Bjorn Daehlie's advice? Play on skis By Mitch Mode Bjorn Daehlie stands on a golf course in Park City, Utah, in the waning afternoon of a day in February. A tall man, just over 6 feet, with blond hair and
Nordic blue eyes, he looks every bit the champion skier that he has been for the past decade. He moves with the casual confidence of an athlete who has spent so much time on skis that it has become, not second nature, but simply the way he is.
The golf course doubles, in the winter months, as a Nordic ski center. Groomed trails snake gracefully along fairways, past expensive vacation homes that line the edges. There is skate track and diagonal, all well maintained with the crispness
that defines quality machine groomed track. It is quiet in the late afternoon; there are only a few local skiers on the trails.
It has been a beautiful day, a day of high winter sun, blue skies, snow so white it hurt your eyes. It is the opening day of the Salt Lake City Olympics and the days of glory have begun. In the morning, the world's best women dueled to the end in the 15K before Stefano Belmondo took the gold. The afternoon's race, the men's 30K was never in doubt. Johan Mueleg
broke early and left the field in his wake, using an unbelievably quick tempo, V2ing up the long uphills, winning by a margin that stunned all those who observed.
It has been a day of wonder and glory, a day that is what the sport of XC skiing is all about.
Now, as late afternoon shadows spread, Bjorn Daehlie is speaking to an assembled group of ski industry veterans. There is a handful of ski shop owners, a few writers, and assembled employees, domestic and European, from
Salomon, the sponsors of the day's events. The session has been billed as a ski clinic, as well as an on snow introduction of Salomon's new carbon boot series.
All in attendance listen with rapt attention to this most decorated of Olympians. His record as a skier is mind boggling: eight gold and four silver medals in Olympic competition (the total of gold ties him with Carl Lewis for most gold medals in the games). Add to this the World Cup victories. Add the world championships. Add
it all up. The total, Daehlie's total, is now the standard against which all others will be compared.
Bjorn Daehlie speaks and all listen. He skis and all watch intently. The feeling in the rarified air is one of awe, respect and near reverence of Daehlie. Those who watch do so with a feeling of wonder, in silence, as if they moved too fast or spoke too loudly, the fragile moment would shatter and be gone.
Over the mountain, at Soldier Hollow, a mountain range away, things are
quiet after the opening days events. Over the mountain, at the venue for the XC and biathlon events, things are winding down. Daehlie should have been there, had all things gone well, to race against the best, to challenge all who came to contest the events. He should have been there, had all gone well, to add to his historic total of Olympic medals.
But things don't always work out the way they might. The best laid plans can go astray, and what should have been can become merely what
might have been. So it was with Bjorn Daehlie, who injured his back in a roller ski accident two seasons ago and who, because of the lingering affects of that fall, could not compete at the level he needed to. So he retired; he had no real choice. Now he's on the sidelines, on the other side of the mountain.
If it bothers him, this forced retirement, this derailing of plans, he does not show it. He is gracious, accommodating, genuine. He gives technique pointers to the assembled who
represent a range from competitive skiers to beginners. He is enthusiastic, quick to praise. And praise, coming from Bjorn Daehlie, could be struck into a medal and hung around the necks of all who are present.
He demonstrates technique with the fluid movements of a champion skier. He coaches with the patience that, in our cynical age, one might not expect from a champion of his caliber. He takes questions, on technique and on other subjects. Is he frustrated by not being able to
compete? He shrugs it off, says he enjoyed watching the races from the bleachers.
What did he think of Muelegg's performance? "He was very strong today," he replies. There is a moment of discomfort it seems to some, in his response to that question. Those who observe this pass it off, an indication perhaps of his disappointment with his former teammates, a once formidable juggernaut who, today, had not placed on the podium.
By the end of the games, when Muelegg has
been exposed as a fraud, his accomplishment is the result of modern pharmacology, Daehlie's unease seems more a suspicion of Muelegg rather than a disappointment in the Norwegian team.
Daehlie talks, demonstrates technique and watches as the assembled show what they've got.
If there is an emphasis in what he says, it is on the importance of balance in skiing. Repeatedly, he brings the subject to the fore. Part of every training session, he says, should be devoted to improving
balance. During off season running, roller ski and skating sessions, and on snow as well, make room to work on balance, he lectures.
Then, in what seems almost a casual aside, Daehlie notes what he sees as a critical difference between Norwegian skiers and those in the United States. Norwegians, he says, have fun on skis. At any level, from club racers to national team to Olympians, they play on skis. Not all the time, certainly, but with regularity, they have more fun on skis than the
overserious Americans. Have fun on skis. Play on skis. A concept that somehow seems alien to so many competitive skiers. In the growing shadows of the Utah afternoon, his words hang in the silence.
For Bjorn Daehlie, the upcoming days will mark a transition from competitive Nordic superstar to something else. His role at these games will not be one of competitor but one of corporate representative. His life, altered suddenly by the accident that ended his career, has changed. He will
ski, that is certain. And he will have time to pursue his other passions. He fishes and he hunts and he does so with the intensity with which he skied. Indeed, if there is a single moment that he is most animated in that afternoon, it may well have been when he discussed his hunting season. Eyes alight, he talks with enthusiasm of his pursuit of the moose and deer.
But now there are other things to do. In the evening he will be feted at a dinner that honors his accomplishments. At the
head table in a room with the attendees of the afternoons on snow session, as well as a handful a Norwegian sport journalists, he will be gracious and genuine, embarrassed by the attention and yet comfortable with his new role. He will joke to the Salomon execs, "You were foolish to pay me to ski your boots. I liked them so much I would have skied them for free." They in turn will credit him with pushing them to develop the carbon sole in the new boot and present him with a one of a
kind pair, sewn of gold fabric to commemorate his Olympic accomplishments.
That evening he will accept the kidding of a longtime friend who tells stories of Daehlie in the good natured ribbing of two buddies who are used to the give and take that comes with the years. He will accept the compliments of the writers who had followed his career. He will do it all with dignity and courtesy, a genuine man who seems more than anything else to be simply one of the crowd, an ordinary man with
extraordinary accomplishments.
But now, on the packed snow of the touring center, dusk is falling and in town the lights are going on. It is time to bring things to a close. But Daehlie, always the competitor, has one more idea. His face lights up: "A little competition," he exclaims. In minutes there are relay teams set and, with Bjorn's "go" command, they are off, skis flailing, a mix of experienced racers and novices. Daehlie watches with undisguised glee.
The teams tag and go off until only one skier remains. Bjorn Daehlie is on the start line. Daehlie goes from standing still to full flight in less time than it takes to read this sentence. He races for the only time of this day, not before the world but in front of a couple dozen skiers who watch in awe. His is the classic mix of silky, smooth power, flying over the snow in the growing darkness. He looks like a bird of prey swooping low over the snow, fast and smooth and silent.
He
completes the short loop and stands for a moment, eyes sparkling with joy, smile wide on his face, a champion skier who, for a short time in a long day had a chance to play on skis.
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