HIGH ON A GLACIER in Austria's Ötztal Alps, a dozen ski racers waited at the start of the Sölden giant-slalom course. It was mid-October, and the ski gods had blessed Sölden with crisp nights and daytime rays that made the mountain feel like California in July. At the start gate, Swiss, Finnish, Slovenian, and Austrian skiers stretched and checked their boots with great seriousness. The 2005–06 World Cup opener was a little more than a week away, and this was one of their few chances to ski the course prior to the race.

"Wooo-hooo!"

Out of the blue, some joker gunned it up the side of the start ramp and went for big air. He spun and stuck his landing behind a cluster of Slovenians.

"Did you see that?" he said, grinning like an idiot. "Sweet 360 safety grab."

Oh, yeah: The Americans were there, too.

The freestyle trickster was Ted Ligety, a 21-year-old slalom wunderkind on the U.S. men's ski team. With his spiky blond hair and cocky grin, Ligety's like a one-man frat party. He sidled up to Daron Rahlves, the 32-year-old American downhiller. Rahlves noticed Ligety's eyewear. "Nice goggles," he told the kid. "Thought you were a chick."

Ligety lifted his hot-pink Uvex frames. "Hey, man, pink's the heisse scheiss," he said. "The chicks dig it." Only one year on the World Cup tour and Ligety could already say "hot shit" in German.

THE WUNDERKIND: Slalom phenom Ted Ligety (Jim Wright)

This was the American men's alpine ski team four months before the 20th Winter Olympic Games, in Turin, Italy: loose, fun-loving, and confident. Coming into Turin, the Americans find themselves the odds-on favorites to end Austria's decade of skiing dominance—or at least crash the party in style. Last year, Bode Miller, the 28-year-old New Hampshire phenom known for his maverick behavior and outspoken opinions, won the overall World Cup title and became the first American man since Phil Mahre to hold the World Cup's crystal globe, given to the best ski racer on the planet.

With a new autobiography, Bode: Go Fast, Be Good, Have Fun, in stores and a Nike ad campaign set to blitz the tube during the Olympics, Miller has become the ubiquitous almond-eyed face of American ski racing. When he first made the team, in 1996, Miller recalls, "Tommy Moe and AJ Kitt had a couple wins in the speed events"—downhill and super-G are considered "speed" events, slalom and giant slalom (GS) "technical" races (for more details, see "The Disciplines")—"but on the tech side, there wasn't anybody doing anything."

You can't say that anymore. Miller has been dominating the technical events, reaching the podium in slalom or GS 29 times in the past six years. And he isn't alone. Rahlves, the downhill superstar from California who's been coming on strong in other disciplines, finished fifth overall in the 2004–05 World Cup, trailing only Miller and Austrians Benjamin Raich, Hermann Maier, and Michael Walchhofer.

In early December, at the Birds of Prey World Cup, in Beaver Creek, Colorado, the U.S. men's team notched its best performance in the history of American ski racing. Rahlves and Miller

American ski racing is finally earning something it hasn't known for most of a decade: Respect.

took gold and silver, respectively, in the downhill. The following day Miller won the GS, Rahlves placed second, and veteran Erik Schlopy took fourth, just a hundredth of a second short of third. On the last day of the event, Ted Ligety won bronze in the slalom, a career best. Meanwhile, up in Lake Louise, Alberta, where the women were racing in their second World Cup of the season, Lindsey Kildow took gold in the downhill. By the end of the weekend, it was the Americans who had become the ones to beat.

It was not always thus. Eight years ago, the American men were the Bad News Bears of ski racing. (The women's team, buoyed by Picabo Street, Hilary Lindh, and Kristina Koznick never sank so low, despite their disappointing Olympic-medal shutout at Salt Lake in 2002.) World Cup SL and GS races are like golf tournaments; there's a cut after the first run. Only the 30 fastest racers, out of a starting field of about 75, bib up for the final run (SG and DH hold only one run). In the late nineties, the American men weren't just finishing out of the money—they rarely took a second run. Between 1996 and 1998, the editors of Ski Racing had such a hard time finding an American man to name Skier of the Year that they declined to award the prize.

What changed? A lot, and the changes have created high hopes for this year's Winter Games, generating plenty of advance hype. Nike is positioning Miller as the poster child of the Olympics. 60 Minutes was scheduled to air a Miller profile in December. As early as November, members of the men's and women's team visited Matt Lauer on the Today show to tout their prospects at Turin.

"The resurgence of the alpine program will be one of the top stories of these games," says Peter Diamond, a senior vice president of programming at NBC. Last summer, Diamond told a gathering of U.S. skiing officials that alpine events would get featured in prime-time slots—especially with charismatic athletes like Miller, Rahlves & Co. "You aren't going to see the men's downhill on at 2 a.m.," he said.

The rise of the U.S. men's team from nearly worst to nearly first is a tale of motivation, self-reflection, espionage, and the high art of logistical mastery. The Yanks have spent years not just training one great skier but turning the whole system into a well-oiled machine. From the CEO to the head coaches to the iron-scarred technicians in the waxing room, they'll all tell you that American ski racing is finally earning something it hasn't known for most of a decade: respect.

That respect was on display last fall in Sölden. One day I watched Chip Knight, 31, an American slalom racer who's been on the team for 13 years (equalling only Rahlves's tenure), slide into the starting gate. He dug his poles into the snow and angled his upper body over the starting wand.

"What's the fastest split so far?" Knight asked.

"D-money," said trainer Paul Meier, referring to Rahlves. "Thirteen-zero."

Knight kicked out of the gate and charged down the course. Next came Ligety, and then Rahlves. As soon as they went, six Austrian course technicians swarmed the starting gate. They indicated to Meier that the Americans' time was up. The Austrians had reserved the hill space for 11:30. It was now 11:32.

Meier stood his ground. "D's gonna get one more run," he said.

The Austrians wouldn't hear it. "No more," one of them told Meier. "Finito." The Austrians are the New York Yankees of skiing: They have more money than anyone else, and they have more trophies than anyone else. They're used to getting their way. Meier folded his arms.

"Who ees?" the Austrian asked.

"Daron," said Meier.

"Daron?" said the Austrian. He paused and reconsidered. "OK," he said. "Daron, one more."