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Outside magazine, November 1998
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Thinking About Machine-Man (cont.)

VAULTING HEAVEWARD, with a stout tailwind that seems to have picked up where his own kinetic force left off, Maier thinks,"You just lost the gold medal." For a brief moment he appears to be flying gracefully, as though it's still possible that he could stick his landing and redeem his mistake, but then, as he reaches the apogee of his arc, it becomes clear that the trajectory is all wrong. Training, technique, and force of will mean nothing now. Maier furiously windmills his arms in a futile attempt to right himself; he's going head over heels, tumbling through space, on his way down toward the icy hardpack.

 Maier tells me that his schedule may permit him to accept my invitation to take him and his girlfriend out to dinner later in the week.

To pass the time, I take to watching the "Wetterpanorama" broadcast on Austria's TV 1, a show that's composed entirely of live feeds from one gorgeous alpine valley after another, a continuous spool of real-time vistas from Glocknerstrasse to Saalbach-Hinterglemm. On mountain summits all across Austria, TV cameras perpetually swivel back and forth, robotically capturing the scenery — dells, lakes, glaciers, snow-dusted peaks — in a droning metronomic gaze, 365 days a year. "Wetterpanorama" is both mind-numbingly dull and hypnotic, an ordered synthesis of nature and technology that seems essentially Austrian.

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[more]

On the evening we've agreed to go out to dinner together, Petra Wechselberger swings by my hotel and rescues me from another "Wetterpanorama" session. She picks me up in Hermann's new, cobalt-blue BMW 325 convertible, and as soon as I hop in, she gives me the bad news.

"Hermann says he's sorry but he can't come," she announces. "He hates to go out to restaurants — too many people."

We drive over to an Italian place in the next dorp. Heads start to turn as we walk in, and gradually it dawns on me that people think we're on a date. It doesn't bother Petra. "They say Hermann and I aren't getting along anymore," she says. "There are rumors we're breaking up."

Petra is 24 and has long brown hair and a flawless olive complexion. She's a kindergarten teacher in town. "The kids tremble when they see Hermann," she says. "They look up at him in fear." She began dating Maier when she was 15.

Petra tells me she wants to get married and have children once Hermann's racing days are over. Clearly, however, she's growing impatient. "He trains and trains until he can no longer see straight, until he can no longer stand up," she says. "At the end of the day, he'll call me and say, 'Please, please, I'm so hungry!' He wants his food waiting when he arrives."

What's he like to eat?

"Macaroni and cheese most of all," she says. "He'll put away three plate-loads and then collapse in front of the TV."

What's he like to watch?

"Mr. Bean cracks him up. Mostly, he likes action movies. He says anything with Stallone is good."

What music does he like?

"He doesn't like music."

Books?

"No."

Does he go out with friends?

"He doesn't have friends, really, not close ones. Ever since he was a little boy, he's never been the type of person who needs other people."

Does he ever go skiing, you know, just for fun?

"That's the last thing he'd ever do. In the 10 years I've known him, we've skied together four times."

Petra sighs and fixes a hollow gaze on the menu. "The years have just gone by," she says. "He's always exhausted. He never wants to go anywhere. He never wants to spend money or have fun. He just wants to train. Back and forth, back and forth, between Flachau and the gym. Sometimes I think the man is some kind of an alien."

His left shoulder and the back of his head make the initial contact. There is a concussive crunch and then a messy clatter of flying ski poles and snapped bindings. He bounces, somersaults, skids 50 feet before smashing into one snow fence, flips once more, and plows through another snow fence. It seems to go on forever. He pinwheels two more times and then lands face-first in the deep snow along the margins.

 After a few long, motionless moments, Maier pulls himself to his knees. Although he is in excruciating pain, he has the presence of mind to wag an index finger at a camera, so that his mother, back in Flachau, will know he's OK. He stands up, brushes off the snow, and flexes his shoulder to make sure nothing is broken. He waves away the worried officials, clicks back in, and skis the rest of the way down the mountain.

 He has a bruised sternum, a dislocated left shoulder, a badly bruised disk in his lower back, and contusions everywhere. His right knee is soon hideously swollen, but early the next morning, Maier is back on a stationary bike, still training, still getting ready for the next race ...

 Three days after the crash, Maier astonished the world, first by showing up at the Olympic Super G course at all and then by winning it by a half-second margin. Three days after that, he won a second gold, this time in the giant slalom.

Maier watched the videotape of his Olympic crash for the first time over the summer, having forsworn a viewing all spring for fear it would affect his last few World Cup performances. His reaction was curious. Instead of being amused or horrified, he became cross with himself, irritated at his own negligence.

"I see the video and I say only one thing," he told me. "That man is out of order!"
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