Brand Loyalty on the Slopes

My relationship with Fischer didn’t start in my head, but in real life. In the Montafon, in the 1990s. Team training, races almost every weekend, three sessions a week. Icy slopes, early starts, and the constant pressure to be faster than the day before.

In an environment like that, you pay close attention to who’s riding what. Ski gear and ski brands are the talk of the town. A point of reference. A status symbol.

Many switched to Atomic back then. Later to Head. Those were the brands everyone talked about. The ones considered superior. The ones racking up World Cup victories. Some had long since sworn off Fischer; I stuck with it.

Not out of defiance. But because this ski just felt right to me. And at some point, it was more than just a feeling. It became part of my identity.

In my small training group, I was one of the few on Fischers. And that’s exactly what gave me a sense of my own identity. I wasn’t part of the crowd. I had my ski. And I wanted to use that very ski to show what was possible.

When I set the edge on a hard, bare slope and felt it grip, I attributed that confidence to the brand. Whether that’s objectively verifiable doesn’t matter. For me, it was reality. That experience has become ingrained.

I’ve argued, defended, and raved about it. And to this day, I realize just how deep that connection runs. Even when others make a different choice for good reasons.

I’ve consciously switched to a different brand only once. And, of all times, that’s when—after decades on skis—I seriously hurt myself for the first time. Of course, I know that had nothing to do with the logo on the ski, but rather many other good and understandable reasons. And yet the thought was there: That wouldn’t have happened with my Fischer.

That’s not rational. But it’s honest.

Today, I realize that there may be skis that are technically better suited to my current skiing style. But that’s not the point. The point is that, as a child, I wove a part of my identity into this very ski. Between race numbers, club jackets, and award ceremonies that were insignificant to outsiders—but not to me.

Fischer knew nothing about this boy. No marketing plan could have foreseen that right here, on a snow-covered training slope, a bond lasting decades would form. And yet that is exactly what happened.

Brand loyalty isn’t created solely through communication. It arises in moments when a brand becomes a canvas—for ambition, distinction, pride, and belonging. You can’t control these moments. But you can manage a brand in a way that makes it relatable. That allows it to carry meaning. That leaves room for it to become part of a personal story.

When that succeeds, people defend a brand. They recommend it to others. They choose it again. Not always rationally. But consistently. By the way, I feel the same way about tennis. Here, too, I wouldn’t part with my favorite brand. And that, of course, is Head.