The first flight was a quiet one, from Milan to Rome.
A regular journey, nothing special.
A domestic flight, full of career men with briefcases and families leaving for a classical Roman holiday.
The second flight, from Rome to Sofia, was decidedly more eventful.
They boarded us on a shaky, somewhat rickety military plane, escorted by the Soviet army, who watched us with a mixture of admiring wonder and stiff disapproval.
Those were the seventies, and the whole world was held back and divided up, something today’s youngsters would find really hard to believe.
There was the Iron Curtain, Germany was divided in half, though not exactly half, and the whole of Europe looked like the map of a board game of strategy, something like Risk, in constant turmoil.
I’m at the start gate.
I tighten my bindings.
Grab the handles.
Feel my entire body extend from my hands to the board, as if we were a single being.
My feet extend along the board, I can feel up to 50 centimetres in front of me.
I feel everything.
I move the board underneath me and feel how far it goes.
I feel good.
I don’t feel cold, I don’t feel hot, I breathe quietly, my diaphragm is relaxed.
I can see clearly, I adjust my mask a little and feel really centred.
I’m where I need to be, in my place.
And when I feel like this, I know I’ll make good time.
I’ll do the competition well.