Becoming Cannon Fodder
A Re-evaluation of Racing. By Lee Borowski I originally didn't want to write this article. But Greg Marr talked me into it late one Saturday evening. It all started with a
conversation, one-sided at that, about the worst racing experience I'd ever had just that day at the Pre-Birkie. Greg felt that there were plenty of skiers out there who have probably felt the same thing at one time or another and others who would like to hear about it. I reluctantly agreed.
This article is dedicated to "The Straightest Shooter," Greg Marr. Can't describe how much I miss him.
First some background: Long hilly races have never been my strength. It took
about 12 years of training before I could perform credibly in ski marathons. But honestly, even then I had never been a threat in my age group; whereas in the shorter ones (20K and under), I was fairly competitive. So last February, after recently returning to the race scene from a 10-year layoff, I didn't have very high expectations going into the Pre-Birkie.
In fact, it turned out to be much worse than I imagined. My performance was so pitiful that it made me look at citizen racing
from a whole new perspective. I certainly never expected that this would become the hardest race of my life.
I'll try to make the race description short and sweet, as I don't want to sound like a complete whiner. The start was fine, but by the eighth kilometer, every stride was an effort. By the 10th K, my thighs felt like concrete on the uphills, then quivered and burned on the downhills. There was really no relief anywhere on the course. I had never before raced when I felt the
downhills were more painful than the uphills.
After 10K, no more V-1s on any type of uphill only the flying herringbone and it would be a stretch to call it flying. By that time, every stride was so painful that I didn't see how I'd ever finish. My legs were hardly moving, the poles were doing most of the work. I've often written that if you were in condition, there should be some discomfort to racing, but not outright pain. Well, not that day.
My workout buddy, Bob
Bodensteiner, went past me at the half-hour mark and said later, "You really looked bad." And he saw me before I really bonked. One note on Bob's race: He had a lesson in perseverance from a different angle. His pole handle came off twice at the start when other skiers stepped on his baskets. So Bob was dead last when he finally got going. He eventually passed 400 skiers to finish 184th overall and fourth in his age group. It would have been easy for him to bag it and settle in, but
he kept pushing and certainly looked like he was flying when he passed me.
Then, weird thoughts began cycling through my brain. First, I started thinking about a good friend, Errol Schluter, who was a top age-group racer in Wisconsin back in the '80s. But Errol's wife, Beth, is a many times world, national and Birkie champion in her age group. Errol always made a point to race in those competitions, even though he knew he couldn't win. One time I asked Errol how he did at a national
championship and he said, "I finished way back. But without racers like me, winning wouldn't have any meaning. Only the winners would show up." I replied, "You mean you were cannon fodder." He laughed and from then on when I asked him how it went he'd say, "I was cannon fodder."
Then I started to think about the skiers who finished the Birkie in four to six-plus hours. For many of them, much of that race was very similar to what I was going through. The
Birkie winners are flying over the course in only two hours, feeling good most of the way. But the real heroes are those who are out there two to three times as long and suffering nearly the whole way. Now I knew, in every painful muscle in my body, that while they may not win the Birkie, they certainly deserve the mental toughness award.
After trudging for what seemed forever, I heard some meant-to-be encouraging words, "Great job, you're halfway there." What a sledge hammer
blow! I was thinking I was near the finish, not really aware of where I was. There seemed to be no way I'd make it up the next hill, much less 13K of them.
After another eternity, another group on the side shouted the encouraging words, "You're almost there." I don't know why, but this crazy sentence flashed to mind: "Yeah, to a wheelchair in a nursing home." What made it worse was that at the next marker I discovered that "almost there" really meant 7K to
go and that was mostly uphill, as many of you know. But it was one foot in front of another, and eventually I finished.
By that time, I was so disoriented that I failed to pick up my Pre-Birkie T-shirt. And wouldn't you know? It was one of the nicest ones I've seen.
Then on the long ride home, the introspection really began. Why do I ski? That's easy. Because I love the way it feels. All you skiers know what I mean. It's like dancing and gliding on snow. I love what it does for
me, physically and mentally. And I love being outdoors. (Interestingly enough, those were the exact words of Greg Marr when I talked to him later that evening, moments after I had typed them into my computer as kind of a catharsis. And of course we know that was the motivation behind Greg's founding of Silent Sports.)
But why do I race? That suddenly became a difficult question. I know that without racing, a lot of the skiing I do wouldn't make sense. I like to go as fast as I
can. I love to roller ski. So racing is both the carrot and the icing on the cake. If I never raced, I know I'd still ski, but not be nearly as fit; I'd done that for about eight years recently. But, if nothing else, the physical fitness from skiing has allowed me to have a quality of life that most sedentary people my age will never know. The conditioning is even good for my golf game. I'm sure I would have lost flexibility and strength long ago if it wasn't for skiing.
So on the long
6 1/2 hour drive back home, I more or less made up my mind that racing and participating, even when I couldn't perform with the best (I'm talking age group here) was something I'd continue to do. And of course there are good days along with the bad. In fact, the weekend before, in Illinois, I had just had an exceptional race.
So what started as a race became a re-evaluation of what I do in life. Am I glad I went? You're darn right! I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Do wish I had
picked up the T-shirt though.
So if you happen to see me on a ski trail, say hi, and I won't even mind if you call me "cannon fodder."
Epilogue 1: The next day, I skied with my two oldest grandsons, ages 8 and 10. This was only the fourth time they skated. As we did a loop around Greenbush, I occasionally gave them a tip or two, and their improvement was amazing, but not nearly as amazing as I felt inside. Just then another one of those crazy thoughts ran through my
mind, "It's not all bad growing old; someone has to make room for the grandchildren of the world."
Epilogue 2: After writing this article, I finally was able to get the race results off the Internet. Was I in for a few surprises. The first was the value of putting one foot in front of another when it hurts so bad you'd give anything to quit. Surprisingly, I finished fourth of 19 in my age group (60-64) and right in the exact middle of the field of 583. But I'll tell you, I
still have a huge respect for all those who finished behind me, some of them who were on the trail for twice as long. And the phase, "Every finisher is a winner," certainly took on new meaning. In fact, I'm not sure I ever believed it before.
Epilogue 3: If you're wondering why my legs seized up so early in the race, there is a lesson there, too. Don't kill your legs with a heavy workout just before you race. If you remember, the snow last winter was scarce. Badger State
Games were just canceled and I figured the season was over. So I had made the mistake of starting my off-season weight program; blasted my legs. Then the snow came and I made a last-minute decision to do the Pre-Birkie with my son-in-law. Figured my legs would be OK with a few days of rest. Guess I was wrong.
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