Nothing Is Impossible
Text and Photos: Benoît Goncerut
If I went to Riyadh, it wasn’t to ride quads in the desert (though that would have been cool) but to accompany my friend Jules Guarneri on his new documentary film project. The film will be amazing - I won’t spoil everything, but we did interview Tanner Hall, who explained why ski touring films are garbage.
That’s the context. Now onto the event that made the most noise last winter in the small world of freestyle skiing. Self-censored by most athletes present and underreported, you might wonder if the "SnowBlast KSA Cup" even happened. To clear things up, *Knuckle Mag* brings you an immersive report from its special correspondent, Benoît Goncerut, in the heart of the new Mecca of skiing: Saudi Arabia.
“The planet is warming, so we immediately sell snow” – Booba
February 26, 2024
Flying over Saudi Arabia’s capital, I felt more like I was arriving in Las Vegas than Riyadh. We landed at night, but it was almost as bright as day. Amusement parks glimmered everywhere, symbolic of the modern transformation spearheaded by the kingdom’s crown prince, Mohammed bin Salman. As soon as we arrived at the hotel, a bouquet of flowers and saffron coffee were offered to welcome the “pilgrims.” Skiers and snowboarders* were treated like rock stars - something we hadn’t seen since the glory days of freestyle.ch. And the prize money? $100,000. With competition payouts shrinking as fast as glaciers in 2024, it was now or never to grab some cash for retirement.
*Editor’s note: The masculine form (initially in the French version of the article) is used here because this event featured only male skiers and snowboarders.
The next morning, we headed to the competition venue. On the bus, someone shared a story about how the snow machine was supposed to be delivered by boat but got attacked in the Red Sea. Not sure if that’s true, but I instantly imagined a bad action movie where a ship carrying a snow cannon is stuck off the coast of Sana’a. Everyone’s on edge because the event - critical for the Saudi government’s reputation - hangs by a thread. At the last moment, a happy ending: our American friends secure the snow cannon’s release, and the big air competition goes ahead. Disaster averted. Su Yiming lands his backside triple cork 1800, grabs the easiest $50K of his career, and everyone’s thrilled. Spoiler: it didn’t quite go down like that.
Not everyone was thrilled. A handful of Westerners, myself included, balked at the absurdity of such an event. Still, being a good Swiss, I tried to stay neutral. And while I was at it, I played devil’s advocate:
- We sold the dream of skiing to the entire planet. Now that others want their share, everyone’s up in arms.
- Big air competitions have been hosted worldwide, in every season, for decades.
- Skiing and mountains have long been disconnected. In Europe alone, there are 35 indoor ski domes. Stations are closing in the Vosges, the Jura, and soon the Prealps, while new resorts are opening in arid regions like China and Saudi Arabia. That’s where we are now.
On the shuttle to the big air venue, most young riders were tense. They’d been skewered by their national press for attending an event in a country with questionable ethics and for contributing to the environmental impact of such a spectacle. The freestyle community was also outraged - until next year, or the one after, when this event will likely be part of the FIS circuit. While European riders half-apologized for being there, Tanner Hall was unapologetic: he was there to promote his sport and cash in on petro-dollars.
Arriving at the venue, the first impression was clear: the jump was too big, and the inrun was too short. Riders were skeptical, organizers didn’t understand the problem, and we wondered who’d get axed first if it failed. Total suspense.
The event itself looked like any European competition but without safety standards. Giant speakers blasted electro music, there were cheesy animations every half-hour, and roadies (mostly white Rastafarians) managed the setup. Belarusian, Ukrainian, and Lebanese performers dressed as penguins or polar bears introduced Riyadh residents to the “magic of snow.” Torn beanbags were scattered in front of the stage. As plastic snowballs scattered into the desert with every gust of wind, I cringed and wondered what a woman in a niqab thought of Isaac’s oversized pants and Harlaut’s doo-rag. One rider remarked, “Niqabs are stylish; they look a bit ninja,” and joked about competing in one.
There was a prayer room next to the big air. I honestly think every event should have a space like that - a quiet refuge from the noise. It was the one place I wanted to visit but felt least entitled to enter.
Then, just as the jump was about to be tested, an unforeseen issue arose: a massive sandstorm.
Within 10 minutes, the snow turned from white to brown. A Sirocco-level storm. Despite the prize money, snowboarders refused to give up. Sand was scraped away, time ticked on, and the stands began to fill.
“Three, two, one,” the announcer shouted. The rider dropped in, and the crowd went wild - then silence. No one appeared off the jump. Turns out, the rider got stuck in the slushy mix of sand and melted snow. Contest over. In two minutes, the stands emptied without protest.
A surreal post-mortem followed, where snowboarders lectured the exhausted shaper, who’d worked non-stop under the blistering Saudi sun. “Back in the day, riders hit the jumps, got wrecked, and went home happy with a PlayStation,” he said. “Now, for $50,000, they won’t even try.”
Day two ended like a deflated kitchen fan: relief.
I would have liked to show you a photo of skiing but since I don't have one, I'm putting a photo of Tanner with Jules
Day Three: Second Attempt
All the riders - superstars and newcomers alike - were already shoveling snow when we arrived. The organizers wanted a grand American-style show with a record prize pot but instead achieved something unexpected: they got the world’s top freestyle athletes to build the jump together. In 15 years of contests, I’d never seen that. It felt like a throwback to the early 2000s, with bad jokes, sunburns, and a sense of camaraderie.
When the first skier landed a clean jump, everyone cheered, including me.
Amid the absurdity, I briefly felt the thrill of freestyle’s roots - a momentary reprieve from the polished monotony of FIS events. Against all odds, the riders left richer and with a renewed love for their sport.
And the organizers? They proved their motto: “Nothing is impossible.”
I don't have much of an idea except to say that we were hurrying to shovel the snow before it disappeared or another quote but I'm really not sure: "Comedy is tragic. And the absurd is reasonable." - Eugène Ionesco