“I’d like to challenge him—because I’m not that bad at football,” said Alberto Tomba, referring to none other than Diego Armando Maradona. A throwaway line, maybe. But also, perhaps, the most revealing snapshot of a pop phenomenon: an introverted outsider from Bologna who would go on to become a world-class communicator and global dominator. A man whose competitiveness seemed to recognize no limits.

For many, Alberto Tomba is skiing. In countless Italian households, this idea became gospel—validated not just by an unparalleled list of victories, but also by a personality far more layered than the magnetic, boisterous candor that often defined him in the public eye. 

We had the honor of speaking with Tomba—gathering some autobiographical fragments from a man who transcended both his discipline and the realm of sport itself. A national and international icon, yet someone who always remained unmistakably himself. In his flamboyant excesses. In his relentless, analytical pursuit of victory. In his social and cultural roots. 

This conversation marks the release of ‘1.14 – An Alberto Tomba Story,’ a short docu produced by Napapijri and directed by Luca Gasperoni—a visual and symbolic intersection between brand and athlete. Alongside Tomba’s voice, we also highlight the visual narrative and the film’s unique sense of perspective.

You used to tell your schoolmates “I just really like it,” referring to skiing—something they struggled to understand, growing up as you did in the rolling hills of Bologna, far from alpine slopes. What were those first sensations, those early details, that sparked your love for the sport? And did you manage to keep that sense of ‘pure joy’ throughout your career—even at the most demanding and high-profile moments?

I remember going to school with the Salesians as a kid. One morning, I decided to head there on skis. It was a total disaster. I hadn’t factored in the two hills between home and school—I showed up 40 minutes late. They welcomed me with a good laugh. People kept asking me: “Why skiing? What do you think you’ll do with it? Where do you think it’ll take you? Just focus on school.” And I would always reply: Don’t worry. I just really like it. My skiing career was one big, beautiful adventure. From that late arrival at school to my last race, the “pure joy” never left. Nobody ever changed me—and maybe that’s one of the real reasons behind my success.

Your relationship with skiing evolved dramatically over time—through your meteoric rise, your fame beyond the slopes, what you yourself call the ‘burden of always having to win’, and finally, your decision to retire at your peak. Today, what does the sport represent to you? Where do you and skiing stand now?

Being “condemned to win” isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. If I didn’t win, no one else did—it was always framed as me losing. But I finished on a high note, with one last win. Some friends from my fan club still joke about it: “Nobody ever retires right after a victory. Why would you quit when you’re still the best?” But that’s what I did. After winning at Crans Montana, at 31, I had the guts to say enough. You go from this overwhelming media frenzy—which I used to keep at bay by winning—to a kind of longing to come back. But in skiing, even just two or three years off makes it impossible to return. Now, I still feel deeply connected to the mountains. I love going up with skins—two hours to climb, two minutes to descend. And I enjoy every second of it.

Your public image also evolved a great deal. You started off shy, then became an extroverted, pop-cultural phenomenon. A kind of national character, known for an irony that charmed not just Italy but the whole ski world. Beyond your hometown roots and your Emilia-Romagna DNA, where did that lens of humor come from? What role did it play in handling pressure and fame?

I was introverted when I first started racing as a kid. But as I traveled the world and started winning, my personality shifted. Compared to the northern skiers, I was more of a city guy—so I joked around, played, brought a different vibe. I remember this newspaper headline that Loris quotes in the documentary: “Tomba, the city kid who changed skiing.” That playful side never left me. It really helped during the big moments, when pressure was sky-high. With my team, we made room for laughter. We carved out moments of lightness—just enough to keep our minds clear when it was time to focus completely.

Your sense of humor and eclectic personality defined your greatest successes—and helped make them immortal. But before the Milan screening of the documentary, you talked about your deep, almost studious relationship with the discipline: the approach to the slope, the analysis of trajectories, the posture of the body adjusted for each fraction of a second. Tomba’s skiing always looked like a celebration, but it couldn’t have been one without a healthy dose of obsession and athletic genius—like it always is with real legends. How deeply did you study—or better yet, learn to decipher—your sport?

A great deal. My skiing was grounded in a precise analysis of the ideal line in every curve, an understanding of how to adjust body posture depending on the slope, the course, and the conditions. It involved rigorous training and preparation, total focus during races, and an almost obsessive attention to detail and perfection. But none of it would’ve mattered without passion. 

In the film, Loris Righi—longtime leader of your fan club—says, “I’m just a retired worker, I’m basically nobody…” before becoming visibly emotional thinking about your friendship. What role did ‘the people’ play in your sporting journey? Unlike many other top-level athletes, you’ve always maintained a close bond with everyday fans. Why has that been so important to you? And how does it feel to hear someone like Loris speak about you that way today?

Even today, I still celebrate milestones with the people who’ve always been by my side—fans like Loris. My relationship with them has always been strong and unique. We built a bond that went beyond wins or races—it was about mutual affection. Loris is the soul of the Tomba Fan Club in what we call “Tombaland.” He built something like a shrine—something that will never be replicated.

At 18, you were driving alone for hours just to make it to races. Today, you can’t walk down the street without being instantly recognized. Was life better back then—or now? What did the 18-year-old Tomba think about when he was alone? And what about the man he became—the ‘athlete of the century’—when he’s by himself in nature today?

I love being in nature. I still live surrounded by woods, and I go on long walks whenever I can. The Apennines are like a vast open-air gym—so much variety, so much beauty. It’s the perfect setting to reset your body and your mind. I left home very young. At 15, I joined the national ski team and started traveling the world—memories I’ll never forget. From Scandinavia to France, Switzerland to Japan, America to Canada. Coming from Italy—and being a good eater—I always packed pasta, olive oil, and Parmigiano to make sure I had the right fuel for training and racing. At 18, I was doing hundreds of kilometers by car, driving solo out of Bologna through thick fog or heavy snow—those kinds of winters don’t even exist anymore. I stayed in quiet places, far from everything, with no one around, just me and the landscape. I called home from payphones. That kind of life teaches you things. Whether I’m in the mountains, at the beach, or in my hills back home, nature helps me return to a more essential space—just me and the world around me. Moving through that space, fully immersed, is a rare and beautiful experience.

You’ve always shared your story in a frank, unfiltered way. Now, you’ve chosen to tie part of that story to Napapijri. Why this brand—beyond the shared reference to 1987? And how did it feel to see yourself through the lens of Luca Gasperoni’s documentary, ‘1.14 – An Alberto Tomba Story’?

It’s a moving film. It retraces my athletic journey, yes, but also paints a portrait of Alberto as a person. The title—’1.14’—refers to the insane time advantage I had in the first run of the Olympic Giant Slalom in Calgary 1988. I ended up winning by +1.04. It was something unrepeatable, almost surreal. Working with Napapijri has been a beautiful experience because it tells my story outside the snow—outside my natural habitat. It was deeply engaging and allowed me to show parts of myself I had never really shared before. With Napapijri, there was an immediate connection. I truly embody their values: freedom, energy, adventure.