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Steve MaichPublisher and Editor-in-Chief Remembering Sarah Burke We hoped that our story would mark the start of a miraculous recovery. Instead, it's a tribute to a life lived without fear. Two weeks ago, assistant editor Dave Zarum mentioned that he thought we should do a short feature about a pioneering halfpipe skier named Sarah Burke. She had fought successfully to have her event included in the X Games, and later in the Olympics. She had also campaigned to ensure that female athletes received payments and awards equal to those of their male counterparts on the extreme sports circuits, ending a long-standing and indefensible double standard. If you search her name on YouTube, you'll find countless clips of her hurtling down mountains, performing astounding tricks in the air. We were suitably impressed, and Dave scheduled a phone interview with Sarah for Thursday, Jan. 12. The interview, of course, never happened. On Tuesday, Jan. 10, Sarah had an accident in the superpipe at the Park City Mountain Resort in Utah. At first, we heard Sarah had taken a bad fall and wondered if it would seriously derail her preparations and training for the 2014 Winter Olympics. But soon it became apparent just how serious the situation was, and we sent another of our writers, Dan Robson, to Salt Lake City, to find out exactly what happened on the mountain that day, and to begin to learn about this dynamic young woman whom we never got the chance to speak to. Dan's report on Sarah's life and death ("Nothing seemed out of reach," p. 56) sheds new light, not only on the events of Jan. 10, but on the person behind that 300-watt smile. Over the past week, working on this issue, I came away with some strong impressions of Sarah, but above all I was struck by her courage-- not a reckless thrill-seeking kind of courage, but a quiet determination to test the limits of her skill, strength and dexterity. Part of what draws us to sport is the lure of the impossible. We want to see people leap higher and faster than we would ever dream possible. To do so with the kind of grace that Sarah displayed on the slopes is to perform a kind of illusion. It looks so easy, so natural; the spectator is lulled into believing that it is also safe. It isn't. Safe is not a word that has much meaning for someone like Sarah. You don't win by being safe. More importantly, you don't learn much about what you're capable of either. That's the fire that burned in her belly, and it's why so many found her so inspirational. She managed to be a tenacious competitor while still being a generous friend to teammates and opponents, and an advocate for all those who shared her passion for the halfpipe. To watch her, and listen to her, is to behold someone who seemed to live without fear, and without regret. But every so often something horrible happens to remind us that even the most courageous and skilled and determined are still subject to the limits of the human body and the forces of nature. When word arrived last week that Sarah had passed away, it cast a pall over our office. None of us needed to say so out loud, but we, like everyone else, were all silently hoping for a miracle. Deep down, I think I was half-expecting one. It seemed that the only appropriate ending to this story would be a heroic comeback. We'd see her get up out of that hospital bed, and eventually back onto her skis, and one day we'd see that unforgettable smile again, beaming down from the gold medal podium in Sochi. But that story was not to be. Instead we're left with a void, not only in the lives of those who knew her, but also in her sport, and her country. I'll always regret that we never got to talk to Sarah about all she had accomplished, and all the mountains she had left to conquer. |
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