The doors on the aerial gondola open and off steps Terry. His limp is slight, barely noticeable. The ache in his knee is a testament to his journey and proves it’s another cold and snowy day at Thornbriar Resort. Skiers rocket down the slopes as Terry trammels through some slush on his way to a shift at The Roundhouse–a chalet-style restaurant perched on the side of the mountain.

Although overcast, Terry is the only one, waiter or customer, wearing sunglasses indoors. Hot pink Wayfarers under spiky, salt-and-pepper hair coiffed to perfection (if perfection is a devil-may-care look).

Terry is rough-hewn but handsome. He’s a touch weathered, his square jaw shows the slightest stubble. As he descends into his late-50s, Terry possesses a casual confidence. One might say: if Terry were any more laid back, he might fall over.

While on his feet all day, his knee awards Terry a dull ache. To keep his knee warm, Terry does his best to hover around tables close to the warmth of The Roundhouse’s large central fireplace. The music is a throwback to the 80s. This seems to be the period where ski resorts are still stuck as they pump in Whitney Houston, Duran Duran, or Huey Lewis tunes. 

Behind his signature pink Wayfarers, Terry delivers another round of brunch bubbles to the hens at table seven. These hens, self-styled influencers, donned in a plumage of rustic western-wear, unknowingly set him up when they ask for his recommendations on the menu.

As a fixture at this institution, Terry delivers a line that is nothing less than pure genius:

“Ladies, here’s what you do… You get the fondue. Comes with apples, bread, grapes, and cornichons. You dip these in the fondue… You get the French Fries. You dip these in the fondue… You get the elk meatballs… you dip these in the fondue… You get the Caesar Salad… ladies… don’t dip the salad in the fondue!”

The powder-dry delivery of his deadpanned punchline lands with enormous success. The hens who hung on his every word are thrilled, titillated, as they order those items without hesitation amid raucous laughter and clinking glasses.

Despite his years, Terry’s charm remains a sharp edge, biting and piercing as the driven snow. A few of the hens’ hungry eyes follow him as he turns to the kitchen to place their order. Table seven is no doubt a women’s weekend getaway. Their migration to cold climates comes with a mood to keep warm as they perceive the speed of Terry’s gait as casual nonchalance.

What the hens at table seven don’t know, will never know, is that Terry was America’s best chance for alpine gold at the ‘88 Olympics in Calgary. Men’s slalom was his event and he was untouchable. But, the weather is a fickle mistress. Terry’s race had been postponed a full day due to high winds–92 mph gusts that could peck out your eyes.

One day… that’s all it took. During that time, Terry (then, barely 20 and fearless) would shatter his patella while exiting the hot tub after a light-to-intermediate day of training. One wet tile, his full body weight, his kneecap breaking the fall with the precision of a ballerina’s pointe shoe, could only be described as a fall from grace. America’s hunger for gold was gone in seconds. Terry’s competitive edge would follow within the next four years.

Today, the limp is less noticeable as he makes his way to the next table where sits a mixed group of skiers clad in bright neon-colored snowsuits–a further homage to 80s kitsch. The table asks for lunch recommendations.

Terry doesn’t miss his mark:

“Here’s what you do… You get the fondue. Comes with apples, bread, grapes, and cornichons. You dip these in the fondue… You get the French Fries. You dip these in the fondue… You get the elk meatballs… you dip these in the fondue… You get the Caesar Salad… and, you guessed it… don’t dip the salad in the fondue!”

Practiced to perfection, Terry wins over the group of skiers. They peal with laughter and order the fondue and other suggested sides along with a round of beers.

Terry glides to the kitchen to place the order. The smell of woodsmoke, fontina, Gruyere, and gouda permeate The Roundhouse. Terry, our champion, breathes it in along with the small fame of adoring fans.