One tough lady

Our team's lone female monoskier is one tough lady. Twenty years old and standing tall at four foot nothing, Tori is leaving Colorado tonight, four weeks earlier than planned, broken. But you'd hardly know anything was wrong.

I met Tori in June last year in Jindabyne at a ski racer development program. At this point she was a stand up skier, using outriggers to help her make her turns. What struck me then about her was her willingness to do and try anything. 

"Ski down there." "OK." 

"Do that three more times." "No worries."

"Are you tired yet?" "Nope."

She had guts and nothing seemed to faze her.

When we met again two months later, she had to transform herself into a monoskier. In order to compete with each other on an even playing field, athletes with disabilities must be classified into groups based on their physical ability. Tori was classified into a group as a stand up skier that would have left her with little chance of ski racing success. But as a monoskier she would have far greater opportunities. The decision was easy, and Tori threw herself headfirst into monoskiing. 

Like I said, she has guts, so after a few laps of Smiggin Holes' magic carpet she was ready to tackle something bigger and better. Two poma rides and several death-defying cartwheels that would have put a gymnast to shame later, Tori was hooked.


Fast forward to the beginning of 2011, spin to the other side of the world and you would find Tori continuing her monoskiing journey in Colorado. You would find her taking it to the boys during training. You would find her sometimes beating the boys at training. You would find her waxing her skis late into the night, even though she could hardly see over the work bench. You would find her tearing along on a snowmobile, making sure she was not breathing anyone else's fumes.

And then you would find her accidentally skiing into the moguls. The view from my vantage point was head-ski-head-ski-head-ski. It was one of those 'what am I going to find?' moments. What I did find was her grinning face and the question, "have you got my helmet?" In all the excitement it had flown off and was waiting in the trough of a mogul, sixty metres down hill. She insisted she was fine and skied out the rest of the day. 

I walked into dinner that night and Tori gave me the thumbs up. Not because she thought I deserved it, but because she didn't have a choice. Her thumb was bandaged halfway up her arm, broken in two places. She just thought she'd jarred it, so didn't say anything because she wanted to keep skiing. Dressed, ready for skiing the next morning, it was broken to her (no pun intended) that she had to pack her bags. It would have been bitterly disappointing, but we could hardly tell - as her bus pulled away, heading for the airport, she was giving us the thumbs up. I'd like to think she had a choice.