Continuation from Instagram, re: the Dartmouth ski jump...
In the vivid words of David J. Bradley, who wrote a piece for Skiing Heritage in 2001 entitled 'The Big Jump,'
"Memory steps out on a platform higher than the golf course pines. Once on top the worst is over: you've quit the doubting and fretting, you've lugged your boards up 127 steps while other skiers clattered down. Now you deposit your skis on the icy planks, clean off the snow, pant a moment, then snug your boots into the iron toe plates and feel the heal springs tighten down solidly.
You step in line. The next rider gets a signal from someone down on the knoll. He crosses himself three times, once more just in case. 'Make it good,' he says, banging off the top onto icy tracks. He crouches, accelerating from 0-35 mph in three seconds. The curve to the takeoff lofts him into space. He twists, flails, drops in a clatter of skis, and disappears.
Wait then while someone down there fixes a hole in the hill. You check your bindings, take some deep breaths, and look around over the white peace of the hills—seeing almost nothing. Your job is down there, straight down, down and up and put down where you cannot see and up again—all in one motion.
At last the signal comes. 'Make it good, you say,' to yourself as much as to the next jumper, and slide over the edge. Gravity hauls you down, incredible acceleration, a crescendo of roaring, the takeoff rushes up toward you. Every cell of your body is shouting: ''Hit it right, right at the lip, between the spruce boughs. Up and forward and over your tips.' Centrifugal force glad hands you into streaming air. The knoll flashes under, then the whole giddy panorama bursts open: the sacred hull, the upturned faces, the exact spot where you will land. Float. Float. Jolt. Catch your balance, strain to hold it through the dip, cheeks pulling down, colors going gray—then you're up and out and gliding to a stop, all the bells ringing."