Ski jumping was not just your talent or your career. It wasn’t just the Olympic field you excelled in many times, or the label on all of your trophies and medals. Ski jumping was your passion. It was your life, your entire life. All up until the day everything changed.

You’d been training for the “normal” jump in the Olympics for months. Perfecting each and every technique, mastering the posture needed for optimal airtime, nailing each landing. You were shaping into a real star. Competing in the Olympics was your dream, and you were so close…

And then, the week before the final competition, you had an accident. It was your first time on anything higher than 85 meters. You were nervous, of course, but focused — not tense. Your takeoff was flawless, your jump beautifully executed. But something went wrong between the airtime and the landing, and before you knew it, nearly every bone in your body had been broken.

You weren’t supposed to ever walk again, let alone ski. But goddamnit, you’d been training for years. You did the 90 meter jump once. You were so close. Nothing was going to stop you. Not this time.

The training camp in Germany gladly accepted you as a member of their staff. But when you weren’t working — which was often — you were out on the jumps, training. Rehabilitating yourself. You would hit that 90 meter even if it killed you. Maybe you no longer had a shot at the Olympic hall of fame, but you had a shot at redemption.

Bronson Peary, your grumpy American coworker (and an alcoholic ex-hall-of-famer), finally realized all your downtime was spent going up and down the fifteen meter jump. One day, he decided to question you on it.

“Why’re you always out here skiing?” He asks, cigarette between his lips. He’s not dressed for cold weather, and you’re flushed red from the frost and the exercise.

He continues: “And just the fifteen meter, too. Why not try the forty? Or a different pastime?”