Freeriding and the Olympics

A geologist sees millions of years of history there.
A shepherd sees his summer pasture there.
A mountaineer looks for a route there.
A freerider looks for a line there.
A developer plans ski lifts there.
Others now see it as the site of an Olympic event.

Since the announcement that freeriding would be included in the program for the 2030 Winter Olympics, reactions have been pouring in. For some, it is a historic recognition. For others, it is a betrayal of the original spirit of freeriding.

March 1993: SnowSurf magazine published a few lines about a young American snowboard
, Jamie Lynn

“I’m discovering a whole new way of snowboarding. Jamie doesn’t just string together big turns—he treats the mountain like the street right outside his house. He’s literally skating, playing with the rocky ridges and couloirs just as he would with the sidewalks and concrete curves in his hometown. The difference is that he goes really fast and nails 10-meter-long ollies; he takes the hits and lands big airs, and doesn’t hesitate for even 30 seconds at the top of a 10-meter rock. He only does a few “basic grabs” like the “Tail Grab Indy” or the “Backside Air,” but with his style and incredible height, Jamie is the future of snowboarding.”

When SnowSurf magazine publishes these few lines, it probably doesn't realize
that it is describing much more than just a new way to ride. It is already putting into words a whole new way of experiencing the mountains.

At first glance, it's about a snowboarder. In reality, it's already about a culture.

What’s fascinating isn’t the performance. It isn’t a time. It isn’t even a victory. What’s striking is this new way of engaging with the terrain. Jamie Lynn doesn’t just ski down a slope. He interacts with it. The mountain becomes a space for expression.

In reality, Jamie Lynn isn’t inventing anything. He’s the heir to a culture that’s been around for several decades.

It already existed in California surfing in the 1950s and 1960s, in skateboarding in the 1970s, among the first snowboarders in the 1980s, and even, in a way, among the first skiers who strayed from the marked trails be
, because they were looking for something other than timed performance.

This culture is already fueled by a strong sense of belonging, a certain tribalism, a passion for style as much as for performance, a quest for autonomy, and an instinctive distrust of established frameworks.

Surfing is undoubtedly the most iconic example of this. It began as a cultural practice before becoming a sport: a connection to the ocean, an interpretation of a changing natural element, freedom of movement, individual style, local communities, a rejection of institutions, and even—at certain times—an open rejection of competition. In other words, the culture came before the word.

A few years later, several sociologists would attempt to understand what they were seeing. Alain Loret speaks of a profound break with traditional sports culture. According to him, these new practices no longer place the rule
t the heart of the game, but rather the lived experience, movement, and sensation.

For Loret, the break with tradition is not merely due to the absence of rules. It lies in the fact that the movement ceases to be a means to an end and becomes an end in itself. The rider improvises, adapts to the terrain, and seeks a form of personal expression as much as a performance.

This interpretation is not an isolated one. Other researchers observe the same desire to explore the fringes of traditional sports practices. Roger Caillois sees vertigo as an experience that transcends ordinary social mechanisms. Claude Sobry even refers to “Icarian” practices, given how much these riders seem drawn to the physical, psychological, and geographical limits of their environment.

The rule never disappears. It ceases to be external. It becomes internal. It
becomes experience. It becomes discernment. It becomes judgment. It
becomes responsibility. This is precisely what distinguishes a culture from a set of rules.

People often talk about freedom when discussing freeriding. The word is appealing. It
may also be misleading. Because a freerider is probably one of the most constrained athletes there is: constrained by the snow, the wind, the slope, the exposure, the risk, their technical skill level, or their partners. Their freedom does not lie in the absence of constraints, but in how they respond to them.

This idea of discernment will recur as a central theme throughout this investigation. For it may shed as much light on the history of freeriding as it does on the questions raised today by its inclusion in the Olympic Games.


While freeriding may seem like a new activity that emerged in the 1990s, it
nevertheless shares an unexpected connection with the earliest forms of skiing. Long before competitions, ski lifts, or marked trails, skiing was above all about moving through a natural environment where one had to learn to read the terrain, the snow, and the dangers. The mountain was not a stadium. It was an environment. Skill was not measured by a stopwatch but by the ability to navigate with discernment in an uncertain environment.

In antiquity, it, too, was very far removed from today’s massive institutional machine. It was linked to celebration, physical achievement, prestige, courage, the pursuit of excellence—“Greek aretê”—and a form of confrontation between man and his own limits. There was already an appreciation for exceptional feats, achievements, and recognition by others.

And even for Coubertin, at the outset, the Olympic ideal was not limited to medals, stopwatches, or rankings. His vision was educational and humanistic: sport
should contribute to shaping the individual, developing character, bringing
peoples together, and pursuing a form of human excellence.


In other words, neither skiing nor the Olympic movement originated in the form we
know today.

Over the course of the 20th century, however, these two histories would take different paths.


Skiing became a sport, an industry, and a spectacle—and at the same time
an Olympic sport. At the same time, the Olympic movement became a global institution
, an increasingly standardized organization, and a massive media spectacle
.

In its traditional form, and as skiing became more competitive, it quickly became part of the globalization and media frenzy surrounding the Olympic movement, eventually becoming one of its spearheads. Conversely, these new disciplines that have emerged since the end of the 20th century have often followed the same trajectory. As they become more structured, many of these countercultures are gradually adopting the codes of sports institutions: federations, regulations, international circuits, selection processes, and the Olympic movement.


Skateboarding, freestyle BMX, snowboard halfpipe, big air, and mogul skiing
may have originated in alternative scenes, but their competitions take place
in spaces that are entirely constructed, shaped, and controlled by humans. Their inclusion in the Olympic movement primarily required a change in governance—not a change in venue. Today, as the Olympic movement becomes more global, it is, paradoxically, beginning to embrace disciplines that originated outside of stadiums.

Yet no two waves are ever the same; competitors never face exactly the same conditions, and performance is measured neither in seconds nor in meters. Nevertheless, surfing made its Olympic debut at the Tokyo Games in 2021, and in 2024 at Teahupo’o, it likely found one of the most powerful and authentic Olympic expressions possible.

But surfing also helps put fears of commercialization into perspective. Its inclusion in the Olympics hasn’t done away with freesurfing. It hasn’t turned every wave into a stadium, nor has it wiped out surf trips, freesurfers, surf films, or local cultures. Olympic surfing has become yet another expression of surfing—not its sole definition.

Above all, surfing provides an almost perfect precedent when it comes to the issue of natural terrain. At Teahupo’o, the Olympic movement did not demand that the ocean become a standardized pool: it accepted uncertainty, waited for the right conditions, and let the wave play a part in the outcome.

Perhaps the real challenge won't be getting freeriding into the Games. It will be getting the Olympic movement to accept that part of the outcome still belongs to the mountains.

For more than fifteen years, the Freeride World Tour has gradually built a global circuit. The judging criteria have been refined. The qualification systems have stabilized. Junior categories have been introduced. Athletes have surrounded themselves with strength and conditioning coaches, trainers, videographers, equipment partners, and sponsors. The FIS’s involvement does not represent a complete break with the past; rather, it continues a process of structuring that was already well underway.

Today's freerider combines identities that once seemed incompatible. He can set out to film a virgin slope in the spring, compete for a spot in the world rankings the following winter, publish his own content, make a living through his sponsors, follow a training regimen worthy of a top-level athlete, and, someday, represent his country at the Olympic Games.

In 2001, sociologists sought to understand why board sports
eluded institutional control. By 2026, the question had almost been turned on its head:

Is it possible to transform into a universally regulated discipline a practice whose culture is based precisely on discernment—that is, on the ability to adapt one’s decisions to situations that are always unique?

From a sociological perspective, freeriding has gradually ceased to be a marginal counterculture. Its codes are becoming desirable and dominant: brands, resorts, and the ski industry are adopting its aesthetic, vocabulary, and values. The “rebel” becomes an ambassador, a professional athlete, a creator of imagery, and sometimes an entrepreneur of his own identity.

But this transformation is inextricably linked to changes in practice:

Fats are becoming the norm; skis are becoming more accessible; the range of
Touring gear is exploding; avalanche transceivers, airbags, and forecasting tools are advancing;
digital images are gradually replacing magazines and VHS tapes; social media is allowing riders to promote themselves;
circuits are taking shape; the Freeride World Tour is becoming a global benchmark; junior programs are emerging; and judging criteria are stabilizing.

Freeriding is thus becoming more accessible, more visible, more professional, and more standardized.

The paradox is this: the more these tools provide access to freedom, the more that freedom must be organized.

Wide skis allow more people to venture off-piste. Networks make routes and spots visible. Competitions create careers. Safety
devices help manage risk. The culture is spreading, but some of its traditional markers of distinction are disappearing.

Will the way freeriding is practiced change now that it’s becoming an Olympic sport?

Will young people train differently? Will the federations create elite training programs? Will the selection process favor certain
profiles? Will riders become more technically well-rounded or more
specialized in the judging criteria? Will safety and fairness
lead to the selection of more controllable slopes? Will the pursuit of
Olympic performance change the approach to risk, style, or the choice of
line?

The history of freeriding may not be that of a free-form activity that was gradually
co-opted by institutions. Rather, it is the story of a culture that, as it spread, became more professional, and diversified, eventually gave rise to its own competitive form… to the point where it was able to enter the Olympics without being reduced to them.

For a long time, people wondered whether freeride would survive its inclusion in the Games.
However, following this investigation, another possibility is emerging.
Freeride is not facing a static Olympic system.

For several decades now, the Games themselves have been evolving. They now include sports that originated far from stadiums, stopwatches, and standardized playing fields: surfing, skateboarding, BMX, rock climbing… and now freeride.
This clash may not be between a counterculture and an unchanging institution.

It brings together two stories that, each in their own way, have evolved to the point where they are now compatible.
Only one question will remain.
Not whether freeriding will become an Olympic sport.
But whether, in 2030, this convergence will have managed to preserve what cannot be measured: that unique way of looking at a mountain, of accepting its uncertainty, and of choosing one’s own line on it.