WELCHES --- The man who lives on a back lot at the Zig Zag Estates trailer park can tell you the precise vertical slope of the mountains of Bosnia. And he reels off the significant numbers of his life with deft acuity, but if you should have the pleasure to eat lunch with Bill Johnson, do not count on him remembering what he ordered.

"We ate lunch together?"

I've stood on Johnson's porch, which sits on the edge of Mt. Hood National Forest, a half dozen times in the past year. Each occasion, I knocked, then waited for the sound of a yapping dog and the shuffling of heavy feet across the wooden floor.

When the guy known as one of the greatest American downhill skiers opens the door, Johnson is hunched over -- his body is so curled it looks like a giant "C" with a pair of legs -- but he's smiling and holding a white poodle back with his cane.

"Sorry, it takes me a long time to get to the door," he said. "I don't move so fast anymore."

Maybe you think of the

and see ice hockey, figure skating, or skiing. Maybe you see a burning torch and five rings that we're told symbolize so much more. Or maybe you just think about the gravity of life's fleeting moments and what they have to do with men like former Olympic champion Johnson, who won big in Sarajevo.

What I wonder is whether we can give up our own version of happiness for a few minutes so that we can better see Johnson's. Because if you can't, you'd better stop reading and move along.

Johnson became the first American male to win Olympic gold in alpine skiing in 1984. And if you ask him what "1 minute, 45.59 seconds" means, the 49-year old grins as if he can still smell the scent of pine needles and mountain air from that run.

"That's my winning time in the Olympics, of course."

Post-Sarajevo Johnson had a knee surgery, a back surgery and engaged in a shoving match with a USA Ski Team coach that culminated when he smacked the coach in the shin with his ski pole.

Also, Johnson failed to qualify for the 1988 Calgary Olympics. He struggled in the wake of that disappointment. Then, his wife divorced him, and took their two young boys with her to California.

"I was broke," he said. "If I had money and a gold medal again, I think she would have loved me and come back."

Johnson chased another gold medal. You knew that, right? And maybe you recall that as he attempted to qualify for the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics he suffered that terrible practice-run crash that left him suffocating on his own blood and telling the rescuers, "I need help," before his brain swelled and he slipped into a coma.

As you think of what happened to Johnson, think about how you would respond to Johnson's challenges. And as you do that know that you cannot understand who Johnson is today without letting go of society's well-rehearsed version of success, peace and happiness.

If you can do this, you can see Johnson just fine.

Johnson's health is deteriorating. The right side of his body won't cooperate. His feet are so swollen he can't put on his shoes. He slurs his words and can't take a step without losing his balance. His short-term memory is spotty and he has trouble recalling some events from the past, especially around the accident.

"He's getting worse," his mother, D.B., said. "He can be very juvenile, and he hesitates when you ask him things, and that worries me."

The Sports Illustrated coverboy who rocketed down the mountain into history 26 years ago now takes several minutes to get out of a living-room chair, to his feet, and move across the room.

Johnson smokes cigarettes, and spends up to 10 hours a day playing computer games in the back room of his trailer. He hasn't skied down a mountain in more than seven years. And he wears a medic-alert bracelet on his right wrist because the closest family member is an hour away.

There are friends who visit, such as former ski-team member Joe Weber, who rummaged through boxes of Johnson's trophies and skiing bibs a couple of months ago and displayed them on shelves and walls in his trailer.

"Maybe seeing some of this stuff will jar something in his brain," Weber said. "There are moments when Billy sees something and goes, 'Oh yeah, I remember that,' and others when he just stares blankly as any memory of it is gone."

When you spend time with Johnson, you ask him things such as, "You can't ski anymore, so why do you live on a mountain?" And you wonder aloud, "Wouldn't it be less lonely and better if you moved closer to your mother?" And you blurt out, "Are you afraid up here all alone?"

Said Johnson: "I'm not afraid of anything."

Again, your version of happiness vs. Johnson's. Because the temptation is to declare Bill Johnson gone. As if the brash, focused and fearless guy who won gold in 1984 evaporated the instant he smashed his head into the side of a mountain. But he's still right here, at the trailer park, isn't he?

Johnson remains eccentric, stubborn and competitive. He's funny, sharp-witted, and undeniably his own man.

He calls current US Ski Team member Bode Miller, "A boy who skis." He says of Austrians who ridiculed him prior to the 1984 Olympics: "I got under their skin, which is 100 percent of the battle." And Johnson spits on his garage floor and throws lit cigarettes at your feet and tells you, "Step on that for me."

The ski outfit that Johnson wore when he screamed down the hill in Sarajevo, chasing history, hangs on the wall in his garage. When you watch video of his old races, you can feel the fearlessness and confidence inside of him.

We admire those qualities in high-level athletes. Sports apparel companies brand around the "No Fear" mantra. And the irony isn't lost as he's struggling to walk up three steps in his garage that the same qualities that made Johnson an Olympic hero left him physically destroyed.

"I never even thought about the risks," he said. "You can't if you want to be great."

His gold medal is on the shelf in his garage. It's dented and scratched on the edges from passing it around too often to strangers who want to touch it. The gold-plating is wearing so thin in spots that you can see the silver peeking through beneath it.

The medal ends up symbolic of the man who won it, no?

Johnson refuses to put the medal around his neck. But if you visit him he will insist that you touch it, or wear it. And he has photographs all around his trailer of smiling strangers posing with the medal dangling from their necks and hugging a grinning Johnson.

"I like to see other people with it on," he said. "That makes me happy."

The U.S. Ski Team has abandoned Johnson. They offer him no place in their family. They've moved on and pushed the pioneer to a far corner of the ski world.

But those who know Johnson best admire the way he has faced adversity.

"He's sweeter and more caring, and has a better nature post-accident," said his Mom. "If I disagreed with him before the accident, he would have come out of his socks."

The United States Olympic Committee arranged for Johnson to get a pair of tickets to the men's downhill in Vancouver. And instead of going he's selling them in an auction on eBay, and plans to watch the event with one of his teenaged sons who is flying to Oregon to visit.

Johnson lives on $1,600 a month of disability. He owns no property. And has no savings. And without his mother checking in on him, you wonder who would take care of him. At the same time, Johnson feels a deep connection with the mountains where he grew up, and he loves his dog "Buddy," and he does Sudoku puzzles. His life feels uncomplicated.

Said Johnson: "I have everything I need."