The Bonds That Gold Built

This weekend was extraordinary, there’s no other way to say it.

I stood alongside Justin Olsen and Curt Tomasevicz, my 2010 Olympic Gold Medal “Night Train” teammates, as we were inducted into the U.S. Olympic and Paralympic Hall of Fame. In the American Olympic Mecca, Colorado Springs, surrounded by my family, friends, and heroes whose posters once filled my childhood bedroom, the moment felt both surreal and deeply personal.

But to be honest, nothing matched reconnecting with Justin and Curt. 

Fifteen years is a long time—enough for misunderstandings, faded memories, and distance to cloud a brotherhood forged under intense competition, losses, and the victory-of-a-lifetime. Yet, as soon as we stood face-to-face, those years fell away. We laughed until it hurt, retelling old stories, some polished by nostalgia and others raw with honesty. We talked about new jobs, wives met each other for the first time, and old tensions, minor grudges, and forgotten rivalries evaporated in moments of genuine vulnerability and mutual appreciation.

We were “all grown up,” finally.

With my kids, Brett and Axel, along with Steven “Holcy” Holcomb’s mother, Jean, joining us on stage, our induction speech captured this spirit perfectly.

Justin reflected on our unlikely beginnings: we were a skier who couldn't topple Ted Ligety (Holcy), two football players who never made it to the NFL (Curt, Justin) , and a track athlete whose dreams fell short somehow found each other (me). Justin simultaneously complimented and ribbed me, quite fairly, about my obsessive attention to detail, like organizing hotel stays and even Secret Santa exchanges during breaks. 

Curt spoke deeply about Justin's growth from an energetic young athlete into a man who could handle our team’s most difficult emotional moments, and he acknowledged how each of us complemented the others' strengths and weaknesses.

For my part, I emphasized Curt's legendary intensity, and that was a lot of fun to do. I found myself remembering vividly the vein popping from his forehead as snow fell around us moments before our Olympic run in Whistler. It was that intensity, that absolute commitment in every moment, that taught me how to respond when life demanded my very best.

The induction event itself was incredible—rarely does one find themselves in a room filled entirely with people who have reached the pinnacle of their craft, let alone those being inducted with me such as Nike’s Phil Knight, Serena Williams, Coach K (Mike Krzyzewski), Allyson Felix, Bode Miller, and more.

The excellence, dedication to winning, and sheer bad-assery that night was unparalleled.

(Check out some images here)

Yet, this celebration was also tinged with profound sadness. It felt wrong that Holcy, our teammate and brother, wasn’t there, since he tragically passed away in 2017. When you accomplish something so significant and other-worldly-unique at such a young age, there’s a strong assumption that you’ll gather together on a semi-regular basis to celebrate, tell stories, and look back in awe. 

That night, and others like it, remind us that life’s assumptions are just that.

Holcy was a gifted athlete and exceptional driver, but more importantly, he was a kind and genuine soul who battled more demons outside of the sled than dragons (and Germans!) he slayed while in it.

On stage, I was lucky enough to have my kids on stage with me, which made me so proud—as chaotic as it was. Our “energetic” three-year-old, Axel, caught himself on the big screen recording the whole thing, so of course he had to show off his superhero moves. Rhiannon eventually ended up coaxing him offstage with a cookie as Bee (our 8-year old) watched calmly, soaking it all in. 

Honestly, I loved the messiness of it all! These are life’s unscripted joys.

And it turns out, that's the stuff that really matters, that continues to matter, years down the line. Life in bobsled was all about the script, the play by play, following our plans with the ultimate discipline for years on end. But it was the part we couldn't plan for that matters more in the big picture, years after retirement. The moments that brought us together, made us laugh, drew us closer. The awkward, more vulnerable moments that don't make the highlight reel. The stuff that no one will ever see, that no ceremony could ever truly celebrate.

I grow more grateful for every aspect of my journey, of this unique and extraordinary life I’ve found myself in. 

And I hope by sharing this, you can find the uniqueness, the gratefulness, and the extraordinary in your life as well.

- Steve