[Libertas Omnium Maximus]

A plume of icy sludge crashed roughly upon the face of Elisa McKey as she skidded around the final gate in the Women's Alpine Downhill event. A sort of lingering tenseness, which had overtaken the 26-year-old skier's extremities just as she launched from the gate, caused McKey to feel as though her legs and arms were being slowly pulled out of their sockets in some twisted ritual. In fact, the rookie athlete's mind was so distracted by the tearing sensation in her limbs, along with the blistering wind, which penetrated like daggers into the soft flesh of her exposed cheeks, that she had completely surrendered control of her rhythmic serpentine turns to an internal auto-pilot. The dreams of an entire lifetime now rested on the shoulders of McKey's training and innate spiritual connection to the wind-swept mountainside, which had no choice but to bare her gracefully through the greatest challenge of her life. 

A common misconception held by many who have never truly experienced a moment of athletic nirvana is that time slows down to a near standstill as champions near the apex of their greatest feat. It's assumed that, at least for a few millionths of a second, the men and women who have reached the highest echelon of their event are left in a state of pensive serenity. This is false, entirely so, in fact. Nothing about McKey's run felt serene, peaceful, or the culmination of anything whatsoever. Quite the contrary, in fact, her descent from the mountaintop was a violent affair, like a huge wave colliding with a moss-covered jetty in a great storm. With every awkward contortion of her body around a gate, McKey felt of stab of panic that she new would never dissipate as long as she continued to ski competitively. She was always standing on the precipice of total failure, even as she rocketed through the final gate and towards the termination of the run. One of her skis being off by even a single degree could send her sprawling into the gaping maw of defeat and humiliation. 

A moment, or perhaps a lifetime, passed before McKey had tossed aside one of her poles and was attempting to kick off a ski. The sky was booming with the loudest round of cheers she had ever heard. before long, McKey was approached by her personal trainer, an older, stoic gentleman by the name of Eric Meryl, who had been coaching some of Libertas Omnium Maximus's best skiers since the early 1990s. 

"How'd I do?" She asked while gulping down breaths of crisp and searing air. Meryl, whose face was largely obscured by a thick, toothbrush-like mustache, showed almost now emotion as he steadied the exhausted athlete and collected her poles. 

"You did the best." He responded suddenly, still not letting on the exact meaning of his word selection.

"What do you mean, "the best"?" McKey inquired, beginning to realize that she may have actually done the impossible. There's no way anyone from Libertas Omnium Maximus could ever actually win an alpine event on the international stage, she thought, especially seeing as the nation maintains fewer than a dozen ski resorts, most of which are small and only operable between late-December and early-March. This would be beyond historic. 

Meryl attempted to respond, but his words were lost as the crowd's cheers reached a deafening level, drowning out all other communication. Boldly displayed on a nearby JumboTron was McKey's record-breaking time: 1:41.82.