Skinnyski Race Team Weekend Recap: Birkie Story

Always the question of where to start a race recap . . . As I have discovered over the years, the cannon is generally much too late to count as the start of this particular race. Let's see, a few years ago my "start" came in a Honda Civic at 7 a.m. - a few vain attempts to climb the snowy hill out of our driveway and we fell behind schedule. The combination of slip-sliding up the hill and the ensuing traffic jam on highway 63 and I ended up skiing across the airport field some six minutes behind the rest of my wave.

While I did not miss my wave start this year, the interesting aspects of "Birkie 2003" began on the Thursday before the big event. The day started with a race against the sun - I had started shoveling for our annual post-race broomball game the previous weekend but the accumulation of snow through the winter was more than my puny frame could handle. Fortunately, my 6'6" German friend, Gunnar, was there to help. We figured we had to do the shoveling before the warm-up or we would end up trying to move a sea of muck. Gunnar used a large board to move giant hoards of snow while I piddled around the edges of the rink. Within a few hours we had the best broomball court ever.

Then it was off to town to buy a pair of skis for my daughter so she could do her first Barnebirkie. Buying the skis was no problem . . . My miscalculation came in the form of assuming that because the "Barnie" was designed for young kids it would be a short race rather than a grueling death march designed to make parents bonk. We parked in town, bought the skis and began to walk up Main Street toward the start area. When we were still walking 10 minutes later I became a little concerned - 1 ½ year old girls are not designed to walk 10 minutes, let alone ski. Then we saw a number of kids go by and I became really depressed - "we missed the start of Ellie's first Barnie," I thought, "Diana (my wife) will never forgive me." Then I realized we were okay - those kids were in the FIS wave of the Barnie. We ended up getting to the start area just as the gun was going off for the plebian wave . . . Another minute or two later - after figuring out how to strap the skis onto Ellie's feet - and we were off . . .

Let's just say that Ellie did not "win" the Barnie. After untangling her arms and legs from her skis we walked down Main Street with Ellie in a triumphant position on my shoulders. After she "skied" across the finish line I found the Race Director and began to argue that Ellie should have two minutes subtracted from her time to account for her late start. Boy was that Director a nasty guy - he called me "psycho" and when I told him I was a lawyer he took Ellie's cookie away and told me that Ellie had been disqualified for wearing a hat that had an overly prominent sponsor-display: the hat said "I Love My Daddy."

Needless to say Ellie went to bed with no supper that night - I had explicitly told her not to tear the duct tape off her hat. She claimed that it "fell off" on Main Street - who would believe that? I actually don't blame the poor Race Director for disqualifying her - I just hope her infraction doesn't land her a life-time ban from the Barnie.

Friday saw the normal flurry of waxing, second-guessing and more waxing. The bad part about taking the day before the race off from work is that you have too much darn time to think about it. I have never ascribed to these "visualization" theories - either you feel good or you don't - all the visualization in the world doesn't get you up Bitch Hill when your triceps are burning and your legs have turned to tubes of acid . . .

Saturday morning eventually came and I made it to the start in time for the elite, er, semi-elite wave start at 8:22. After starting in the second row I was quickly able to move up into a comfortable position with about a dozen racers in front of me. The first few kilometers were uneventful - and then we reached the power lines. The first small hill saw Chip Tabor, Brian May and Thomas Krenz zip by me. After ten Birkies, some parts of the race are like the movie Ground Hog Day - the same events happen over and over - you just hope you become a little better at figuring them out with each passing race. And I think I have. I used to think to myself, "I can ski with Chip - I once beat him in a 10 k" or "I skied with Thomas in the Noquamanon (could they find a more difficult spelling if they tried?) - I can stick with him now . . ." Not this time . . . I contentedly watched them go by and thought, "maybe I'll see them later, maybe not - in either event I'm better off skiing these hills as conservative as possible."

So along we went through the hills to OO. I have to say I felt pretty good through this first "half" of the race. I was in a large pack and different skiers kept volunteering to lead - which was fine with me since I have never enjoyed leading if I can avoid it. The only thing I did not enjoy was the racer I was skiing behind. He was a fine climber and pretty good on the flats but he was kind of a slug off the top of the hills - which caused me to have to snowplow down many of the hills. And for some reason he refused to let me pass him - anyone else he seemed not to care, but when I tried to pass he would put in a big surge - kind of annoying . . .

When we came to the 15 kilometer mark I dug through the folds of my uniform for a gel (after many Birkies I have learned that there is a big downhill at 15 kilometers). Just as I found the gel the guys behind me started giving me a hard time - "come on, let's go," "what are you doing?" etc. I have never enjoyed being the one to hold other people up so I was going to quickly tuck my uniform back in and eat when, "oh no!" - I dropped the darn gel. Easy come, easy go - I skied the next seven kilometers thinking only of the feed Alex-the-Enervit-guy had waiting for me.

After a while my Skinnyski teammate Dave Nelson materialized and we talked about how we both felt pretty good. We agreed that we would maybe press the pace a little after OO. As it turned out, there was no need - another guy had similar plans. He took us out hard from OO. It did not take long to realize that I did not feel as good as I had originally thought. Unfortunately, when the next guy backed off the pace a little I glanced back and saw that we still had a good-sized pack with us. It was then that I had a complete breakdown in logic (which in itself was a sign that I was tired already?). I decided that because I was a bit tired I would have a hard time out-sprinting these guys to the finish line and, therefore, I should press the pace in order to break things up a bit. What I failed to realize was that I was over 20 kilometers from the finish line and unless I conserved my energy I would be on the wrong side of Highway 77 when these skiers went down Main Street. So I went to the front of the pack and hammered out a couple hard kilometers. When I pulled to the side, Dave Nelson took the lead and I realized that I had succeeded in breaking things up only inside my own body - I had gone from feeling pretty good to way over the line. Maybe next Ground Hog Day I will be a bit smarter.

From there I held on as best as I could. Somehow I was still with Dave and company at Mosquito Brook. Feeling as I did, though, I needed to make a choice - either keep skiing somewhat aggressively and risk a complete breakdown (I have lost over 60 places in the last 10 kilometers before after going into major bonk mode) or crawl up the hills in order to conserve energy and let people pass me as they wished. I opted for the latter course and when I arrived at Lake Hayward I was able to hang onto the tail end of our rather large and now very spread out pack. Not a heroic finish - but good enough for my second-best Birkie.

Best of all, I had enough energy left by the evening to enjoy our annual broomball game - although I must admit that the teams I was on never won a single game (the lesson there is to always be on my friend Brian Fitzgerald's team). That's the news from Northwest Wisconsin - where all the FIS skiers have big logos, the children ski marathons and the locals know how to put on a quality event . . .