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Alan Ramsay, head of marketing at the Schilthorn ski resort and a veteran racer, leans back in his chair at the end of our restaurant booth. “I don’t think anyone who leaves the start gate isn’t nervous about what’s ahead,” he says. “It’s pushing your limits. How much guts do you have?”

Ramsay delivers this prerace pep talk with a smile, in a lyrical Scottish accent, but we are not comforted. It’s the night before the 79th Mürren Inferno, and my teammates and I, all first-timers, are nervous as hell.

It’s January 2023, and the small Swiss village of Mürren—accessible only by train or cable car—has come alive with anxious energy in advance of the race. This usually quiet mountain oasis is home to only 400 residents, and right now every bed in town is spoken for. Exactly 1,850 racers have shown up to test themselves, and more are on the wait list. Most of the participants are British skiers and Asian tourists, and then there’s us: a few wide-eyed Americans throwing our hats into the maelstrom.

By day the slopes at Schilthorn are overrun with skiers in padded Lycra suits and team jackets. In the lift line, long racing skis tower above the heads of competitors waiting to scout the course ahead of the start. By night local pubs fill with boisterous middle-aged men, past their racing prime, along with younger guys eager to prove how many pints they can handle. The bartenders are overly generous, which helps when you’re trying to drink away your jitters in the days leading up to a big event. But we’ve been warned not to show up at the gate hungover.

Sir Arnold Lunn, a Brit who many consider the father of alpine ski racing, traveled to Mürren to promote the new sport of alpine ski racing, and in 1924 founded a Brit-heavy group called the Kandahar Ski Club. In 1928, he and 16 other plucky skiers climbed four hours to the top of the 9,744-foot Schilthorn to race down to Lauterbrunnen in the valley below, about 19 minutes from Mürren by train. The skiers called their race the Inferno in honor of the hellish course and grueling conditions.

The first winner, Harold Mitchell, completed the descent in one hour, 12 minutes. Today, good skiers can do the 14.9-kilometer course in about 20 minutes; the winner typically requires 15 at most. For the 2023 edition, Europe’s uncharacteristically light snowpack prompted officials to move the end of the course to Mürren instead of Lauterbrunnen, shortening the race to 7.6 kilometers. The elites were gunning to beat ten minutes on the revised layout. The skiers most likely to win have raced here before, earning a higher seed and an earlier start time. “They just keep coming back,” Ramsay says. “It’s highly addictive.”

Tonight, before anyone tries to get a good night’s sleep (doubtful), costumed children and adults line Mürren’s streets. Race officials parade through town with a crude effigy of the devil—dressed in jeans and sneakers—that will be burned at the stake to ward off bad luck. Hollow bells drone out a countdown until the flame is lit, and brass bands perform in face paint as the surrounding crowd waves candles and torches. It’s a raucous scene, with plenty of roasted nuts and hot glühwein to go around. Through it all, you never lose the feeling of tense anticipation.

During the parade, I slip away to call home. I don’t want anyone to worry, but I make sure to mention that I bought helicopter insurance in case I require evacuation from the mountain. My voice catches when I say goodnight to my partner, but I feel a touch overdramatic. It’s an amateur event, I tell myself. How risky can it be? Still, I go to sleep reciting a motto I learned from a Brit at the bar. “Complete, not compete,” he said. “Complete, not compete.”