La Morte del Sogno

The women's final, moments before the start.

La morte del sogno, in homage to the terme where the dream came to die. Usually the death to a dream is a sad affair, a cautionary tale. On the ski trails of Lago di Tesoro arena, beside the village of Val di Fiemme in the northern Italian region of Trentino tears might have been shed, emotions might have overflowed. But from what I saw and what I heard they were the joyful kind. For the first time America stood atop the podium at the World Ski Championships. Ever. That's some pretty desirable real estate. The view must be quite nice from up there.

It's a dream many Americans have chased, and are chasing, myself included. All you can do is tip your hat in appreciation to what Kikkan Randall and Jessica Diggins were able to accomplish in the team sprint event. February twenty-fourth, two-thousand-thirteen marked the end of a dream, and one that will be remembered in the history books.

Men's semifinal number one.

An old coach wrote, saying he had already watched the race over and over. The result, he said, was  always the same - Jessie handing off to Kikkan with the lead, Kikkan leaving nothing in doubt, crossing 7.8 seconds in front of second. And every time, big old tears ran down the old coach's face. Even cowboys can cry.

***

The day before, I raced a European Cup (OPA Cup) Sprint in Hirschau, Germany. My friend Martin Jaeger put up the best time of the day. I was second. After not feeling fresh or having much of any snap since coming across the Atlantic a couple weeks ago, two days before I had that little feeling that I was back. Now I have the confirmation. The stoke is burning hot for the springtime ski racing scene.

Driving to the race early that morning, I was thinking back eight years, almost to the day, and the European Cup sprint in Oberstdorf, Germany. Eight years previous, I was in perhaps the shape of my life. Unfortunately I could not hold it, picking up a nasty case of bronchitis in the hills of Seiser Alm, Italy just days before the 2006 Torino Olympics. From my experience, having top shape to tipping over is the sharpest of an edge. Eight years ago, I won that European Cup, driving hard on the hardest climbs and breaking the field apart. Today might not have been quite that good, but... but... I see the way to the top.

Hop skating in Oberstdorf, with my then-teammate Andrew Newell chasing.

It's a nice state to be in. With very few exceptions - maybe Dario Cologna or Kikkan or Jessie Diggins feel differently - but I'd say there is more heartbreaks than breakthroughs in elite sport. Not that there is anything wrong with this, it's just part-and-parcel to the process. And with my apologies to the hokey-pokey, working hard and enjoying this process is what it's all about.

Where it all got started.

Grüezi

Just over a week ago, it was time to say gruezi to the little city Davos in the Swiss Alps. Since coming over it's been the cycle of train, eat, then try and sleep to the tune of the European clock. Everyday in this regard gets better and better.

This weekend, Leinzerheide, another nearby mountain hamlet, hosted the Swiss National Championships. The racing format was a 15 kilometer skate (~10mile) followed by a 15 kilometer classic hunting-style pursuit race. After the skate race, I sat in 18th. By the end of the event, I crossed the line 10th. Three Swiss, two Kazaks, one Swede, and three Americans (Noah Hoffman, Erik Bjoernsen, Tad Elliott) in town for the final preparations before the World Championships made it to the finishline before me. All in all, a pretty decent way to start off the European racing campaign.

Until the next time...

A Clean Pair of Heals

Charging hard up the infamous Hermod's Hill with a national 30km title on the line. My club coach Dragan Danevski  cheers along trailside, telling me to keep putting the pressure on my pursuers.

Since the last time writing here it's been a bit of a whirlwind of racing. Four races in seven days on the trails of Soldier Hollow, Utah (venue of the 2002 Winter Olympics) included more national titles ( two, in the 30km and the classic sprint) than broken skis (one, in the skate race). I think for a successful week of racing one must always be in the over category of this distinction. 

Another shot from the race action. Digging.

After nationals, I had a brief five day respite back to Washington. This meant two days back in the classroom with Mr. Peck's 5th graders. As this was the last time I would see them until probably until April, it was a good time to reconnect with the class. Until then, postcards, letters and photos from the road will have to do. 

Next time in class, instead of shoveling snow pits or measuring  the acidity of  rain water, I imagine we will be out hunting wildflowers like this trillium with the 5th graders. 2012 file photo.

This week, I cracked open an old favorite. The book's corners are soft, white and fraying a bit from the years. But the story and the words inside are still so spot-on, Once a Runner by John L. Parker Jr. still holds undisputed spot as best sports-themed book ever. At least according to me. 

Consider this conversation between the book's two main protagonists, the elder Bruce Denton conversing with the young rube Quenton Cassidy:

“That quarter mile oval may be one of the few places in the world where the bastards can’t screw you over, Quenton. That’s because there’s no place to hide out there. No way to fake it or charm your way through, no deals to be made. You know all that stuff. You’ve talked about it. It’s why you became a miler. The question is whether you are prepared to live by it or whether it was just a bunch of words.”

After five days of racing the Minne-Tour in the Twin Cities of Minnesota, I was able to hold my hand up high as the overall champion. There was a lot of great competition with close finishes. Fortunately, I found myself on the podium steps everyday, crossing the line first on two occasions, second twice, and third once. I think this consistency shows I'm on the right track.

Having been born in the Twin Cities, I still have plenty of family and friends in the Midwest. Here is part of the contingent that made it out to the races Sunday. It was really cool too see so many uncles and aunts and cousins while out racing through the serpentine trails of Theodore Wirth Park.

Viel spass!

View from the... Home: Wenatchee Valley Edition

The view from the lake up to Glacier View after the epic December dump. Lake Wenatchee, Washington. For two days, I was trapped up here with no electricity or water with impassible roads. This little experience made me think of when Hurricane Sandy hit the Eastern seaboard.

The Cascade Mountains trapped within the horizon of the passing clouds.  One 48 hour storm brought 6 feet of snow to the base of Stevens Pass. This made for some epic alpine powder days, but wreaked havoc to the surrounding communities. Power has been out for 10 days and counting to Lake Wenatchee, Plain, and Chumstick Canyon. When outside, you can hear trees snapping under the weight of the snows. The sound is not unlike a muzzle-loader hunter hitting his target. A short, sharp explosion of tree fibers snapping, followed by the rush of timber falling down through the forest that reminds me of a deer dashing through the woods with it's last few breaths of life. 

                                   

Being home means reconnecting with the old hometown ski club. These days, I race for the Bridger Ski Foundation out of Bozeman, Montana, but I got my start - and still talk to my Leavenworth coaches frequently - from the old neighborhood. Here I got to do a little stride, glide, and double pole with the high school age crew. At the end, Shane Wilder from IcicleTV came out and caught a little bit of the action. You can see Mr. Wilder's work from the little impromptu session here. 

With so many trees falling, and 3,800 people directly affected,  the County and the Public Utility District have been working overtime, bigtime. Here,  a helicopter tries to "shake" out the snow from the overburdened pine tree. You know when public agencies are resorting to practices like these, they are doing all they can to alleviate the situation. A neighbor two houses away was not fortunate. Two giant Douglas Firs came crashing down onto their roof, crushing the structure. 

                                   

In just a couple day's time, it's off to Salt Lake City Airport I go for the US National Cross-Country Championships. I imagine you can check back here for a personal update when the show comes to an end. Races are scheduled for the 2nd, 4th, 6th, and 8th of January.

                                   

Belly of the Whale

Snowy scene at Lake Wenatchee

Indian "Summer" days in the city of Wenatchee.

After the racing season got off to a slow start due to some upper respiratory infection, I made it back to Central Washington. It's must be something about sleeping back in familiar territory, but the health is coming back strong. After a couple days of running in the foothills of Wenatchee and rollerskis along the mighty Columbia, I headed up to the parent's cabin in the Cascades to get on the real stuff. 

Fortunately, winter has recently arrived in the Northwest's mountains. Nearly two feet of the dense "Cascade Cement" fell from the heavens yesterday, with another foot or so on it's way tomorrow. It is so cool to see such big, monster-sized flakes falling from the sky, and feel a part of such a monster storm.   With the nordic center up at Stevens Pass up and running right now, I have a great venue to get back on snow and seek the good tidings -  and technique and timing of cross-country skiing.

The 5th Graders back in Mr. Peck's class were psyched on their early Christmas present - Toblerone chocolate straight from it's source from across the Atlantic. At twelve pounds of solid triangular Swiss chocolate, honey, and almond nougat, I knew this would be a winner with the young lads and ladies.  It's definitely an added bonus to get to spend a little extra time in the classroom.

Skiing Loops, Chasing Down the Antelope

The man-made loop of snow in Davos last almost exactly one mile in length. If yesterday is any guide, this equates to three minutes and thirteen seconds of full-gasping effort, or roughly five and one-half minutes at today’s more moderate, consis- tently repeatable pace.

It’s times like these I remember some characters. Today is a professor from my University of Utah days. He was a vertabrea morphologist, meaning he had a treadmill in the basement of the biology building where he could research both how effi- ciently and effectively various animals moved.

Since probably my junior high school days, I’ve been told the prevailing wisdom is that the bi-ped- alism of man is a bad design – that it is slow and causes us pain in our knees and back and feet. Bi-pedalism, I was told, came about due to the tool-use theory. We finally decided to stand up on our hind legs so we could free our hands and gaze across the savan- nah.

Professor Carrier had two difficulties with this theory of bi-pedalism. One, there seems to be two million missing years of archaelogical record between when man first stood on just two feet and when he started incoporating spears and such into his quiver of survival.

The other question he posed to us – and this is the one that drove his research and stuck firmly many a student’s mind – was: If bi-pedalism is such a poor design, why can we run farther than just about any other animal? 

In addition to man’s ability to run on and on and on, Mr. Carrier was intriqued by the antilocapra americana, or the North American Pronghorn. He called it a “really cool animal” which, for the last million years, has roamed the plains and deserts of North America.
One unique characteristic of Pronghorns are their eyes. They have 10x vision, which means on a clear night they can count the rings around Saturn. My professor also called the pronghorn “the best endurance athlete in the world.” In biological terms, they have twice the blood, and their heart and lungs are three times the size of other mammals of comparative weight. 

In performance terms, a North American Pronghorn can run a marathon in forty minutes.

Instead of bi-pedalism, Dr. Carrier believed the evolu- tion of a species moved toward greater stamina and endurance. He believed that if man was fit enough, and a group hunted together, and the day was hot enough, that the pronghorn you’d sometimes see out in the distance on the Salt Lake Salt Flats could be one tribe’s dinner.

He’d heard of the Tarahumara, and a couple other select indeginious people who had a tradition of run- ning down animals, stalking them until they lied down to die under extreme exhaustion. He and a couple friends were after the same. They wanted to run the Pronghorn down.

There was a little madness in his idea. There was also something beyond the poetry of my prose to his proposal: that the evolution of a species moves toward greater stamina and endurance and man has a need to run down – not through speed or guile, but just basic efficiency and endurance – the best endurance athlete in the world.

Skiing loop after loop on this pile of snow that was saved from the summer’s sun for six months, just so the Cologna’s and Tambornino’s of the world could build more stamina before the real winter come, it at least comforts the mind by making you think you’re contributing something to society. I guess you could say each of us are running down our own antelope. 

That Essence Rare

Something happens when you get dialed in. The field of vision funnels into the immediate. The repitition of deep inhales and exhale drown out all other sound. Instead of heading down a path you now are  in it. No, that’s not quite right.  It’s more than that. You become part of it, connected. Passersby, the scenery, that smell you loved that morning after the night’s rain, it might as well not be there. Because now it’s nothing more than cardboard cutouts tipping over as you roll by.

Motorcyclists tell me they reach this state on the the long runs when the sun’s since set and the cops have all gone to bed.  It’s here where they open up the throttle north of ninety miles an hour and the engine’s headers drown out all the sound. The engine’s vibration matches the heart’s rate. It’s here – this rush of the calm that comes with the absorption of action that fuels the journey.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is why I’m still at it - why we’re all still at it. Maybe what we’re all searching for is this feeling of the long run, or of clicking into the skis at the startgate and just feeling so dialed in.

To hold onto these moments, maybe that is the day’s lesson. To find those days when you’re not just traveling along a road, but in it. It’s like those kodachrome conversations you share with your best friends, where words reflect from one to another into shared expression. Seek moments like these out; there’s not so many of them. So appreciate them. Run to them. And don’t look back.

There’s a saying – that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I don’t believe that. Anger or envy  or anything else like this cannot sustain you. I think the things that try to hold you back harden you with anger and sadness.

No, strength comes from the good things. It’s those perfect moments with your family and with your friends, and those times where you find the satisfaction of hard work and a job well done.  These are the things to hold onto. It’s for these moments we incur the tenderest of debts and deepen the well of our strength.