This is the outside podcast with Paddyo.

I have such an interesting relationship with pain because over the years I've learned how to shake hands with it because to me it's a sign, hey, I came to this race wanting to give it all.

And I'm so psyched because when I get to that level where you're tasting blood,

your legs are going numb, I'm like, I'm doing it.

Like, I'm going to cross that finish line knowing that I gave what I came to give today.

And I'm going to have no doubts, you know, like, because sometimes there are races where I cross

the finish line and I'm like, oops, like I definitely could have given more out there. Like,

I did not empty the tank. I know I could have gone harder and no one else would know that.

You're the only one who's ever going to know. That's such a cool, interesting, thought-provoking place to spend so much time in.

And I love how you described it, shaking hands with pain. I have to imagine, because this is your

profession, because you spend so much time there, that this has to bleed into your time off skis as well.

How does that relationship with pain and knowing that you can push into something

very difficult and you cannot just like push into it for a little bit, but hold onto it and

continue to do the thing for a very long time. How does that show up in like everyday life?

I mean, when I make coffee, it's very intense.

I love the Olympics, and that love is genetic. In 1976, after graduating from college,

my dad backpacked through a wintry Europe. One of his must-see stops were the winter games in Innsbruck, Austria.

Whilst scalping tickets to watch Dorothy Hamill skate for gold, he and his Olympic-level mustache

were mistaken for Mark Spitz, the torpedo in a speedo who swam to seven golds in 72.

My dad has never explicitly denied being more proud of that moment

than he was at my birth. He and my mom bought their very first rabbit-eared boob tube, just so they

could watch the Lake Placid games in 1980. And as they added my siblings and I to the brood,

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