillo, on était dans l’aire d’arrivée de la descente après ma victoire. Tout le monde pleurait. Serge Lang me demande : « La Coupe du Monde arrive. Comment vas-tu l’aborder. »

Je lui ai répondu : « Je vais la survoler… » Dans mon esprit, cela ne signifiait pas que j’allais l’écraser mais que j’allais en tirer la quintessence pour franchir une étape dans mon parcours sportif.

S’il n’y a pas de Coupe du Monde, il n’y a peut-être pas cette saison 67. C’est plus fort que Grenoble. Il n’y avait désormais plus uniquement les grandes classiques pour couronner la réussite d’une saison.

Comment qualifieriez-vous les relations au sein de l’équipe de France?

Nous étions liés à la vie à la mort. On s’entraînait ensemble, on s’affrontait tous les weekends

Aujourd’hui encore, nous restons aussi complices que des frères.

Au printemps 1966, on a skié des kilomètres au col de l’Iseran sur le glacier de Pissaillas. On s’est mutuellement nourris de nos qualités, de nos personnalités. Il y a toujours eu entre nous du respect, de l’humilité.

En 1967, Honoré Bonnet était à un an de la retraite mais le système était en place et fonctionnait parfaitement.

Michel Arpin s’occupait de mes skis et des chronos. Je savais que je pouvais m’appuyer totalement sur son savoir-faire et chacun dans l’équipe avait son rôle.

Par exemple, Melquiond apportait son calme et sa sérénité. Nous avons été compagnons de chambre pendant 7 ans sans qu’il y ait le moindre conflit d’égo.

Périllat était le capitaine de route écouté et respecté.

Léo Lacroix amenait son optimisme, sa bonne humeur… et son talent.

Mauduit le géantiste et Jauffret le slalomeur étaient des skieurs magnifiques.

Tous les talents de cette équipe et ces tempéraments additionnés formaient une formidable escouade.

Abordons, la saison 1967… Débutée en décembre 1966 chez vous, à Val d’Isère, par le traditionnel Critérium de la Première Neige…

Léo dit encore aujourd’hui en riant : « Je suis le seul à avoir battu Killy en 1967 en descente » car il s’était imposé à Val d’Isère. Lorsque je le taquine, je lui rappelle que c’était en décembre 1966 …

Le Critérium ne comptait pas encore pour la Coupe du Monde. C’était un beau moment de la saison. Celui-ci est un peu particulier car c’est la première fois qu’il se disputait sur la nouvelle piste de la Daille, la Oreiller-Killy.

La Coupe du Monde débute le 5 et 6 janvier à Berchtesgaden où vous terminez troisième du géant. Mais le premier succès vient quelques jours plus tard dans le géant d’Adelboden, première victoire d’une série de huit en comptant les combinés…  

Je gagne avec le dossard 13. Adelboden a toujours été une des pistes de références en géant. Y gagner, c’est valider une condition physique et des qualités. Le premier succès est un passage important.

 

Vous enchaînez avec deux victoires (descente et slalom) à Wengen. Quelle est l’importance de ce doublé?

Je préférais Kitzbühel à Wengen.

Dans la descente, je devance Léo de 25 centièmes. C’est la première victoire française dans le Lauberhorn depuis Guy Périllat en 1961. Elle a d’autant plus de saveur que les Autrichiens avaient qualifié notre triomphe de Portillo de folklorique et ils nous attendaient au tournant.

Pour toute l’équipe, c’est un moment important.

Je domine aussi le slalom qui est, pour moi, le plus pentu et le plus difficile de l’année.  

Avec ce triplé, puisque je remporte aussi le combiné, j’ai l’impression de rentrer définitivement chez les grands.

 

Kitzbühel, la semaine suivante, est un moment à part. Comment l’avez-vous vécu?

Courir à Kitzbühel était ce qu’il y avait de plus excitant. On était en Autriche, pour défier des mecs qui représentaient le ski, supportés par une foule immense. On me respectait mais j’avais des rapports parfois compliqués avec le public.

Il m’est même arrivé d’envoyer Jean-Pierre Augert, qui me ressemblait beaucoup, pour traverser la foule et signer des autographes.

Gagner à Kitzbühel, c’est le rêve de tous les skieurs. Cette année-là, je remporte la descente, le slalom et le combiné et je deviens le premier à réaliser ce double triplé.

On n’a pas conscience aujourd’hui de ce que cela représente mais remporter, comme à Wengen, le combiné est important même si cela ne comptait pas pour la Coupe du Monde. 

En descente, je devance Vogler d’1’’37 et je bats le record de la piste qui appartenait à Karl Schranz.

Le slalom de Kitzbühel est le plus beau. Il est très varié, avec des dévers, des changements de rythme. Il règne parfois une ambiance hostile et il faut savoir rester dans sa bulle. Je bats le Suédois Grahn, qui faisait partie des meilleurs spécialistes de la discipline de plus de deux secondes en gagnant les deux manches.

Il a régné durant ce weekend une ambiance que je n’oublierai jamais. J’ai traversé la station sur les épaules des moniteurs de ski de la station pour aller chercher mes récompenses. Cela aurait été impensable quelques années plus tôt.

« Superman sur des skis » titrait le Kronen Zeitung, un des principaux quotidiens autrichiens le lendemain.

Après ce weekend victorieux, Toni Sailer a écrit: « Killy pratique un autre ski, un ski d’un échelon supérieur à celui des meilleurs. Ses victoires sont celles d’un athlète complet arrivé à maturité. »

J’ai  alors marqué 151 points sur 175 possibles. Messner, deuxième,  possède 75 points.  

 

La série continue en descente à Megève…

La piste Emile Allais est très exigeante avec son mur Bornet qui est le passage le plus difficile et le plus dangereux des descentes internationales sur lesquelles j’ai couru.  

Je devance Hans Peter Rohr de deux secondes. Je réussis ma meilleure descente. Je suis étonné de l’avance. C’est ma huitième victoire consécutive et le globe de cristal de la descente est gagné.

 

En slalom, Périllat s’impose  et s’excuse de m’avoir battu. Il voulait surtout dominer Schranz, notre éternel rival.  Pourtant, je suis malade, je tombe dans la première manche mais je finis deuxième quand même et je gagne le combiné.

 

Je déclare forfait pour les épreuves de Madonna. Je prends quinze jours de pause et je fais ma rentrée à Chamrousse pour les pré-Olympiques où je m’impose en descente.

Un jour Toni Sailer m’avait raconté qu’avant ses trois victoires de 1956 aux Jeux Olympiques de Cortina, il avait arrêté de skier plusieurs jours. « Tu devrais faire cela » m’avait-il dit. Je l’ai imité en 1967, puis, un an plus tard avant les Jeux Olympiques de Grenoble, où je m’étais échappé une semaine à Montgenèvre chez mes amis Jauffret et Melquiond pour m’éloigner du ski et de la compétition.

Durant toute ma carrière, je me suis inspiré d’autres champions pour optimiser mon ski. Zeno  Colo que j’avais vu emporter le starter avec lui pour sa façon de sortir du portillon de départ, Adrien Duvillard pour sa manière de conduire le virage ou même le sauteur en hauteur soviétique Valery Brummel dont j’ai repris les exercices de weight lifting vus à la télé.

 

Les semaines suivantes, j’enchaîne ensuite sur le Kandahar à Sestrières avec un triplé français -Killy, Orcel, Périllat- en descente et une victoire dans le combiné très recherchée à l’époque. J’aime cette piste et l’entrée en forêt, superbe, le long des arbres.

  

 

La saison s’achève aux USA avec la traditionnelle Tournée américaine. Comment l’avez-vous vécue?

La fin de saison s’est déroulée dans la facilité. Il y a zéro doute, zéro soucis, zéro angoisse. Je suis sur un nuage.

Nous nous envolons pour les USA et c’était un moment que nous attendions avec impatience. J’étais très ami avec les coureurs américains –notamment Billy Kidd et Jimmy Heuga, le fils d’un berger basque français qui avait émigré aux Etats-Unis- qui étaient aussi de magnifiques skieurs.

Aller là-bas, traverser l’Atlantique était toujours un plaisir et une aventure. Pour ma génération, c’était un voyage important. Un de mes rêves d’enfant était de connaître l’Amérique

A la fin de cette saison 1967, cette tournée est un monument médiatique.

J’ai des propositions d’agents. On m’offre 200 000 dollars pour rejoindre le circuit professionnel et gérer une école de ski aux USA.

A l’escale de New York, une conférence de presse est organisée. Nous sommes reçus par le gouverneur du Massachussets.

On attend beaucoup de moi mais je dois rester concentré.

Dans Sports Illustrated, dont j’ai fait la couverture à trois reprises au cours de ma carrière, on peut lire des titres comme « Lafayette, they are back » ou « King Killy ».

Mais pour moi, il s’agit de ne pas perdre le fil de la saison et de terminer le boulot.  

 

L’étape de Franconia est importante…

Je gagne la descente. Une section difficile de la piste de Cannon Mountain est rebaptisée « Killy’s Corner» (Virage Killy). Cette fois, c’est sûr, je gagne la Coupe du monde.

Je remporte aussi le géant, le slalom et le combiné. Ce sont des moments de plénitude rares mais la saison n’est pas encore terminée.

 

Il reste pourtant deux dernières étapes à Vail et à Jackson Hole, comment les abordez-vous?

La Coupe des Nations devient un enjeu pour nous qui nous pousse à ne rien lâcher. L’équipe de France s’impose et c’est toujours un bon moment de gagner collectivement.

A Vail, je gagne deux géants, une descente et un slalom.

Evian, le commanditaire de la Coupe du Monde, offre le voyage à Robert, mon père, qui amène le globe de cristal  à Jackson Hole.

Là-bas, j’étais fatigué, j’avais souffert d’une sinusite les jours précédents.

Je reconnais la descente … en luge pour ménager mes forces et prendre un peu de bon temps.

A Jackson Hole, je gagne encore un géant.

La saison est finie ou presque puisqu’il me reste encore des courses en Suisse à mon retour à Verbier où je gagne, et à Thyon, où je suis battu par Mauduit.

Mais c’est durant la tournée américaine que le « boulot » a été terminé.

Je suis heureux de partager du bon temps avec mes copains.

 

Quels ont été vos adversaires durant cet hiver magique?

C’est une saison d’une incroyable densité avec 14 skieurs issus de sept nations, qui ont pris la deuxième place des courses que j’ai remporté.

Heinrich Messner a terminé à la deuxième place du classement général de la Coupe du Monde. C’était un skieur « classique », un homme discret mais toujours régulier et difficile à battre.

Je me suis retrouvé à quatre reprises sur la plus haute marche du podium accompagné de mon grand copain Jimmy Heuga. C’était une époque encore « amateur » dans l’esprit. Il y avait une vraie complicité entre les skieurs de toutes les nations avec lesquels on partageait de très beaux moments.

Une fois sur la piste, nous devenions adversaires, sans que cela n’altère nos relations. On a parlé de rivalité, notamment avec Karl Schranz mais la bagarre, c’est sur les skis qu’elle avait lieu. Le reste du temps, on s’entendait vraiment bien. Avec tous les skieurs de cette époque, nous avons des dizaines de souvenirs en commun, de fous rires partagés et d’anecdotes.

 

Cette saison incroyable a déclenché une médiatisation et notoriété hors normes. Comment l’avez-vous gérée?

Cela a vite débordé du cadre du ski alpin. A partir de Wengen sont arrivés des médias qui n’étaient pas ceux qui nous suivaient d’habitude comme Paris Match ou l’émission de télé très populaire en France Cinq Colonnes à la une.

Aujourd’hui, on parlerait de presse « people » qui voulait tout connaître de nous et pas seulement de nos vies de sportifs.

En janvier, au Tenne, à Kitzbühel, où nous avions l’habitude de fêter nos succès, Perillat m’avait mis en garde : « Fais attention, ne t’occupe pas de ce qui se passe autour. Cela m’a coulé après ma saison 1961 (nldr : durant cette saison, il avait remporté toutes les descentes avant de connaître un passage à vide de plusieurs saisons). Mais je sais que cela ne t’arrivera pas car tu sais faire la part des choses. »

1967 m’est tombé dessus et j’ai appris à composer avec la présence constante des envoyés spéciaux de toute la presse française et internationale. Il fallait être capable d’ « ouvrir » les portes puis de les refermer. C’est également ce que j’ai fait la saison suivante à Grenoble. Trente minutes de point presse chaque jour et c’est tout.

 

Quand avez-vous pris conscience du caractère exceptionnel de cette saison 67?

Je ne l’ai jamais perçue dans sa totalité. Je ne me suis pas rendu compte de ce que j’ai réalisé. Bien sûr, il y a des chiffres : 12 de Coupe du Monde sur 17, vainqueur de 19 courses sur 29, et six combinés de la saison pour un total de 25 « 1st places.»

Mais je ne me suis jamais dit « C’est fantastique »

Il m’a fallu 50 ans pour m’apercevoir que cela n’était pas commun.

Chaque époque possède ses challenges. Longtemps, ce qui m’a hanté, c’est ma deuxième place en descente à Kitzbühel en 1968. Cela m’a rendu malade. Comme quoi l’esprit se focalise parfois sur des anecdotes.

La saison 1967 est posée dans mon histoire sportive entre les Championnats du Monde de Portillo en 66 et les Jeux Olympiques de 1968. Elle fait face aux objectifs d’une journée, les fameuses « courses du jour J ». Ce sont, pour moi, des exploits qui vivent bien les uns à côté des autres et se complètent.

Finalement, 1968 à Grenoble, c’était assez « simple »… Il y avait trois courses, dans un laps de temps déterminé, à une date connue bien à l’avance, avec un objectif finalement assez clair.

1967, c’est une construction plus compliquée, plus élaborée…

Les comparer, c’est comparer un sprint et un marathon.

A l’été 67, je suis passé à autre chose assez vite. J’avais une passion immodérée du sport automobile. La Targa Florio, Monza, les 24 Heures du Mans, le Nurbürgring au volant de Porsche ou d’Alpine.  C’était bien de vivre d’autres moments, d’autres sensations, d’autres défis.

Aujourd’hui, c’est en me replongeant avec plaisir 50 ans après à la demande de Skiing History dans cette saison incroyable que je me rends compte que ce n’était pas si mal. Thank you, guys !

Yves Perret, qui dirige une agence de médias sportifs à Grenoble, est l'ancien rédacteur sportif du journal Dauphiné Libéré et rédacteur en chef de Ski Chrono.

Many ISHA members have led adventurous lives on snow, but no one has skied and hiked more mountains than Paul Mathews, founder of the Ecosign resort-planning firm in Whistler, British Columbia. Since 1975, Paul has helped to design or fix more than 500 resorts, in 45 countries.

Paul was born in Arvada, Colorado. In the early 1950s, his parents belonged to the Breckenridge Ski Club, so Paul and his two siblings started riding the old Main Street rope tow at age three. When Colorado’s first double chair went in at Loveland, in 1955, Paul rode it.

In 1959, Paul’s dad was transferred to Seattle, and at age 11 he faced the disappointing prospect of skiing through adolescence on Snoqualmie Pass. Happily, Crystal Mountain opened in 1965, and Whistler the following year. After service in Vietnam (he flew as an electronic warfare technician in A-6 Intruders, off the USS Coral Sea), in 1971he completed a BS in forest ecology at the University of Washington. “I chose forestry because the Washington ski resorts had butchered the land, in terms of erosion,” he said. “I wanted to be part of the solution, so I studied soils, wildlife, dendrology and landscape architecture.”

He named his consulting firm Ecosign, as a contraction of “ecological design.” The first contract was to fix the parking lot chaos at Whistler. Then it was on to master plans for Hemlock Valley, B.C. and Mt Washington on Vancouver Island. Mt Washington was an instant success: opening in  1978, it drew 350,000 skier days right from the start. Today the firm employs 20 planners and design specialists.

Highlights of Paul’s career include planning the lifts and trails for Winter Olympic sites at Calgary, Sochi and Beijing. Today the firm is working on projects in Japan, Korea and Central Asia. He’s most proud of a successful redesign of the lift system at a major French resort, where local officials were skeptical that a North American had anything to teach them.

With his wife Linda, Paul travels and skis widely – this past winter, at Zermatt, Laax, Lenzerheide, Davos, Lech/Zurs – then to Utah, playing guide to a Zermatt executive. Their kids are in the ski business, too: Doug, 30, works at Ecosign, and Mari, 29, after working for the Canadian ski team and FIS, now makes a home in Oslo with her ski-coach partner.

Paul is a strong ISHA supporter, and, through Ecosign, a corporate sponsor. “I love the stories in Skiing History,” he said. “We’re in the fourth generation of skiers in North America, and the magazine helps to pull these generations together. Just working in the industry and living in Whistler, I’ve met about a third of the people I read about in the magazine, and want to feel connected to the rest.”  --Seth Masia