Tian
Marco Bellini,a former Big Air legend, was the official pundit for too many TV channels to mention, and he was with me and Silvan Roth waiting to be counted in for the introduction to the show and a brief interview. I didn’t much like the media attention, but it was the Olympics, and I was here, and I was one of the favorites, so I could give them a little time.
The camera operator counted in, and then a light blinked on.
“Good morning, everyone! Thank you for joining us! I’m Marco Bellini, former Italian Big Air gold medalist, and I’m absolutely fired up to be here for day one of the FIS Snowboard World Cup Big Air event!” he exclaimed, vibrating with energy as the camera zoomed in. “I’m here with the top two seeds for the event, but before I start asking them questions, let’s get into it.”
He waited as the camera panned to the mountains, and the runs we’d be using, and then back to Marco. “If you’re new to this incredible spectacle, let me break it down! Three days of pure adrenaline: qualifiers, semis, and then the grand finale!” Everything he said was layered with so much excitement it was infectious. “Riders can hit speeds of nearly forty miles per houras they fly down the in-run, launching off the towering kicker, and every one of the death-defying flights they do is called a trick. Every trick has to be both clean and progressive—we’re talking mind-bending spins, grabs held as if your life depended on it, and amplitude so big it makes the judges leap out of their chairs.” He leaned into the camera as if he were sharing a secret. “Land sloppily and you’ll get hammered on points!” Then he waved at us, “But these riders stick it clean, and the scores climb, and with them their shot at Olympic glory!”
He gestured at us. “Here with me today I have Silvan Roth, Team Switzerland, with an Olympic bronze in ’18 and a silver in ’22, and also Tian-Lei Cai-Wilder of Team USA, fresh off a strong qualifier.”
We both said hi, Silvan all cool, me with a small wave and a quick rock-on sign—index and pinkie finger raised—that riders and fans always threw out to show excitement. Marco joined in, but Silvan was too cool to do that and laughed at us both.
Marco turned to Roth. “So, Silvan, looking all serious there!”
“Winning is a serious business,” he deadpanned.
“This is your third Olympics. A bronze, a silver, already, so I’m assuming you’re going for gold this year?”
Roth grinned. “That’s the plan.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” I smirked, earning a chuckle from the small crowd beyond the camera, as well as Marco himself, and a mock glare from Silvan.
Marco beamed at us both. “Gentlemen, before we let you go, let’s talk conditions. Viewers at home want to know—what’s the snow like today, how’s the course running?”
Roth nodded. “Perfect conditions. The powder’s packed just right, not too icy, not too soft. It’s fast out there, which is exactly how we like it.”
Marco turned to me. “And the weather? It looks incredible on camera—clear blue skies, hardly a cloud. How does that affect you when you’re up top, ready to drop in?”
“Honestly?” I took the question and grinned. “It’s ideal. Visibility is everything. No flat light, no shadows to mess with spotting landings. The mountains look gorgeous, but more importantly, I can see every detail of the course when I’m spinning.”
Marco clapped his hands together. “There you have it, folks—perfect snow, perfect weather, and two riders ready to throw down!”
My three jumps had been a mix of safe and ambitious. First, I opened with a switch-backside 1440 melon, clean and controlled, a banker to ensure I was on the board. I even spotted my dad at the bottom of the course, standing just a couple of people away from Jack and his sister. My heart leapt, and I waved at them, grinning so wide my face ached. Dad waved back, his whole face lighting up. The barrier was there for a reason, but before the next heat started, I jogged down, ducked around the rope, and wrapped him in a hug. Security didn’t even blink—it was part of the culture here, family meant everything, and riders always got a second to ground themselves. His arms around me, his laugh in my ear, it steadied me more than any pep talk ever could. Then I pulled back, breathless, and I was high on the clean jump and gestured for Jack to step closer. I wasn’t going to hug him on camera, but…
“Jack, meet my dad. Dad?” I lowered my voice. “This ismyJack.”
Jack’s eyes widened, and I think he was going to say something, but before I got into trouble, I was ready to climb back up for my next run. This time, I pushed harder with a frontside 1620 mute, big amplitude, but I over-rotated slightly and had to fight for the landing. The adrenaline rush was fierce,the kind that made my vision blur at the edges. For a split second, I felt the board slide out from under me, panic roaring, but muscle memory snapped me back. I wobbled, fought like hell, and somehow pulled it back under control to land safely. My legs shook as I rode it out, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the crowd, relief crashing through me even harder than the jump itself.
I bumped fists with Dad, then Jack and Fiona, no hugs, but fuck, I was high on life. There is nothing like winning a battle with myself.
For the third jump, I came back swinging with a backside 1800 Indy, stomping it clean—the kind of trick that made the judges sit forward. That combination—safety, risk, and redemption—was what landed me in third overall at the end of day one, not a bad place, tucked right behind Silvan Roth in first and a Japanese rider, Renji Sato, in second. I might not be at the top, but I had a solid foundation for what was to come next.
I wouldn’t lose my shit on another jump like my second.
Brett was just a ball of sunshine, thrilled with his twelfth-place finish, which was just enough to slide him into the semis. He bounded over to chat with Sato like they were old friends, and even Roth gave him a smile. I watched them, amused, then glanced at Roth.
“Were we that young once?” he asked.
“I’m only twenty-seven,” I pointed out.
“And I’m only thirty-one,” he said with a shrug, then his smile dimmed. “But still… last Olympics for me, though, right?”
This was his third Olympics, all while I’d been trying so fucking hard to make the big show, attempting to fight my own impulses to try too hard and crashing out. I’d come good for this year, but that sad, wistful note in his voice made me really see the clock ticking for him, and probably me as well. Maybe I couldmake the team for ’30, maybe keep traveling the circuits a few more years—or maybe I retired.
How easy would it be to give it all up? Impossible. Still, the thought crept in. Perhaps I’d coach someday, passing on what I knew. Working with the youngest kids, shaping the next generation. Maybe even settling into a base in the US, closer to my sponsors, closer to the scene… maybe even near Harrisburg, where the Railers team were and where Jack lived. The idea felt both terrifying and strangely comforting.
At the hotel that night, the coaches from each team scattered around the foyer, comparing notes and laughing over coffees. Brett was so high from his result I nearly had to peel him off the ceiling, buzzing around like he’d just won the whole damn event. Not that I was any better—I was just as pumped, the adrenaline from my runs still burning in my veins. We shot the breeze with a few other riders, catching up on news from the other events, the kind of chatter that made the Olympic Village feel alive and connected. And then I caught sight of Jack walking in, shoulders squared, looking every inch the sexy man I wanted. I froze as I saw him heading for the same door we’d disappeared through the first day we got here. He didn’t even have to gesture for me to follow; I was already moving. Making some quick excuse to Brett, I strolled in that direction, heart pounding as I trailed after him and got yanked to one side as soon as I reached the laundry nook.
