Jumping off Mountains

If I thought downhill skiers were nuts, then ski jumpers surely swing the derangement dlal to eleven. While there’s not a lot of call for skis in Essex or Cardiff, I appreciate that they are as essential to alpine communities as trainers or a Ford Focus are in these parts. But launching yourself more than a hundred metres off a mountain without parachute or safety net….?

The first time I recall marvelling at ski jumping was during the 1972 Winter Olympics in Sapporo. It also introduced me to the then-implausible concept of Japanese being good at sport. Indeed, they completed an incredible clean sweep of medals on the ‘small’ (70 metre) hill, all viewed in miserable monochrome. I was also inspired to wonder whether the ‘big’ hill winner, a Pole called Fortuna, was genuinely as lucky as his name suggested.

Four years later in Innsbruck, it was an Austrian, Karl Schnabl, who grabbed gold in the 90-metre event but it was the spectacular setting of the Berg Isel venue which captured my imagination.

The camera perched precariously atop the structure showed the jumpers appearing to fly inexorably towards the cemetery of the city’s Wilten Basilika. They didn’t of course; it was just a trick of perspective. Just six months later, we got to visit the Tirolean capital as part of a superb coach tour through Europe. Mum and Catherine dutifully posed by the landing area (below). 

Fast forward six more years to another family holiday, and this intrepid walker traipsed through trees around Seefeld to locate the venue of the 1976 70-metre hill. Gazing alone on a warm August day from the unprepossessing metal tower down to what was then an unphotogenic dirt-and-grass landing area seemed something of an anti-climax. However, at an angle of almost 40 degrees (it looks more!) it was steep enough to remind me what a perilous profession ski jumping must be.

Watching a live event is actually quite boring, with lots of dead time between jumps especially with the coaches delaying their charges’ slide down the ramp until wind speed drops to an acceptable level. Dozens take part, with two runs, so it can last hours. Condense it into an hour’s highlights package and it becomes a gripping sporting spectacle. I find myself on the edge of my seat, almost assuming the squat pose, arms thrust behind me, of the jumper on the in-run. Then, whoosh! They launch themselves into the air, quickly finding an optimum shape of body and skis to enable both maximum length of jump and marks for style. That’s when I can’t help holding my breath until the snow appears to rise to meet the skis. Finally comes the so-called Telemark landing - knees bent, one foot ahead of the other– and with luck an uphill deceleration with arms raised in triumph while the crowd goes wild.

In the Seventies, the flight technique involved keeping our skis parallel. Then, in the Eighties, someone had the bright idea of holding them in a ‘V’ formation. With the body angled between the skis, the resulting increase in aerodynamic lift was proved to boost jump lengths by about 10%. Just like the ski material’s transition from wood to metal/fibre, it was a game changer. Pretty soon, the 70-metre hill was cast aside. That’s for wimps. In the age of ‘Bigger is Better’, the 90m hill was downgraded to ‘small’ while the ‘large’ hill was extended to 120 metres, encouraging jaw-dropping distances of 130+ metres. There’s also a longstanding Sky Flying event for the true daredevils, but I’ve never seen it on TV.

It’s not all about the Olympics, of course. Whilst most of my non-ski-related winter sports exposure was restricted to a few weeks every four years, I discovered at some point in my youth that BBC2 would devote an hour or so on four days around each New Year to the Four Hills competition. While there are many others held across the winter, the jumps at Oberstdorf, Garmisch, Innsbruck and Bischofshofen together comprise the quartet every jumper wants to win. For me, the New Year’s Day post-roast afternoon provided the ideal opportunity to set aside my new diary, forget about resolutions and wallow in the spectacle broadcast from the German resort of Garmisch. OK, so there were no solemn anthem ceremonies, but the bobble-hatted fans in the arena gave it a hearty atmosphere. For me, perhaps it was more a seasonal tradition – like World’s Strongest Man or the Royal Institution Christmas Lectures - than a genuine personal sporting highlight. However, it did mean I didn’t have to wait four years for another tasty helping.

I can’t say I ever claimed any participants as favourites. A few names became familiar, like Strobl, Innauer and East Germany’s Jens Weissflog. However, I consider the 1984, 1988 and 1992 Olympics to be the joint highlights of my ski jumping viewing career, bringing two new whopping winter sports superstars to my attention. I don’t recall whether I watched any of the Four Hills in 1984 but a few weeks later the name of Matti Nykaenen became impossible to forget. In front of 90,000 Sarajevo spectators, the Finn smashed the hill record to win gold by a mile. Torvill and Dean? Bo-ring. This was proper sport!

Ask most Brits to name any ski jumper, and I’m willing to bet the only man to achieve a mention is Britain’s heroic failure, Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards. At the Calgary Olympics he infamously came last. By half a mountain’s length. The true hero was that man Nykaenen who, amidst the bonkers ballyhoo over Edwards, became champion on both hills and in the Team event.

Matti’s blond, boyish looks made him a marketer’s dream, especially in the open professional world. His successor as Olympic Big Hill ski jump king, Toni Nieminen, had an even more cherubic boyish face beneath the helmet. There was a good reason for this; at Albertville he was only sixteen. SIXTEEN! I was enthralled watching such a youngster seemingly suspended on concealed wires, transported by an out-of-shot helicopter. The flying ‘V’ formation resembled an inverted Concorde on a voyage through French airspace. And nobody cared that he wore pink….

Strangely he never came close to replicating his form that year, and his career stuttered to a halt aged just 27. It’s not always a young man’s sport.  Japan’s Noriaki Kasai’s Olympic crusade also began in ’92 but he proceeded to compete in eight Games, including a very popular second place at Sochi in 2014, aged 41. Wow!

I fear that ski jumping is struggling to compete for the sponsor’s Euro since Freestyle skiing became standard fare in the Games. Ski jumpers don’t do acrobatics, do they? Yet there’s a satisfying simplicity to the traditional sport: men (and women) appear to defy gravity with style and grace. While exponents such as Kamil Stoch and – er – Andreas Wank - can produce great drama, there must surely be a future.