The 'One Ski Guy' at Birkie '04
After breaking a ski and pole, he had 43K to go and wasn't about to quit
by Thomas Gerst 
| PHOTO BY ASI, WWW.ASIPHOTO.COM
Thomas Gerst on Hayward's Main Street, finishing the 2004 American Birkebeiner with a smile after skiing 43K of the course on just
one ski. |
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While in Nagano, Japan, two weeks before the 2004 Birkie, I visited the Zenkoji temple and was asked if I would like my fortune read. The process involved shaking a wooden box of 100 numbered sticks. Turned upside down, one of the sticks fell out through a narrow hole in the box. The stick's number was then used to select a fortune printed in Japanese. When I asked my wife's relative for a translation, he smiled and
said it was the best of all possible outcomes. "It means you don't need to worry about a thing."
I had prepared for last year's Birkie by skiing more than I had in previous years. My training started in June. I wanted to ski my first sub-three hour race and perhaps make it into the first wave this year. My brother, Gary, had fractured his shoulder rollerskiing in October so I was doing the race for him as well. As a Christmas
present, Gary offered to wax my skis for the race. After 23 Birkies, a fracture doesn't stop him from being involved.
The night before the race, I went through my usual routine at the cabin. I caught up with friends, groused about the weather, listened to WOJB radio until it was time to turn in, and played Hubert von Goisern's "Da Juchitzer" on the CD (a Teutonic yodel-howl that gets me in the right frame of mind). Since my first Birkie in 1979, it was all more than
familiar. It was at once like Christmas Eve and the night before an inaugural skydive.
I don't care for the pre-race jitters. I'd fast forward to the start if I had the chance. The start is reminiscent of a scene from a Woody Allen movie: Allen's character is sitting in a train at the station. Shot in black and white, the man looks rather dismal as he looks out the window at the train on the next track. The other train, facing the opposite direction,
is in color and filled with people drinking champagne and celebrating. Clearly Allen is envious. His long face tells the story of someone who believes that fate has given him the wrong ticket.
But back at the Birkie, when the starting cannon sounds, we roar our approval and gather speed. During the ski to the first food stop, I get a sense for which train I'm riding. The outcome is largely based on training and ski wax. If people are passing me right and left, the conifers along
the trail go from green to gray. On the other hand, when I'm skiing effortlessly, getting more glide than I have all season, I can feel champagne glasses balanced on my shoulders and head. I smile and thank myself, or my brother, for coming up with the fluorocarbon waxes.
Last year, I was carrying those champagne glasses. The new snow was unwelcome but I was feeling optimistic. By 7K I was in a groove and settling in for a worthy effort.
A half kilometer later, in bad years, the first big downhill after hitting the woods is often marked by icy ruts. Coming down the hill I drifted right and caught my ski tip in the snow. I spun sideways and helicoptered to a stop with the front third of my right ski staring me in the face and fellow racers zipping past my head. I'd never broken a ski before.
Trying to carry it in my hand, I slid on the left ski. A short distance later,
I realized what I was doing didn't make any sense. Why carry the thing? I planted it in the snow trailside as a warning to those who let their minds drift. Then I began a 43K experiment with one ski.
After all the preparation it didn't cross my mind to stop.
The initial going was awkward. I've never been able to ride a ski as long as I wanted to, but without another ski to catch me, there wasn't much choice. I slid and skipped and occasionally transferred the ski to the
right foot, although I found I balanced much better with it on my left. To those who had to dodge me, I apologize.
With time, my technique improved. I surprised myself with snowboard-style descents of the gradual hills my right boot planted on the ski behind my left foot. On the steeper hills I dragged my right heel for balance. More than one person catching up to me remarked "so that's what's making the weird track!" I depended much more on my
arms than I usually do, causing my elbows to start raising a fuss midway through the race.
Several things crossed my mind that helped me along the way. I had just seen the movie "Touching the Void," and compared to Joe Simpson's predicament a climber who had fallen over 150 feet into a crevasse and was left for dead this was a picnic. I also recalled the story of a couple of skiers who had put two sets of bindings on one pair of skis and did
the Birkie in tandem. If they could do that, I could finish on one ski.
I was also moved by the constant flow of encouragement from other skiers: "Unbelievable," "Hey, good job," "Keep it up," "Looking good," they said. Answering the "What happened?" question got a bit old, but you can't blame someone for asking.
In my heart I knew that I was doing it because it was the American
Birkebeiner a race that has become as much of a milestone as any of the year's holidays. This trail's beauty and lyric quality speak to my soul and inspire me.
There's a 90-degree turn to the left on a downhill after Timber Trail Road. Somehow I managed that without a fall and my spirit sailed. But just after Thompson Fire Lane, I lost my balance and fell forward, breaking my right pole in three places. The planted portion of the pole
missed my neck by an inch as I fell. The volunteers at the food station I'd just passed had a pole for me in no time. A picture of me approaching County Road 00 shows me snow-covered with a curious racer staring at my technique.
I had arranged for my brother to provide me with carbo gel and fluids just after Mosquito Brook. Running a pit stop for about 10 of us, he had heard from a friend that I'd broken a ski quite a ways back. He thought
I had dropped out. I skipped the official food stop at MB thinking I'd see Gary around the bend. But he had left to see if he could find me in Hayward. I should have gone back for calories and water, but instead I kept going.
The 5K to Rosie's Field was the most difficult part of the race. I got quite cold, and started wondering if I could finish. While I would usually breathe a sigh of relief at the long downhills, I began to dread them with
my right leg and hip complaining every foot of the way.
At Rosie's Field, some kind soul asked how l was doing. I needed calories. I had been picking up used Gu packets to suck out the dregs. So this woman probably saw me eying the Gu packet stapled to her belt. She had only one left but gave it to me. The result was something akin to a religious experience. (OK, maybe it was one). The calories picked me up in a flash. Moments later I ate six cookies and who knows
what else at the Highway 77 food stop. Before then, I tried to remember the fellow racer's bib number but my brain wasn't getting enough fuel to manage the task.
The final long uphill is a winding menace that seems endless. I think of it as El Moco (the booger) as it's the last thing to block your way to clear sailing into Hayward. With fuel and water on board and the sun peaking out from the clouds, I felt good
Part way across Lake Hayward I was escorted by a couple of curious
ski patrols. One suggested I take the trip down Main Street with an attentive mind. "Enjoy every second. You're a bit of a celebrity," he said.
I switched my ski to my left foot at the head of Main Street as a fellow Wave 2 skier who had finished hours earlier told me that he had skied with me near Lindskoog Lookout. "I can't believe you did this," he said.
I headed down the final stretch as the announcer asked the crowd to
cheer me in. Cowbells clanged and people whooped. For several blocks I couldn't stop smiling while I did my best to sprint. The encouragement echoed the racers' roar at the starting line. People I didn't know high-fived me. With awe, several referred to me as "One Ski Guy."
My time, of course, was hours slower than I'd hoped for. But everything was in vivid color and the celebrating was just beginning. That was a hell of a train to be on.
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