Most of my memories are tied to my family, to Vermont, to my roots.

The mountains, the snow, the fire.

The old ski lift, built by my grandfather Mickey, decades ago.

He was an athlete.

Then a soldier, on the battlefield in Europe during World War II, against the Nazis.

Then an engineer who, starting from an old car engine, built the first ski lift in our long history.

And finally a coach, a great coach, capable of bringing all 4 of his children to represent the United States of America at the highest level.

It's a strange feeling, talking about it now, a mix of the obvious and great discoveries, things that are always new, that change when you think about them, even though I've known them forever.

I know I've known them forever.

Images.

Simple thoughts, almost taken for granted, perhaps even sacred, and as sacred untouchable, carved in stone, and impossible to change.

Not now, not ever.

And yet, at the same time, they are also completely different sensations than you might imagine. Pervaded by a sense of sweetness, of sharing, rather than the epic aura of a mythological tale.

A warm sensation of simplicity.

Here, simplicity.

Sometimes talking about my origins, which are seemingly larger than life, at least

talking about skiing, good stuff for a movie or a TV series, makes it difficult to truly

convey to others what I felt, day by day, growing up in such an environment.

Grandpa died when I was little, but Grandma Ginny (Mimi as us grandchildren always called her) was the center of all family life, a true matriarch, in body and soul.

In spirit and in everyday life, for each of us.

One generation at a time.

I remember their old house in Richmond, and how my mother, my aunts and uncle, and all my cousins always lived it as if it were theirs too.

It was as if it belonged to all of us, deep down.

The most traditional of Vermont’s lives, lived outdoors, in the wild world of mountain children, brave almost to the point of recklessness, with more ideas than time to realize them, with so many questions and no time to wait for answers.

The coldest months spent fishing through manmade holes on the frozen lakes.

The summers running in the fields.

The games, the discussions, the dreams of the future.

Living inside the garden of nature, its guests.

Like that time, when my mom, sister and I, returning late by car, found the driveway occupied by a deer, who was watching us.

She was watching us and we were watching her.

Enchanted by her beauty and unsure of who, in the end, was the real owner of that land.

In the winter our rhythms changed, and the whole family began to revolve around the ski club. Everyone skied, each according to their own age, skills, ambitions, will.

Everyone taught.

And everyone learned.

Watching those older than us, admiring them, worrying about what the next step would be. Skiing was part of us.

Not a family business.

Not a forced choice.

But a piece of our DNA.

I learned to ski when I was two, and it couldn't have been otherwise, but it was neither a real decision nor an imposition.

Neither a cause nor an effect.

It was simply the truth, in the Cochrans family.

And one might think that having an uncle and 2 aunts who participated in the Games, or having had a mother who was an Olympic champion, in Sapporo, in 1972, or having 5 cousins, 5 different cousins, all capable of being part of the U.S. Ski Team before me, could have somehow created a competitive environment at home.

A sort of pressure.

Real or perceived, whatever.

Visible or invisible.

A necessary desire to compete with them and excel.

To put myself on the family map. To demonstrate that I have the talent to do it.

But no.

Nothing.

Never.

Partly because time is very valuable.

Even more, when you're young.

A year, two years, three years of difference completely changes perspective and ability. If you are a teenager who is just starting to ski hard, making comparisons with those who have gone before you is completely useless, because you cannot put on skis and compete seriously, side by side.

A few months are enough to make that comparison impossible, from a technical, mental, physical, even muscular point of view.

And not only did it not work, but I was not even interested.

But it’s not only this, that has protected me from the weight of an enormous family legacy, from the responsibilities that our family name brings with it.

I was immune to it, even before I truly understood it.

Because there has always been a very powerful normalizing force at home.

A latent sense, in the marrow, of community, that calmed everything else.

The ability to always, and in any case, be children, and parents, and nephews and cousins, before students, before athletes, before skiers.

Seeing others move forward, achieving great things has always allowed me to know that it was “possible”, that greatness in sports really does exist, that it is within reach, that there is a path to get there, after all.

But also that it is not what defines us.

It does not define any of us!

And it never will.

It is liberating, and it was before I even realized it.

Even today, when we all get together, for some big and important national holiday, like Memorial Day weekend, what we paint in the garden is the most classic American portrait.

Someone grilling.

Kids jumping in the pool.

The great old men of the house talking about what it means to be parents, or grandparents.

Generations that mirror each other, without even knowing it.

Talking about basketball and football.

No one is just a skier.

No one is just an athlete.

And this is what remains most, when I think about my childhood, and my beginnings.

A path that began on a slope that bore and still bears the family name, but that never asked me, explicitly or not, to take charge of it.

That never asked me to do anything other than be Ryan.

A small resort, without many resources, community oriented: the roots of a simple existence, much more though than the story itself might suggest.

A financially challenging life , but rich in everything else.

And an experience that I would like all the children and young people in the world who love skiing to have.

Especially now, when professional sports have reached levels never seen before.

Now, when sponsorship and prizes are so substantial that they push parents to consider their talented children as an investment.

An economic investment, not an investment in future happiness.

Talent is not measured by a family's bank account, but by the heart and the grit of every little boy or girl who kicks out of the gate for the first time ever, and looks down

without fear.

Who falls without worrying about their reputation or their knees.

Who enjoys the fatigue that comes with it.

Who looks at others to learn and not to envy.

This is our definition of talent, and for 4 generations of Cochrans there has been no other unit of measurement. And I have never wanted anything more than to be a part of it.