| Look to the Birkie, not Olympics, for inspiration
By Mitch Mode
You knew all you needed to know two weeks before the start of the Birkebeiner. That was the date of the Pre–Birkie, the wonderful little race that starts on Lake Hayward and runs to Highway OO in
a normal year. This year, however, has been anything but normal. At the eleventh hour they changed the Pre–Birkie and started at Telemark Lodge then ran, as the Birkie does, north to south.
At first, watching from afar, you wondered why. You wondered, then you knew: You knew that from OO to Lake Hayward there was not enough snow for a race, any race. Knowing that, you knew there was not enough snow for a full–length Birkie.
Granted the great race was two weeks away but you knew
then that unless we had a major snowfall, the Birkie was not a certain thing. You were left with a sense of what? Foreboding? Apprehension? Or maybe given what we'd been through in this most dreary winter you just shrugged your shoulders and thought, "It figures."
It was not a good feeling. But it had been a winter of less–than–good feelings. Too darn warm and too darn dry, that's what the winter had been all about. There was not the normal ration of joy in the Nordic world
by mid–February. In the ranks of the Birkie skiers, rumors began to build and swirl, like dark smoke rising, rumors of course changes, of the race being shortened or even canceled.
Still, there was reason to take heart! The Olympics were under way and what a start for the Nordic community! The first competition of the entire games was a heart–stopping duel as Stefania Belmondo surged from behind after breaking a pole and won the women's 15K. That afternoon Johann Muehlegg, he a former
Birkie champion, humiliated the entire field in the men's 30K. People at the event called it the most dominant win in the history of the games and searched for comparisons. They found none, at least not in Nordic skiing. It was, someone suggested, reminiscent of the Tour de France days Eddy Merckx, the man nicknamed "the Cannibal," who devoured other racers, mere mortals, as he raced to stage wins in that great event.
Hours after the men's 30K, Bjorn Daehlie, perhaps the
greatest of all time, seemed stunned by Muehlegg's performance. Daehlie, speaking to a small group of ski business visitors, struggled for words, seemed puzzled, uncomfortable even, in talking about the race. Those in attendance chalked it up to the lack of success by his fellow Norwegians. Small wonder even the greatest skier of his time was at a loss: Muehlegg on that day was unworldly.
Back in Wisconsin, the clock was ticking down and the situation was not getting any better. There
was no new snow on the Birkie trail and temperatures were on the rise. There was not a lot of optimism in the northwoods in those days. If you talked to people in the know you heard them say, off the record of course, that the race would probably be shortened. The trail, especially on the south portion, was not holding up.
The weekend before the Birkie, they shoveled snow to save the trail. They rounded up volunteers in Hayward and in Cable, across the north, and they hauled snow and they
shoveled snow. They had 50 people, people from all walks of life, skiers and nonskiers, those with only a casual involvement and some who served on the Birkie board, and they busted their tails that weekend. They shoveled snow because it was the only way they knew to save the race.
That same weekend, half a country away, some observers in Utah commented on the dominance of the corporate sponsors at the Olympic games. In their matching parkas festooned with corporate logos, they'd roll
up to the venue gates and unload from their courtesy vans like royalty at a premier. They looked well insulated and aloof from the soul of the events. Contrast them, if you will, to their counterparts in Wisconsin who, on the same weekend, rolled up their sleeves and shoveled snow to save their race. All the shoveling worked wonders. On the Monday morning of race week, the Birkie announced that the race was now "probable" for 45K.
In Utah, the games continued, and what a
series of races we had! Nordic skiers nationwide were buoyed by that they saw on TV. Good races, heck, great races were the rule and for once, oh what a surprise, for once we had TV coverage! While much of the world agonized over pairs figure skating, Nordic skiers reveled in coverage of their sport. What a treat it was. Beckie Scott, the Canadian star, took a bronze medal behind two powerhouse Russian women, Lazutina and Danilova, the best finish ever for a North American woman. The
Norwegians and Italians thrilled the world with a knockdown, last–man–standing–wins relay duel for the ages.
And then there was Johann, the golden boy of the games, the wonder skier with friends still in the northern Wisconsin area. Johann, according to those who knew him, was as nice, as personable, as down to earth as any athlete you'd ever meet. He was a perfect representative for our sport. There was Johann winning his second gold of the games, this in a classic style event! We
did not know then if the Birkie would go full distance, or even if it would go at all, but damn! We had our hero in Johann Muehlegg, who was darn near one of our own.
On Tuesday morning, they announced that the Birkie would be shortened to 25K and that the Korteloppet would eschew its Telemark to Telemark loop and run the old Telemark to OO course. That second announcement of a race course change in less than 24 hours took many by surprise. Just what was happening up there, more than
one skier wondered. What was going on was more thaw, more warm weather and rain eroding the already thin base. What was happening, for all intents and purposes, was that the Birkie was going away. It was fading away as it had two years ago in the damp fog of late winter thaw.
If you talked to people on Tuesday night and if they were honest, they would tell you: At the scheduled meeting of the Birkie board on Wednesday morning, the race would, in all likelihood, be canceled. The thaw
had taken its toll, the early evening forecast was for only an inch of snow and the race course needed much more than that. As darkness settled on that Tuesday night, it seemed certain that the race would not be held.
Then it snowed.
Man how it snowed! It snowed hard late Tuesday night and into Wednesday. It snowed in spite of the forecast and it snowed as if there was no tomorrow. By late Wednesday morning, the Birkie organization had set a modern record by firing off not one
but two course changes. The first kept the Birkie at 25K (and moved the Korteloppet back onto its original route); the second, a couple hours later, caught most people flat footed by bumping the Birkie back up to 45K! That made four changes within 48 hours!
They started to call it the "Miracle Birkie." Repeatedly. Over and over. All the talk of miracles was more reminiscent of Lourdes. By the end of the week, one half expected to have heard of little girls in Hayward having
seen visions of, what, a snow queen? The virgin of the snowstorm? One was left to wonder, what's next? Little bottles of snowmelt being sold to the XC pilgrims, the pure water representing the sanctity of the sport, curing all that ails you? Whatever. It had snowed and by whatever name the race was back on schedule.
Thursday was a great day to ski; Friday nearly as nice. But the race is on Saturday. And on Friday evening the forecast was about as ugly as it could get: 2" to
4" of snow overnight; freezing rain, rain and then snow on race day. Classic skiers spent restless nights tormented by visions of kick wax disasters.
Saturday morning dawned gray and sullen. It hadn't snowed much, that was the good news. But there was light rain over a damp snow base and a raw bite in the air. Still, in this season, everyone was willing to take what they were given.
Early Saturday morning they gathered. Early Saturday the skiers, riding the buses, walking
the slippery walkways, moved lemming–like to the start corrals. They gathered as they do on this day in February. And at the appointed hour the cannon sounded, the elite wave charged off and, against all odds, the 29th American Birkebeiner was in full glory.
They skied that day, legions of the faithful, skied the wonderful Korteloppet loop and skied the long and winding trail that leads toward Hayward. They skied on snow that was wet and soft, with a light rain in the air. They skied
for the glory, skied for the personal satisfaction, skied for the joy of it all, skied for whatever brought them all together on that day in that piece of northern Wisconsin woodland. After all the waiting and after all the questioning, after all the doubt and all the frustration, they skied. The Korte skiers did the wonderful loop that finished at Telemark. The skiers in the Birkie skied all the way to the announced finish at 45K (at which point they found themselves partway up a long uphill
with the finish line nowhere in sight! Woe be unto the skier who started their closing sprint at 44K when the actual distance was, according to the kilometer signs, over 46 km).
It was, as all Birkies are, a race of some difficulty. The snow was not lightning fast and the legs of many were not in prime race condition. You can tell how a race is going by the conversations among the skiers. On a day fast and easy there is a constant chatter for the entire length. On the slow, hard slogs,
there is not much talk. This race was a quiet race and the silence of the racers speaks volumes.
But the race happened. It happened as it should happen, on decent snow on a day late in the winter when the clan gathers and skis the Birkebeiner. Call it what you will, "the greatest show on snow," "The Miracle Birkie," or just "the Birkie," but in winter where there was little to take solace in, the Birkie restored some sense of normalcy to it all.
In
the evening hours, there was the inevitable and endless talk of the race, for the race does not just end at the finish line; it lives on in the stories told and retold. There was talk of this race and reminiscences of Birkies past. There was talk of winners and times fast and not so fast. There was talk of the Olympics and of the grandeur of those games and of the glory of the athletes, of Muehlegg and Lazurtina, of Belmondo and Alsgaard. There was talk of the noble efforts of another son of
the Birkie, John Bauer, who skied with panache and elegance and brought joy to all who watched him.
On Sunday it all changed, changed with the breaking news of doping, of the disqualification of Muehlegg and Lazutina and Danilova. The three were driven from the games like the thieves that they are. Thieves of the victories unjustly won (one wonders of Beckie Scott who finished third to the two Russian women, wonders what she feels like); thieves of the glory that they stole from
others; thieves of the feelings we all, as Nordic skiers, felt in their false triumphs.
There are some who would look at the Olympics as the pinnacle of sport. There are some who would hold that spectacle as the best of it all. Yet one cannot help but wonder if, rather than look to venues distant and grand, rather than hold up to acclaim sponsors of power and influence and worship the medal–winners, if we are better in this age to look closer to home. One wonders if we are better to
look at the Birkie, and not just that race but the scores of races in the region, where the powers that be wield shovels to save the course. Where volunteers work anonymously with no thought of glory. Where skiers of all abilities gather to face their greatest fears and find their greatest satisfaction. Where sport, our sport, thrives.
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