I hardly know the guy, that is, Bode Miller, nephew; yet: we both, get close to the horse, we both lost younger brothers, we both, oldest sons, cursed with older sister. Both, cry babies. Both, weakness for bar-flies. Both, escaped the clutches of death on Mt. Washington (Tuckerman’s Ravine {cirque}). Both, ripped the heel plates out of 220 cm Downhill skis in a bad crash. Both, won a slalom by 4 seconds. Both, eloped. Both, settle for silver after recovery in big ski race. Both, otherworldly second runs of slalom. Both, unconventional ski racing technique (go at every gate, to hell with consequences) coupled with an advanced physique. Both, exploited the parabolic shape of the racing ski to great effect. Both, a generation apart, win the Fiske Trophy, a locally prestigious event around Pomfret Vt., over the hill from Glenn Benoits Farm! A-yuh! Speaking of over the hill, I was a has been that never was (my dream). We diverged, he went down the road to glory, I went into the woods. My glory was the wheel-barrow, the work-horse!