A Baptism by Ice & Adrenaline: My Inferno Race of 2024
Some call it the Inferno. I call it a battle. Long before I stood on that start line, my mind was a whirl of awe and terror. Watching YouTube clips of previous races had introduced me to a wild blur of speed, danger, and legendary resilience. And yet, there I was - fully aware that I was about to face the brutal reality of this infamous descent, one I’d only ever seen through a screen.
When I arrived in Mürren, Switzerland ahead of the race, seasoned racers tried to reassure me. “Don’t worry about the Inferno,” they said. “Eighty-year-olds do it!” What they didn’t mention was that those octogenarians have been ski racing since they were three and probably moonlight as Olympians.
The gondola ride up was like nothing I’d experienced. The air was thick with the kind of tense camaraderie shared by warriors before a fight. There were nods of mutual respect, murmurs of anticipation, and that uneasy silence just before something monumental. Then, in perfect theatrical timing, the gondola operator hit play on AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. The place erupted. Ski boots hammered against the floor, vibrating through us all like the collective heartbeat of a Spartan army. In that moment, I could almost believe we were about to charge down the mountain shield in hand.
When we finally arrived at the top - Piz Gloria, the iconic James Bond location from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service - the scene was pure chaos, but in a manner only the skiing world could understand. Following the steep mogul descend, a wild, self-regulating queue formed for the start line, each of us jostling forward in determined order, inching closer to the moment we’d all been building up to.?
The Inferno has been running for over 80 years, dating back to 1928 when it was the first-ever downhill race. More than 1,800 competitors from all over the world participate, battling through a harrowing 15-kilometre course that can take anywhere from 11 minutes for the pros to 30 minutes for mortals like me. Bib numbers are determined based on your placing position on the following year, so for first-timers like me, you won't even get up onto the mountain until about 2:30 p.m., which leaves just enough time for nerves to completely unravel!
Just before my turn, a stranger thrust a flask of some fiery, mysterious mountain liqueur into my hands. I didn’t ask; I didn’t think. I took a swig, warmed by the burn, and steadied myself.
Then it was go-time. No hesitation. I launched forward, mind blank and body in automatic. As I tore down the slope, an unexpected sight forced me to pull up - a skier, injured, being airlifted by helicopter. Reality check. This was no friendly downhill. This was a battle for survival.
The other racers were a sight to behold. Teams clad in tight lycra whizzed past with names as colourful as their outfits - The Banana Boys, Ski Killers, and others who clearly lived for the adrenaline of moments like this.?
Out of nowhere, one racer overtook me, whipping around a 90-degree turn at three times my speed. Seconds later, he wiped out spectacularly, and I sped past him in a flash, mentally saluting his courage - and misjudgement. The course twisted and turned, each section a new test of nerves and technique, until the final stretch, a steep uphill grind, required the least elegant manoeuvre of all: running with skis on.
It was as if I’d been thrust into the Tour de France, with the slopes lined by cheering, chanting Brits, most of them happily tipsy and draped in Kandahar colours. They bellowed and roared, lending strength to my aching legs as I stumbled my way uphill, propelled as much by pride as by the noise of the crowd.
Crossing the finish line after what felt like an eternity, I was spent in every sense of the word. Physical exhaustion met emotional relief in an overwhelming flood, and I’ll admit, a tear or two slipped out. For in that frozen hell, I’d confronted fear, embraced comradeship, and tasted the fierce glory of surviving The Inferno. It was both terrifying and beautiful, and a part of me will forever belong on that mountain, charging down with my fellow Spartans.
This is a repost from: https://www.bermudasnow.com/inspiration/racing-the-inferno