Scenes From The Road: Travelling Edition

After the winter's end, it came time to say goodbye to Norway. Here I pay my respect's to the 11th century voyaging Viking Leif Erikson.

Before making it stateside, I had to stop by London for the first time, especially as I was flying British Airways and got a free stopover in the capitol of the British Empire.

Before I got back in the classroom with Mr. Peck's 5th graders, I made a quick visit to the desert to visit my grandparents in Arizona.

NordiX on Vid

Red Bull Holmenkollen 2012. Bettina gets some serious screentime, skiing through the rounds and onto the podium. Norway's national broadcaster NRK1 showed this whole event live.


Bjorn Lind speaking in Swedish about how to go fast on the classic skis. Perhaps it's worth a watch, even if you can't understand a word the man is saying. He gives mad props to Frode Estil.

Norwegian Nationals: Fauske

Greetings from the far north. For the last couple days I've been kicking it in Fauske, Norway. The small city sits on the North Sea, right up next to the Arctic Circle. I never knew much at all about this place, except that it is the hometown of the Nystad brothers, Knut and Trond. I never heard them speak fondly of the place, so back in the day I called them "fauskefaen." I guess I wasn't too far off. My gently improving Norwegian added a new word to the repertoire. Fauske is the plural form of flauskr, or "old and rotten tree."

Anyways, the oceanside racing here isn't something I soon will forget. The weather and the rain turned the ski tracks into mashed potatoes, making for a pretty epic sprint relay. It's been a little off racing this year for me, so I was representing my Trondheim club Strindheim IL on the second team. But I found some good racing legs, and on three of my 6 legs posted the fastest times of the day, which meant outskiing guys with last names like Northug, Gloersen, Claussen, Dyrhag and Company. On my final lap of the final I caught back up to the leaders with 400meters to go, then soon preceded to take about the hardest fall I've ever had on cross-country skis. Poles were broken, my suit was torn, I lost skin, but fortunately my surgically repaired shoulder held up.



The next day was the 50km classic. I woke up late that morning with a sore shoulder but nothing more and to falling snowflakes and +4C on the temperature dial. My dreams of a fast, furious 50 kilometer were falling with the white precipitation. Making the race so interesting was the altitude. We started the race at sea level, then climbed for pretty much three kilometers straight to 250 meters. I'm sure the scenery was great, working through the weathered forest, above the treeline and beside some stunning lakes. There was even a brass band playing all day at the top of the course for the racers. But the snow this far north undergoes a drastic change as one goes from sea level to atop even a small mountain. The super wet snow turned dry at the top. I can't almost think of a harder day for waxing. On the women's side, something like 8 minutes separated the top 4 women over 30 kilometers! Something like 40 of the 120 men didn't meet the finish line. Fortunately, I did. I had plenty of grip for the big climbs. Unfortunately, I wasn't outgliding anyone, was getting worked over on the rolling double pole sections, and was getting plenty of pole pushes down the hills. After a while, though, I really had this feeling of how much fun it was to be a skiracer. I wish I had better words to describe it than this, but skiing at a steady rhythm, with coaches passing out bottles of isotonic drink every ten minutes or so (remember, it was hot! and so easy to get dehydrated out there), I remember being 37 kilometers in and I kept thinking several times over, "How cool is this." It really made me appreciate the opportunity I had that day to compete. I felt proud to be wearing the blue and yellow of Strindheim. The first thing Petter Hagen did when he saw me was give a firm handshake and say, "Good job. You had fun out there today." He knew exactly how I felt. I've had better races. There have been competitions where I've dug down deeper into the pain cave and came out on top because ot it. But I've had fewer good feelings after finishing a season than I had in Fauske. I'm keeping this feeling for a long time.


Now I'm back in Trondheim for about two weeks, building for next year before I take a short Euro city vacation with Bettina, then visit my grandparents in Sedona, Arizona. Phillip Furrer is back in Switzerland, but Erik Bakkejord is back in the game. The stoke is high. I can see such great heights in Val di Fiemme.

Eight Count: The Passing of Bert Sugar

From our earliest years, we all have some memories etched in our minds from the time we spent with our parents. Many of mine are from the family-vacation and kinestetic variety: like the annual summer roadtrip back to Minnesota, five tight in the 1965 AMC Rambler; Or, heading to Eugene, Oregon's Hayward Field with my dad for the NCAA Track Championships, and sneaking my way to watch the event from the most intimate seat out big house to jogging, striding and stretching among the competitors during their final pre-race preparations on the warm-up track.

Another more everyday rememberance I am reminded of today with the expiration of Bert Sugar came from the crackling light of the transister-tubed living room television set. On new Simpsons episode days, commercial time could be treacherous as ESPN Classics was apt to replay classic boxing matches. My dad - or "Pappa" as I used to call him back then - is a bit fascinated by boxing. I don't know exactly why, but this interest in boxing surely says something about him. One Simpsons or Seinfeld commercial break could turn into fifteen rounds of championship boxing. Of course, as a kid I could not take my eyes off Ali's fluttering legs and lightning jabs, though my favorite boxer at the time was the slippery, counter-punching "Sweat Pea" Pernell Whitaker. Mr. Whitaker was not a knockout artist; but, rather a steady-attacking surgeon in the ring.

I always liked how Michael Buffer boxing announcer always finished his introductions with the guttural roaring, "Let's get ready to rumm-mm-emm-mm-ble!" Anything else was anything less. Without Mr. Buffer's trademarked catchphrase, a fight felt a bit anti-climatic, even before the boxing began.

Another boxing character was the felt fedora wearing, always cigar chomping, gristled old-schooled writer Bert Sugar. If I ever find my voice as a writer, I'm sure it will be from following the advice in the words of Mr. Sugar, quoting Red Smith:

"You first cut your wrist, then you bleed on paper. Then you write." It's in this process that one finds the story lead, the storyline, and the personalities worth talking about.

(Mr. Sugar covered more than just boxing. Consider this lead while covering a no-hitter in baseball: "It was as unbelievable as Santa Claus suffering vertigo, Captain Bligh sea sickness, Mary having a little lamb..." With a lead like that, you either scare the hell out of the Sunday morning edition sports reader, or you hook 'em.)

At the beginning, I could hardly stand this television. Soon, though, seeing and hearing Mr. Sugar talking with the Sugar Ray Leonard and Angelo Dundee's of the world made for an education. Hearing him talk, you saw a man who could cut through the chaff and get to a truth revealed in the arena. You got the unmistakeable feeling of a man who loved his work, who was encyclopedic in his learned knowledge, and respected by both the trainers and boxing artists themselves. Hearing him talk was to hear in the back of your mind the tip-tappering of his keys, Mr. Sugar's face marred by sweat, concentration and the filament of typewriter ink.

I am sure many a man appreciated Mr. Sugar's candor from the ringside corner view. He's the man who brought Sugar Ray and Sweat Pea and Boom Boom Mancini into my cultural encyclopedia. In doing your job, you helped me understand something about my dad -- and, thus, have helped me understand a little something about myself. Mr. Sugar, thanks for cutting the wrist, and bleeding on paper.

Red Bull NordiX 2012 - Holmenkollen

Official Red Bull NordiX Trailer:Check It Out!

Scenes from the Road: Swiss Alps Edition

Snowfences high into the low-oxygen air of the Engadin Valley keep Pontresina safer from avalanche.


Long distance ski tour with the American crew the day after the Ski Marathon.



The Graubunden Canton, and the Engadin Valley, hold the Steinbock in the highest regard. I never got to see the mountain goat in its native habitat. But I did find this alien-looking deer hanging from a hotel wall. A little eerie. In a good way.



Skiing in Leinzerheide, the little known gem of Swiss skiing.

Vasaloppet: Insider's Edition

One of the coolest ski races in the game has to be Swedish Vasaloppet. The track starts in the village of Salen and ends downtown in the streets of Mora, 90 kilometers away. This ultra-marathon is based on the ski trek Gustav Vasa took in the 16th Century to rally his countrymates to revolt against the Danes who had overtaken and occupied Sweden. Anyways, enough of the history lesson.



This year saw hard packed, fast tracks, leading to the fastest Vasaloppet times ever. Sweden's Jorgen Brink took home the men's crown. He got to drive home in a bright shiny new car as a time-record bonus. Vibeke Skofterud took the women's crown. She also set a new women's record. Instead of a new car, Vibeke came back to Norway with a fine bouquet of tulips.



In related news, the sister of the Duchess of Cambridge - the former Kate Middleton - finished the Vasaloppet ski race in 7 hours and 13 minutes, alongside 15,800 competitors in the bright Swedish sun. Afterwards Pippa Middleton told Swedish tv that the race was "a little tiring." Pippa, just so you know, you just rose to the top of my cool girls celebrity list. Somewhere Madeleine, the princess of Sweden sheds a tear back in Stockholm.



The boys of Trondheim (check out powerdudes.com) made quite an appearance at Vasaloppet. Good thing former world sprint champ Johan Kjolstad showed he had the long distance lungs, finishing just 2 seconds behind Mr. Brink for the title, cash and car. When you wear a suit as ugly as this, you better bring yer a-game on raceday.