My first Birkie

A Nordic novice accepts the challenge

by Steven Latham

After the completion of his first American Birkebeiner in 2005, the author posed with his proud wife, Jenny, and son, Elliot.

Ever since I first heard about the American Birkebeiner, I assumed it to be a prestigious event open to only the very best and most elite of cross-country skiers. A novice like me participating in such a long and esteemed race seemed a ludicrous thought. After all, I knew nothing about waxing skis and had only occasionally skied over the years. Such a person should know his proper place and just stay home, right? Yet, I was intrigued by the idea.

After years of cycling, during which I completed dozens of century rides, I felt I had the stamina and endurance to go 50K on skis, even if skills were woefully lacking. So one day, in a fit of sheer craziness, I picked up a brochure, filled it out and mailed it in. I had just registered for one of the most difficult cross-country ski marathons in the world. Now what?

I knew from my cycling experience that the key to successfully completing any physical challenge was proper training. Over the course of the next few months I would need to slowly condition my body and muscles to the rigors of several hours of continuous cross-country skiing. I had no delusions about my abilities and knew I would be on the Birkie course for several hours.

The first challenge I faced was living in southeastern Wisconsin where in early December the ground is often still bare with not a snowflake in sight.

With the purchase of a pair of Classic All Terrain (CAT) Skis, I solved that dilemma. The CAT Skis allowed me to hone my classic technique despite the lack of snow. I found the CAT Skis to be frustrating at first, but after a couple of weeks, I was able stay out on them for well over an hour.  Later in the season, I went for four-hour CAT Ski sessions. Gradually I began to notice improvement in my stride and my endurance.

When the first substantial snows finally came in January, I headed out to a local park to try the real deal. Although the trail there offers no real challenge, I believed it would be useful to try to ski a distance comparable to that of the Birkie. Twenty miles seemed like a respectable distance. If I could still walk, talk and breathe after that, well maybe I had a realistic shot at completing the Birkie.

Nearly four hours of nontechnical, easy skiing later, I was still alive. Not only that, I was feeling pumped and confident. All I needed to do was practice more, preferably on hills. So to Lapham Peak I headed.

Lapham Peak is the premier destination for cross-country skiing here in southeastern Wisconsin. Its well-groomed and lighted trails, combined with its grueling uphills and terrifying descents (at least to me) make it the perfect place to practice for the Birkie.

On the uphills I felt fine. They're tough all right, but as long as I remembered to breathe deeply and maintain a steady, rhythmic pace, I felt good. The downhills were another matter entirely. I seemed I spent more time on my posterior than on my skis. The experience left me shaken but not willing to give up. Back at Lapham a few days later, I found softer and more forgiving snow. Despite some ungraceful and unorthodox maneuvers, I managed to stay mostly upright.

Shortly thereafter, I came across a brochure for the 40K cross-country ski race at the upcoming Winter Badger State Games. Open to novice skiers like me, it looked like a good test of my training to date.

Race day turned out to be unseasonably warm for early February with temperatures nearing 50 degrees, leaving the course a soupy, sloppy mess. After about 25K, with my muscles aching, mere survival became my goal. But with the encouragement and sustenance offered by volunteers at the feed stations, I trudged onward. I managed to finish that first ski race in a little under five hours. I take inventory of my condition and concluded I could have gone another 10K - and gone the approximate distance of the Birkie - if I had to.

But by then I'd become more than a little paranoid. The prospect of finishing the Birkie, with all its hills and screaming descents, alive and intact now seemed a more daunting task than attempting to scale Mount Everest. The staff at my local ski shops assured me I had trained adequately. Still, I resolved to pop off my skis and walk down the Birkie's more difficult descents.

Race day
It was cold the morning of the Birkie. Four below in Hayward, according to the Weather Channel. The forecast was calling for highs in the mid to upper 20s. But I was up at 5:30 a.m. rummaging through my suitcase trying to decide what to wear. I decided to go with a few thin layers and leave space in my fanny pack just in case I needed to shed any clothing during the race.

By the time I reached the warming tent near the starting line, it was thick with skiers. But it gradually cleared out as the first few waves departed. A couple from Indiana shared their frustration with snow conditions and the lack of good trails back home. They admit this was their first time out on skis all season. I was left feeling grateful I'd had at least several days on snow.

At last, it was almost time for my wave to depart. I stepped into my skis and strapped on my poles, tested out my legs on the snow and nervously found a spot near the back of the pack. At 10 a.m. the starter's gun fired and we were off. The first couple of kilometers were deceptively easy. "So what's all the fuss about?" I asked myself. "Maybe this won't be so bad after all."

Soon, though, the course turned left and there they were - the Powerline Hills.  This series of steep, undulating hills looks like an insurmountable wall. With my skis spread wide and edges looking for purchase, I tried to maintain a steady rhythm as I herringboned. To my amazement, I reached the top in no time.

Then I looked down the other side. It' was only a 60- to 70-foot drop but it was steep and packed by the few thousand skiers who preceeded me. I gathered myself up, took a deep breath, crouched down low on my skis and pushed off. "Just be calm and make no sudden movements," I reminded myself as I reached a speed I had never approached on skis before.

As I whizzed down the hill, a disturbing sight caught my eye. Upon stopping, I looked back at a downed skier. Others had come to his aid but the fallen made no attempt to get up. It was a sobering reminder that the Birkie course demands respect. This was not the time or place to test my abilities or push my limits. I was convinced my strategy to walk down the steeper hills was a sound one.

From this point on, the course was nonstop hills; there wasn't a patch of level real estate anywhere. But it was sometime after the first food station where I encountered the first truly technical descent. It was steep and long with a hard left turn at the bottom. It would have been difficult for me in ideal conditions, but after a few thousand skiers, the course was severely rutted. I quickly popped off my skis and walked down. It was a process I repeated a handful of times that day.

Shortly after the second food station, the course split from that of the Kortelopet skiers who veered left while the Birkie skiers headed right. After the split, I found myself skiing the unrelenting hills nearly alone. But I felt strong. I took just enough time at the food stations to rest, recover and take in plenty of food and fluid. I knew from experience not to dawdle. If I stopped too long, my body would shut down thinking that the race is over. Once that happened, all momentum would be lost. So I took care of business and pressed on.

The next truly difficult descent was Bubblehead Hill. Since reading about it, I had dreaded it. Staring down from the top, I could see that the descent was steep and technical. A crowd of bubbleheads (helmeted snowmobilers) had gathered alongside the course to witness the spectacle. I took off my skis to walked down to a chorus of heckling and jeering. I ignored it and continued. When I reached the bottom, I heard a roar of cheering and applause. I turned just in time to see a skier wipe out. The vultures!

Shortly thereafter, I came to the County Highway OO food station. I was relieved to be at least a good 50 minutes ahead of the cutoff time. There I was greeted by a dozen or more supportive spectators clanging cowbells and shouting encouraging words.

After County OO, the course became less strenuous. The hills were gentler and less demanding. But it was there I felt my right foot swelling painfully inside my boot. Fortunately, the discomfort grew no worse as I ski the 10K to the next aid station. Once there, I took a few extra minutes to walk around and let the swelling subside. Soon I was back in business.

There remained just one obstacle between me and the finish line: Bitch Hill. While Bitch Hill is far from the steepest or the longest hill on the course, its location near the 40K mark makes it a daunting one for those with aching, tired and shaky leg muscles.

A fellow skier and I rounded a corner and there it was, looming. "It's a lot more fun than it looks," the other skier said cryptically. When we hit the base of the hill, I discovered life left in my legs. I leaned into the hill, dug with my skis and Bitch Hill was soon behind me.

Just a little way on down the course I encountered a bikini-clad woman posing for pictures with other skiers. After several hours of continuous skiing, I wondered if I was hallucinating. Either way, I was in no mood for the spectacle, so I ski on.

The last food station came with just 6K to go. The volunteers assured me the rest of the course was easy compared to what had come before. But the hill just outside the last food station was deceptively difficult. With some effort, I got over it. After a long stretch of fast coasting, I was suddenly on Lake Hayward. 

By now it was a beautiful day with temperatures in the mid-20s. I had been warned that the trek across Lake Hayward can be particularly brutal if there is a strong head wind. But that day the crossing was a delight. I found my stride and skis with probably the best form I had all day.

Off the lake, I turned the corner and headed up Hayward's Main Street. I was amazed to hear my name announced over the public address loudspeakers: "Here comes Steven Latham from Menomonee Falls!" 

It was late afternoon and several dozen people still lined the street shouting and clanging cowbells. "Way to go!" "All right! " "You're almost home now!" I heard as I strode past. I spotted my wife, Jenny, running frantically with our camera in hand.

Proof the author crossed the finish line on Hayward's Main Street.

The finish
Six hours and 48 minutes after I started, I strode across the finish line. I'd actually done it. I skied the Birkie. I barely had a chance to sigh with relief before a reporter from a local radio station, WOJB, shoved a microphone in my face and started firing questions at me. I muttered a few unintelligible answers. A "first timer" medal was hung around my neck and then I received hugs from my wife and son. I posed for pictures with my crew and finally, at long last, was able to relax enough to soak in that glorious moment.

I shared my Birkie experience with Jenny and Elliot and they told me of having spent most of the day out snowshoeing. All of us had been struck by the beauty of this part of Wisconsin. Back at the hotel, we showered, gobbled Chinese takeout and watched TV, all the while swapping more stories about the remarkable day. After a short trip to the Jacuzzi, fatigue set in and we headed to bed.

I often find myself reminiscing about that Birkie and the wonderful time I had sharing it with my family and the complete strangers I met out on the course. The camaraderie of skiers at the Birkie is amazing and I am extremely grateful for all the support and encouragement I received from fellow participants.

 In turn, I hope this encourages others, who are still sitting on the sidelines, to get out there. Shove aside those fears and inhibitions, take up a new sport or a new challenge. You need not ski the Birkie, but if you do, you will not soon forget it.

Steven Latham lives in Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin. He improved on his 2005 time by finishing the 2006 Birkie in 6:33. Having classic skied the course twice now, Latham plans to skate ski the Birkie this year. Besides a skier, Latham is an active road cyclist, mountain biker and a stay-at-home dad.

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