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The last jump and fall you just saw was by Walter Steiner
Walter Steiner landed at exactly 179 meters.
That's this mark, and this mark is, in fact, the point
where ski-flying starts to be inhuman.
Walter Steiner was in very great danger.
If he'd flown 10 meters more,
he'd have landed down here on the flat.
Just imagine, it's like falling from a height of 110 meters onto a flat surface:
to certain death.
Will you be jumping?
I'm all right, but they won't believe it.
You've now exceeded all expectations.
Will you still jump?
I'll have to see If you have any trouble with that eye later on.
Are you jumping?
I don't know.
I have to think. Got to think things over.
My mind's not too clear.
Steiner didn't want to show it,
but it was quite noticeable he wasn't yet too steady on his feet.
After all, his head had struck the ground at 140 km/h.
We didn't find Steiner till 20 minutes later.
He'd gone off alone to the woods.
This was his great moment of crisis.
He later said people expected too much of him
trying to force him into a new world record or see him bleed.
He said: "I feel I'm in the arena, with 50,000 people waiting to see me crash."
Nevertheless, he ascended the run-off tower a third time,
but he didn't know whether he would really jump.
The question was whether he would ever be able to jump again.
I once had a young raven.
That was really something.
It was still practically unfledged.
I reared it on bread and milk, and when it could fly,
it used to meet me or saw me coming on my bike from far off.
I whistled, and it flew onto my shoulder
and came home with me and stayed till I fed it.
Sometimes it waited at the roadside when I came from school.
Suddenly I heard it cawing.
I looked around and saw it was my raven.
And he came flying straight to me.
Unfortunately, he kept losing more and more feathers.
Maybe it was the food it ate.
The other ravens plagued it.
The row started early in the morning.
They cawed.
he tried to flee, of course,
couldn't get away, and fell down.
So I'm afraid I had to shoot him.
It was a torture to see him being harried by his own kind
because he couldn't fly anymore.
I ought to be all alone in the world,
just me, Steiner, and no other living thing.
No sun, no culture,
myself, naked on a high rock,
no storm, no snow, no banks, no money, no time, no breath.
Then, at least, I wouldn't be afraid.