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A Portfolio, Not a Resume
Paul Choudoir did not set out to work at the Olympic Games. He did not study engineering. He did not grow up in a wax room, nor did he apprentice under a legendary grinder with a machine humming in the background. He went to school for communications. Advertising, specifically. He built a portfolio. He expected a desk.
“I was a communications major,” Choudoir said. “Yeah, in advertising.”
In 2018, his life looked orderly in the way young professionals’ lives often do just before they don’t. He was finishing school, assembling work samples, and preparing to enter an industry with defined pathways and predictable ladders. He interviewed at an ad agency. They liked him.
“The next day, they offered me the job,” he said.
The day after that, something else happened.
“And I told them that I took a job with the snowboard team,” Choudoir said. “And I couldn’t be more grateful that I turned that down.”
That second offer was seasonal. It was physical. It came with no guarantee of permanence. It was also the beginning of a career that would, eight years later, place Choudoir at the center of the U.S. Cross-Country Ski Team’s Olympic preparation, responsible for the grinding program that shapes the skis American athletes will consider racing on when the Winter Games begin this Saturday.
It is not a path that makes immediate sense on paper. Which, in many ways, is the point.
Growing Up on Skis, Not Destined for Them
Choudoir grew up in central Wisconsin, five minutes from his local ski trails. Skiing was present from the start, not as destiny but as texture—something you did because it was there.
“I’ve been skiing all my life,” he said. “As soon as you could walk, you played on skis.”
He raced. He trained. He went to college and skied there too, though he is careful not to mythologize that part of the story.
“Not exactly an illustrious college career,” he said. “But I wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t done that.”
The tone matters. Choudoir does not frame himself as a near-miss Olympian or an athlete who found a second life in service. He is precise about what his racing was and wasn’t. Skiing gave him familiarity with snow, equipment, and race culture. It did not hand him a blueprint.
What it did give him—though he didn’t know it at the time—was an eye.
Learning to See the Ski
“I fell in love with the service side of the sport,” Choudoir said.
That love did not arrive fully formed. It developed slowly, through observation, repetition, and mentorship. One name comes up again and again when Choudoir talks about learning to grind: David Chamberlain.
“David taught me to grind,” he said. “I’ve been grinding since… about ten years now.”
Grinding, at its simplest, is the process of cutting microscopic patterns into the base of a ski using a stone grinder. Those patterns—called structure—help manage how water behaves between the ski and the snow. Too much suction and the ski sticks. Too little contact and it chatters. In dry snow, structure can be minimal. In wet snow, it can be decisive.
But Choudoir resists explaining grinding as a purely technical exercise. What matters, he suggests, is not just the machine but how you look at the ski coming off it.
“When running a grinding machine,” he said, “I think you need both. You need right-brain and left-brain people.”
There are databases. There are measurements. There are RA values, stone parameters, and logs that stretch back years. And then there is feel.
“You need the people who have the database of what we waxed with here three years ago,” he said. “And you need the gut-instinct people.”
Choudoir’s background in visual communication—learning how images convey meaning, how patterns read, how subtle differences change perception—became an asset. Grinding is, in many ways, about pattern recognition. Noticing when something looks right. Or wrong.
The First Call to Europe
The moment when Choudoir’s interest hardened into commitment came not in a classroom or a wax room, but through a phone call.
“Someone had to bail from the OPA Cup trip,” he said. “And [Bryan] Fish was asking around.”
Chamberlain’s name came up. So did Choudoir’s.
“David immediately asked me,” he said.
The trip was three weeks long. It was his first sustained exposure to European racing, to the rhythm of international service work, to the stakes that live just behind the results sheet.
“I went on that trip for three weeks,” Choudoir said. “And that kind of solidified what I wanted to do.”
Service at that level is relentless. Skis arrive. Conditions change. Decisions must be made quickly and defended quietly. There is no time to romanticize the work. But for Choudoir, it clarified something fundamental: this was where his skills mattered.
Constructing the Arrow While Shooting It
“This grinding development project is kind of my baby,” Choudoir said.
He is referring to the U.S. team’s effort to build a modern, resilient grinding program—one capable of producing skis that perform across a wide range of snow conditions, with limited resources and little margin for error.
“We’re kind of constructing the arrow while we’re shooting it,” he said.
The phrase captures both the ambition and the constraint. Unlike larger federations, the U.S. does not have the luxury of endless testing or redundancy. Time, money, and personnel are finite. That reality shapes every decision.
The goal is not perfection. It is coverage.
There have been moments of early confirmation along the way. Certain grinds have worked immediately, validating months of off-season testing and reinforcing the idea that the overall approach is sound. But Choudoir is quick to note that genuine development rarely happens when the calendar is full. Race weekends compress decision-making into survival mode: skis need to be ready, not experimental. Time disappears, weather intrudes, and the consequences of being wrong grow heavier. Building new structure in those moments is less about innovation than restraint—knowing when to trust what already exists, and when to leave the next step for another week.
“You’re trying to limit catastrophe,” Choudoir said. “You’re trying to make sure you’re never hand-structuring a ski and making it slower.”
The program relies on building a menu of grinds—each tested, logged, and understood well enough that when race day arrives, choices can be made with confidence rather than desperation. It is a philosophy rooted in risk management as much as speed.
The Detour That Mattered: Snowboard Cross
Before Choudoir arrived in cross-country, he spent six seasons with the U.S. Snowboard Cross Team.
“Not exactly the trajectory I thought,” he said. “But I was with them for six seasons.”
Snowboard Cross is chaotic by design. Courses change. Weather shifts. Equipment choices are compressed into narrow windows. The service environment is intense.
“I went to Beijing with that crew,” Choudoir said. “Had a blast.”
He is not being flippant. Beijing mattered. It was his first Olympics, his first exposure to that particular compression of pressure and permanence. Mistakes echo. Success is fleeting. Everything is amplified.
“Very different environment,” he said, “but still kind of doing the same thing.”
What transferred was not discipline-specific knowledge but temperament. The ability to make decisions under stress. To stay calm when the margins disappear.
Pressure Without a Bib
“I still wake up on race day with that nervous stomach,” Choudoir said.
It is an admission that disrupts the usual hierarchy of anxiety. Athletes are expected to feel it. Techs are supposed to be invisible. But Choudoir does not pretend otherwise.
“We’re being demanded to perform,” he said.
Service technicians do not get a lane. They do not get a split time. Their work is judged indirectly, through glide, through kick, through moments when an athlete looks down mid-race and knows something is wrong—or right.
“If we’re the first ones to freak out,” Choudoir said, “that trickles down.”
Pressure in the wax room is quiet. It hums rather than roars. It lives in choices made hours before a start, when weather models disagree, and snow crystals are in flux.
No Assholes in the Wax Room
“Nobody wants to work with an asshole,” Choudoir said.
It is a blunt statement, and an accurate one. Service teams operate on trust. Ego corrodes that trust quickly.
“We have to be calm,” he said. “If we’re calm, the athletes are calm.”
Calm does not mean passive. It means deliberate. It means creating an environment where athletes feel supported rather than scrutinized. Music plays. Routines settle. Decisions are explained clearly and without drama.
Choudoir describes a culture where competence is expected, and humility is enforced—not through policy, but through proximity.
Collaboration, Not Espionage
There is a persistent myth that ski service at the highest level is governed entirely by secrecy. Locked rooms. Guarded notebooks. Stolen glances.
The reality, Choudoir suggests, is more complicated.
“People help each other more than fans realize,” he said.
There are boundaries, of course. Proprietary information remains protected. But when a machine breaks, when conditions confound everyone equally, assistance flows.
“Nobody wants to see anyone fail because of equipment,” he said.
It is a quiet fraternity, built on shared exposure to the same uncontrollable variables.
Saturday
“At some point, the decisions are made,” Choudoir said. “After that, it’s just execution.”
As the Olympic races begin this coming Saturday, the grinding lists are locked. The skis are prepared. The patterns have been chosen based on months of testing and years of accumulated knowledge.
What remains is the weather. And trust.
Choudoir will be there, awake early, stomach tight, listening to the machines and watching the snow. His name will not appear on the results sheet. But his work will.
And that, for him, will be enough.
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