Psychology of Ski Racing
Like many folks, I am fortunate to be able to say that I experienced
the cross-country ski season of 2000-2001. It's been a few years
since I stood at the starting line of a race or managed to get
more than a few km under my belt, and I have come away from
the past season, reflecting on the psychological intricacies
of participating in this sport. Perhaps one of the things I
find most interesting is a skier's self-perspective on race
day and how that actually compares to reality.
Most races begin fairly early in the morning, so it is not
uncommon for groggy racers to throw on their gear and find
their way to the race course, often wondering what possessed
them to leave the comfort of a warm bed. Then, we catch sight
of the starting area and the other skiers, and adrenaline
pops our eyes wide open. Skiers scurry about like brightly
colored insects, checking equipment, picking up bibs, running
to the bathroom (again), hurrying back to their cars for one
last-minute item. We ski around prior to each event, secretly
scoping out potential competition. Adding a pair of sunglasses
(regardless of the actual presence of sunshine) provides one
more notch on the coolness scale as well as a convenient cover
for pre-race surveillance. Everything that we wear, including
clothing and equipment, is designed to make us feel speedy.
Let's face it, modern athletic wear has come a long way from
the old cotton sweats with a stripe up the side, and all caliber
of athletes may be found sporting the newest and best-quality
clothing and equipment. In essence, we stand at a starting
line and FEEL fast in our slick lycra and flashy skis.
We check out those standing around us and wonder why that
fellow is standing so near the front-after all, he's wearing
a warm-up top! The gun fires and the field takes off. Your
adrenaline rushes to its targets and you are certain that
somehow you are related to Bjorn Daehlie as you double-pole
out of the start area. You continuously scan the horizon around
you for skiers intent on catching one of your poles or skis,
and congratulate your own amazing defensive maneuvering skills.
A brief halt comes in the congratulations as you take a moment
to apologize to a fellow racer for stepping on their pole�
The crowd starts to thin out a bit, and you begin to exercise
your full poling potential only to have a youthful skier cruise
by effortlessly on your left. Not to worry; Young-Whipper-Snapper
is certainly not in your age class, and you don't give him
much thought as he continues to pick off unsuspecting victims
and disappears in the crowd. You notice a skier with obviously
imperfect technique, and remind yourself that you certainly
should be able to pass him. Yet, he mysteriously gains ground
on you (even though you are skiing perfectly in all technical
aspects), and is soon lost from sight. Soon, you realize you
are breathing harder than is wise at this point in the game,
and you tell yourself to forget about Bad-Technique-Man. Then,
you move aside for a faster skier, and realize as he passes
by that he is skiing on 10-year old equipment! How can this
be?! There must be Cera F on those boards! Old-Equipment-Skier
moves ahead and you begin to finally settle into the more
realistic scenario of yourself against the course on this
day, under these conditions, and with your level of training.
I can remember back in high school going to the State meet
for the first time and being told by my coach not to be psyched
out by how any of the other athletes looked. Clothing and
skis and demeanor certainly can lend a sense of confidence
to anyone, but the bottom line would be performance and who
crosses the finish line the fastest. Even the best equipment
would not overcome inadequate preparation. Good technique
can also go a long way, but our self-perception is rarely
equal to reality. Years ago, during a college ski training
session, I recall my coach yelling that I needed to use my
upper body much more on the climbs as well as work on several
other technical fine-points. In my mind's eye, I felt as though
I was doing all of that already, and I probably verbally expressed
as much. Enter the miracle of a video camera: upon viewing
myself going through those drills, all I could say was "Oh,
so that's what I look like."
In many races this past year, I felt that I should have
skied faster, that I should have felt stronger on the climbs,
that I should have had more quickness in my legs. After all,
I had bought new racing and classical skis this year for the
first time in many years. That pretty much guarantees success,
right? How many times were I convinced that the new skis should
be fastest simply by virtue of their being state-of-the-art
in comparison to my old equipment? I guess I conveniently
forgot about the relative low levels of hillwork and speedwork
as well as other training specifics that I had done this past
year. Apparently wishful thinking can not take the place of
hours of waxing and then hours of actually skiing km's on
a pair of skis in order to encourage them to find their maximum
potential. After my first race this season, I discovered that
I did not have the jet-propulsion ski model as I had assumed,
and came to the harsh reality that only I was going to be
able to make these skis run fast and true. They would not
do it on their own, and my skis and I would both need to be
in better condition to make that happen.
So, during the various Reality-Check-Races, I would go through
many steps: 1) I am going to blow someone's doors off today,
2) I am going to try to stay with Striped-Suit- or Swix-Hat-Skier,
3) I had better slow down-I think I left my lung on that last
climb, 4) Striped-Suit and Swix-Hat are long gone; I am going
to just do my best, 5) I could use a feed station about now,
6) How much farther to the finish? 7) Not there yet--plan
what I can do to better prepare myself next time, 8) Did I
miss a turn? Where IS the finish? 9) Here is the finish. I
skied just as well as the conditions and my fitness level
dictated-no longer related to Bjorn Daehlie.
Sometimes, you finish a race and wonder what possessed you
to do this on a cold wintry day when normal folks are snuggled
by a fire with a good book. Then you spend the next minutes
sharing war stories with fellow skiers, commiserating about
tough climbs or hair-raising downhills. Within a few minutes,
you no longer question the sanity of cross-country ski racing,
and you can hardly wait to do it all over again. You are glad
to be able to take part in this sport, regardless of when
you cross the finish line (okay, so you'd prefer to cross
it a little sooner). And next time, you are definitely going
to race with a cool pair of wrap-around sunglasses and maybe
spend a little more time waxing.
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Margaret is married to Bruce Adelsman, and they have two young boys
who hopefully will be future cross-country skiers. She skied competitively
at Bemidji High School and Bemidji State University during the 1980's,
and then in some citizen races in the early 1990's while in graduate
school. She hopes to share new commentaries on a periodic basis
related to various aspects of life as a cross-country skier.