Quite often people say: “imagine if you had started on the snow in the Alps, how good you would have been, how much better you would have been.”

But I never really looked back like that.

My journey was my journey, and I made the most of what I had, when I had it.

That’s also why I reached the top 30 only in my late 20s, at 28 years old.

I think I had my first top ten just before turning 30, and my first podium at 30.

It simply took me longer to get good on the snow, because I hadn’t been exposed to it as much.

But it also gave me that work ethic I needed to get there.

I still carry it now, and that’s why I’m still able to compete at 38 years old.

I don’t know what success would have felt like when I wasn’t yet mature, so it’s hard to compare with others.

But I remember when I won my first World Cup at 35, standing on the podium, looking back over all the years, all the people who had helped me, all the sponsors, from when I was a kid until that day.

And I thought: “you know what? I did it for them as well.”

I proved that their support was worthy of giving.

I felt a deep pride that their hopes and aspirations for my skiing had come true.

It proved them right: that I could do it.

It was a different journey, a path no one had walked before.

I was a very active kid.

I did all sports. I played football for my local team and school.

I played rugby for my local team as well.

But I grew really late.

So between 14 and 17, when the other kids were much bigger, stronger, and faster, I often felt behind.

But I could still compete on the dry ski slopes in the UK at a good level, thanks to my talent, my will, and my family’s support.

My dad was a big ski fan, even a fanatic, and he coached me on the plastic slopes.

When I was young, my dad instilled in me a strong work ethic and the importance of valuing every opportunity.

Whenever we could afford to go skiing, it was about making the most of it, doing the best we could.

I’m not sure my parents truly knew what they were getting into.

Now, as a father myself, I understand what it means to strive to support your children.

I can relate to what my parents must have felt when I was just four or five years old.

My family was unbelievably supportive.

I didn’t know at the time how much they had actually sacrificed.

They were just ordinary people, without high-flying jobs.

My mum was a hairdresser, and my dad worked at the market, then retrained as a gas engineer to pay for my skiing.

They were always behind me and my sister, dedicating their lives to their children.

They gave everything they earned to their kids.

That’s my fondest memory of my parents: that everything was about giving us the best opportunity they could.

As I matured, when I bought my own house around 30, I started wondering:

“Could I do what they did for me? For my child?”

The question still remains, but I know I’ll try my best.

In my late 20s, I realized how much life costs, how many hardships it carries.

That’s when it dawned on me: could I make the same sacrifices for my kids?

And then I remembered the sofa.

They had the same sofa for 25 years.

When it broke, instead of buying a new one, my dad bought a piece of plywood and slid it under the cushion.

It was fixed. It worked again.

That’s how we handled sports and its difficulties: by fixing, by adapting.

A valuable lesson, especially when I faced the world’s highest level basically without a team for many years.

Now, in recent seasons, younger guys are coming through, and the future looks bright.

For the last three years, I haven’t felt totally alone.

But before that, I was on the road alone.

Training alone.

Pushing myself alone.

One thing I always asked for was that my service man and my coach be British and around my age, so that on the road—250 days a year—we shared the same upbringing, the same interests, the same fun.

I tailored it that way.

I wanted people around me I could both trust and learn from.

It was a smart choice, and an important one.

At the end of the day, I still love what I do.

I still enjoy waking up in the morning, trying to be the best athlete I can be—whether in the gym, on the bike, or running.

My whole life revolves around training.

Even when sessions are tough, I try to create an environment where it doesn’t feel like training.

I love skiing.

I love being focused on improving.

Sooner or later, my age will become the defining factor.

That’s why I’ve decided this will be my last year.

But I still love it, and I’m still motivated to chase another win, another podium.

The cherry on top will be the Olympics, in Milano Cortina.

Who knows what I’ll feel on the Olympic podium, after this long road?

Who knows how much of this journey is truly my own, how much belongs to my parents, how much was shaped by the geography of a land without mountains, where I learned to ski on dry slopes?

Who knows how good I would have been if I’d been born in the Alps; or how much worse, if my parents had bought a new sofa instead of fixing it, taking me to training one less time?

Who knows what kind of athlete I’d be if I hadn’t traveled the world alone, for so many years?

And who knows what I’d think of my career today, if I’d given up when results weren’t coming?

All questions I don’t need to ask myself.

Not now, not at the end of the season.

And probably never.