Skipass 2009, the true story

This story is about a man knocking for the yearly heating system check, who saud to be one of the founders of the Skipass ski and snowboard races, a joke invented to spend some more time in the indoor poor ski slope with friends for grabbing the rich prize of one case of lambrusco d.o.c.  and a medium-quality ham.

He said he was the first to teach the Kratter brothers how to tighten their snowboard boots. His nickname was Freccia, and he told me all that now looking at the dismantled boiler, then at a skateboard hanging on the kitchen furniture, his eyes bright and weeping.
“The latest Skipass editions are terrifying” he said, “I remember the more or less composed Hun hordes swamping the booths of  winter resorts smelling special offers for cheap skiing and snowboarding when it always snowed much, very much”.
Lived we better when we lived worse? A simple point of view.

It’s true in a way, at Skipass 2009 the stakes are high and draw athletes from all over Europe to beat up and be banged in races and demos, to the parties, around the stands looking for cheap drinks, dropping on giant big airs, from skyscraper-high or wooden roll-ins.
The visitors do the rest and keep the tradition alive, Hun hordes wildly crowded around the structures, more or less composed to booths full of any sort of snow and street apparel.
Santa came on earth with a coach, the sledge is too small and his deers too dated.

It’s a defeat, you can feel it by glancing at the vanquished and dead-beat faces of the booths staff at the end of every day.
But the general enthusiasm’s always at the top, as usual.
It comes that, after years spent to live the event 24/7, the excitement of watching humans flying over your head turns into addiction. And now we want more, we want to live what’s behind and around and beyond.

And it happens that our Skipass becomes a Thursday night opening dinner made of gnocco. tigelle, salami and cold pork meats, inevitable fat, wine and beer as tradition teachs.
And Kaos in the dark Off throwing us in the ‘90s and the rough beating rap.
And a cargo of friends from Val d’Aosta, let’s say we are back home with them.

And a more or less skaters, mountain bikers and bmxers unauthorized session. Just a few were present, maybe the security was too busy in keeping the audience far from the snowboard ramp during the qualifications to care for them. But we were standing right there waiting for it to get the report, and off we go!, looking for the crew lost in the stands among bottles of Vov, Heineken, Red Bull, Vodka-Fanta.

And the indoor skate park with bmxers and skaters trying to friendly crippling each other…but respect, always!
And the More with the Vans Party, and its hair guitar contest with flying checked shirts and bare-chested in stage diving.

And profane among sacred, a day off  as far as possible from brains and wisdom, in the mountains with bikes, good company, pasta and meat sauce, home-made bread, good wine, roast chestnuts, steps-up, drops, slithers, scratches, bumps, cold, bbq for dinner, dogs, the Halloween night @ More once again, confusing blonde and dark demon ladies, werewolves, vodka lemon and rum&coke.

And back to the fold to the free skiers and skaters finals in the sunset, dislocated shoulders, Ale Barbero lifting off without a pedal and with blown inner tube, the Daboot team and their backflips setting our minds on Dalfarra and the hope to see him back on saddle very very soon,  voiceless speakers, heavy heart, we came to the end.
Does it matter who won?
Bye bye baby. See you next year, same place, same time, same good sensations.