Milano Cortina Olympics: alpine skiing and hockey (11-02-2026)

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I catch the train in Monza at 7:02 a.m. I was afraid it would be full, but instead it's almost empty, and what's more, those who look like they're going to the Olympics are a minority. I wonder if everyone else left earlier or if there are just a few people leaving from Milan. I arrive in Tirano shortly after 9:30 a.m. (the race is at 11:30 a.m.): I see that there are lots of shuttle buses and not many of us are taking them. They check our race tickets, and someone says they will pick theirs up in Bormio (but aren't they all virtual?). There are also some people interested in the shuttle to Livigno: there is a race there at 11 a.m., which they will see once it has started.

In the end, the shuttle bus fills up almost completely, but it takes a while. After about 45 minutes you can see the slope, the incline is impressive, and shortly afterwards we stop. Walking towards the slope, you start to see a bit of a crowd, who were obviously already here. The thermometer reads +6°C and after a bit of walking I start to feel warm, I fear I might have overdressed, like comedian Totò in Milan, in a famous 1950s movie. I’ll keep my windbreaker open until the sun goes away towards the end of the race: this also gives me the chance to show off my Inter jumper (worn only because it was the warmest I had) and someone will compliment me on it.

At a certain point, there’s a fork between entrance A and entrance B: it’s the first time the entrance marked on the ticket actually matters. I have to stop and check, but later I’ll notice that the sign explains what each one corresponds to, so I could have figured it out on my own. According to the website, the walk should take 20 minutes, but it’s about half an hour: according to my smartwatch, it’s 2.1 km. Maybe they were referring to the other entrance, the one for the grandstand at the end of the slope, but I don’t think there’s much difference.

There’s a bit of a queue at the security checks, but it clears quickly. After the checks, the hardest part begins: the steep climb on the snow to reach the areas beside the slope. They’ve put in steps, but I’m still afraid of slipping, especially when the handrail stops. By halfway I’m already struggling, also because of the altitude, and I wonder how it will be in Livigno, which is much higher up. When I start to see a fine stretch of the slope above, I’d like to stop, but I’d block the flow of people. At the first spot where I could stop without getting in the way, I notice I can see a stretch of slope above, but not the bit right in front of me and, crucially, I can’t see a screen, so I wouldn’t know what’s happening elsewhere. I move closer to the slope and find a spot where, through the crowd, I can just make out the screen.

On the way I’d seen Americans, Canadians, and Finns; along the slope, the Swiss are by far the most numerous (after the Italians, but not by much), followed by the French, who are also in front of me. The race starts, and I discover that the section from the start to where I begin to see is much longer than I’d thought (with racer n.2 , when the announcer gives the time, I’ll find out it’s about 55 seconds), as is the section between when the skier disappears from my view and when they reappear in front of me with a small jump. The stretch between when they disappear definitively and the finish is very short, almost instantaneous: it seems odd that they do that part so quickly when it took me ages to climb it, only towards the end, when the slope clears, I’ll discover that the finish wasn’t at the bottom, but right after the section in front of me. In total, out of 1 minute 25 seconds of the race, I see live about 25 seconds, maybe a bit less.

I start watching the skiers on the screen, then after the second split (I’ll realise this after a few runs) I follow the action live, then return to the screen for the finish. I can’t see the time on the scoreboard and the announcer doesn’t always say it, or if he does I can’t catch it, so I have to keep checking the leaderboard on the app. Nearby, there’s also someone watching the TV broadcast on their phone. The biggest problem is balance: we’re still on a steep, snowy surface, so constantly switching from looking down at the scoreboard to looking up at the slope, I’m always afraid I’ll tumble down. Even worse if I tried to take photos: this time my motto “you either live or film” had a more literal meaning than usual.

In the upper section that I can see, I can’t tell who’s skiing better or worse: among the top names, only Innerhofer seems to have some trouble (no one will fall in that part, all the crashes happen earlier). The last ones, though, are noticeably slower. Von Allmen goes down with bib number 7, makes a few mistakes (which I don’t see) and finishes in the lead by just 13 hundredths: all the other favourites are still to come, so few believe he’ll actually win, I hear someone say that also the Italian TV commentator thinks as much. Franzoni goes next with number 9: I barely see him at all due to balance issues, I hear from the announcer that he’s always behind and finishes fifth. Immediately after it’s Odermatt, who the Swiss cheer much more than Von Allmen: at an intermediate he’s leading, but then he finishes third.

So Italian hopes rest on Paris, but they don’t last long as he loses a ski early, well before entering the section I can see (but I see it clearly on the screen). There’s still a chance for a miracle from Casse, but from the first split it’s clear it won’t happen: when he passes in front of me I notice he barely jumps, so he was slow. The announcer says he arrives sixteenth, without specifying that it means last. Of the others who have gone down in the meantime, none has done better than seventh place, so now we can say we’ve witnessed a historic moment: for the first time since 1968, an alpine skier wins three golds in one Olympiad.

The slope begins to empty: I move slightly higher up, where I find a more stable spot with less view of the upper section, but more of the part in front and, after a while, the finish. I can also see the grandstand at the bottom of the slope and notice there are lots of empty seats: I don’t know if they were always there or if it’s already cleared out. As I said, you can clearly see the last ones are slower, even if it’s not obvious who’s the slowest: the Monaco skier seemed the slowest of all, but he leaves five behind, plus the two who start after him. The Portuguese leaves four behind and celebrates as if he’d won a medal.

Once the race is over, there’s the problem of getting down. Of course, there’s still the medal ceremony, but I’m not sure where it will be so I don’t know where to watch from. Some people slide down seated, a group of Swiss even on a flag: when they reach the path with steps, the volunteers tell them to stand up. I try a bit of walking, a bit of sliding. A volunteer offers to help me, I tell her everything’s under control, but immediately after I nearly fall and accept the help. We reach a terrace where you’re supposed to see the medal ceremony, but it’s too crowded, especially with Swiss fans: I shift a bit to the side and manage to find a gap to peek through.

Heading back to the shuttle, at a certain point I’m afraid I’ve got lost: there are no more signs, in fact the fact there are signs for the accreditation centre would suggest the shuttle pick-up is somewhere else. I ask a group of volunteers, who don’t give me a clear answer, then I ask another who confirms I’m on the right way and actually I find them soon after.

I see that there are more people taking the shuttle to the car park than to Tirano station. Even on the train, those returning from the Olympics seem to be in the minority. Ultimately, the reason why the train was half-empty on the way there was that there were few people in general, many were not coming from Milan and many others had come by car.

I only have time for a quick rest—less than an hour—and then I'm off again for the Italy-Sweden men's ice hockey match. On the metro and around Santa Giulia, you can still see spectators from the previous game, more Slovaks than Finns. One Slovak is even singing an Inter Milan supporters’ chant. Compared to Monday, surprisingly, there’s less queuing both for the shuttle and at the entrances. This time, I’m in the upper half of the first tier: I have a very good view, not only of the scoreboard but also of the action on my side, even the more chaotic moments, though I can see less on the far side—but it’s only in the third period that I’ll finally decide to use the binoculars. There are many sections filled with Swedish fans wearing the national team shirts, one group larger than the others (the sections aren’t phisically separated, of course). Many Italians are wearing historic Milan team shirts, which makes me think back to the evening in 1991 at the Assago Forum when I saw the championship return to the city after 31 years.

It begins: straight away, you can tell the pace is much faster than the women’s game. The hits are also much more noticeable; I’m not sure if it’s just because they’re men or also because I’m closer (and I wonder what it would be like to watch an NFL game from this close). Sweden is attacking from my side and after only 30 seconds, they hit the post, but after four minutes, a long clearance from the Italians, a short rebound from the goalie, Frigo pounces and scores: Italy takes the lead! Sweden attacks relentlessly (by the end of the first period, shots will be 22-3), but they make lots of mistakes and only manage to equalise in the ninth minute, with a long-range shot right at the end of a power play (which will be the only one in the whole match). They’ll then take the lead two minutes before the end of the period.

During the first intermission, I grab something to eat: I first queue at the future market, where I hear the person behind me say he expected a warmer arena, but I suspect there won’t be anything I like and so I switch to the “traditional” bar. I get a hamburger, fries and a drink, which they hand over without the cap, so I have the problem of carrying it: I’m always worried about spilling everything, whether I get jostled or even just on my own.

I get back just 37 seconds after play has restarted and Italy has just equalised! I curse like a Swedish fan—the disappointment of missing it outweighs the joy of the goal itself. This time, Italy responds a bit more to the attacks, even though they have a power play and come closer to conceding a goal than to scoring one. Sweden regains the lead three minutes from the end, in a chaotic action I can’t see very well. At one point, there’s a hint of a scuffle: the “scemo, scemo” (idiot) chant goes up and even the Swedish fans join in with the gesture. In the second interval, I step out, come back six minutes before play restarts, and find the mascot Tina at the entrance to my section. I join in a dance with her (but there’s no one to take pictures).

In the third period, Italy looks more dangerous and has at least one chance to equalise: this time, you can really hear the fans. Hope fades five minutes from the end, with a 4-2 from a long shot into the top corner. Two minutes from time, the Azzurri try a last attack with an empty net, but Sweden scores: it ends 5-2.

The queue for the shuttles is shorter than last time. They open all at once and I even manage to get a seat. Tomorrow: Canada–Czechia.