Every time I reach the top of the pipe, I think about trying a Crippler and something stops me. I’m pretending that it’s common sense. That if I injure myself today and can’t perform tomorrow, my sponsors will quite rightly find a more productive athlete to back.

Deep down, though, I know it’s fear.

The pipe is rammed. All week, British snowboarders have been flying or driving in from wherever they were training this winter, and they’re all here today, pushing their limits. A couple of girls whom I met at the Brits last year come over to say hi, including Claire Donnahue, reigning British number one; Brent is cranking out huge airs, sore knee strapped up; Curtis seems to have nailed his Haakon flips; Dale smashed his wrist and headed down early to see the physiotherapist.

But I’m only dimly aware of it all. I came close to landing a couple of my Crippler attempts yesterday, and I think I know what I did wrong. Should I? Shouldn’t I? I could try just one . . .

But what’s this? The lift operator is roping the pipe off because it’s four o’clock. Damn. I’ve been so busy thinking about Cripplers that I haven’t focused on the rest of my run. In a daze, I walk over to where I left my backpack.

Curtis is chatting with Nate Farmer, who came third in the Brits last year, behind him and Brent.

“Heard you’ve got some new tricks,” Nate says.

Curtis feigns surprise. “Did you?”

I notice he doesn’t answer one way or the other.

Nate smiles. “I guess we’ll see what you’ve got tomorrow.”

Curtis shrugs. “Too icy to try much.”

When I know full well that icy conditions won’t deter him.

Odette approaches, short hair hidden beneath her Rossignol helmet. “How was your day?”

I force a smile. “Not too bad. I’m still in one piece.”

She’s gone out of her way to be nice to me since Saskia buried me two weeks ago.

Sensing she’s about to ask what I’m planning in the comp, I gesture to Curtis and Brent. “Which of them do you think will win tomorrow?” From watching their runs earlier, I’d be hard-pressed to say.

“It depends what the judges are looking for,” Odette says. “If they prefer the technicality of the tricks, then Curtis. If they want size, perhaps Brent.”

Saskia comes over to get her backpack, looking smug. With good reason. She’s going to beat me tomorrow, unless she screws up badly. Which she won’t. She’s nearly as consistent as her brother, damn her. I thought that by wanting it enough I could make it happen. But she wants it just as much as I do and she had a ten-year head start.