Nordic skiing is like square dancing:
We can't explain it and we get no respect
CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING WITH MITCH MODE For the aficionado, thoughts of skiing are never far from hand. Fresh spring days distract with visions of warmth and
regeneration. Sultry summer weather when it exists, this summer being an exception briefly crowds out images of skiing. The blazing color of fall overwhelms the stark black-and-white world of our sport. But never are thoughts and images of skiing far removed.
Memories lurk in the background of our minds through all seasons. Until now. Now they come to the fore. Now thoughts of skiing more and more meld with our daily lives. We walk to the window with an appraising glance at thick, gray
clouds. We check the weather reports for what they portend; we make ready our gear. We wait.
And perhaps, in the waiting, we consider our craft. For Nordic skiing is as much craft as sport.
It is, upon consideration, an arcane craft. Deny it if you wish, but when the evolution of one's sport is measured in centuries, arguments toward modernism are built on shifting sand. Granted, equipment has improved and a new technique, skating, lurched from technique's primordial swamp recently.
But the essential stride and glide on which the sport is built has changed little. The Birkebeiner skier/soldier of Norwegian lore could fit into today's scene; a tad burlier perhaps, a bit gnarly in comparison to all of us, and clad in natural fibers as opposed to the synthetics of today. Still, if you squint your eyes a bit and let things blur around the edges, the Birkebeiner can be taken for someone you'd see at the local trails. Or at least a fellow skier bulked up after the
Thanksgiving gluttony but with good intentions, nevertheless.
None of this is to say there is anything wrong with our sport. Au contraire. We who practice Nordic skiing are quick to spring to its defense should the need ever arise. Therein lies part of the problem we face: We are often called on, if not to actually defend our participation in the sport, to at least explain it to the somewhat quizzical observer. How many times have you, when reviewing your weekend ski plans with a
co-worker, gotten the tight-lipped response, "Oh, that's nice."
We have an image problem. Perhaps "problem" is not the correct word, maybe "issue" is the one we own up to. We have an image issue with our sport.
Face it, Nordic skiing stands in terms of modern popularity closer to the cultlike status of square dancing, than the over-the-top glamour of, say, road biking. Square dancing draws people out of their ordinary lives for a brief respite from the
humdrum of daily drudgery. Practiced in out-of-the-way venues, away from the limelight, governed by certain mysterious guidelines of proper technique and etiquette, considered quaint but puzzling by the masses, square dancing shares a frightening common ground with Nordic skiing.
Contrast that if you will to the modern road bike riders who have risen to the top of the recreational world. Every burg now has in its company a rider or two, perhaps more, astride the most modern,
computer-designed, laboratory-tested, carbon fiber steed direct from the hallowed ground of Waterloo, Wisconsin. Straddling said bicycle is a rider fully outfitted in the latest incarnation of team colors looking for all the world as a second-tier member of the Postal Team (soon to be Discovery, a major marketing coup for some lucky clothing manufacturer). Looking like that team rider, that is, until in favorable light the full body profile is silhouetted, at which time the appearance
approaches the bulky Birkebeiner soldiers of long ago. That, or until the first hill approaches and the legs begin to scream.
And everyone in our society looks at them with awe and approval.
Then there is our group, the Nordic nerds, kin to the Viking soldiers, heirs of the 10th Mountain Division, citizens of the modern age who practice a craft centuries old. And do it outside. In the middle of winter. In the freezing cold. And enjoy it. Small wonder we have an image issue.
We find
no true companionship or empathy with other winter sports enthusiasts. Snowmobilers, rank with exhaust fumes, regard us as an amusing curiosity. Downhill skiers consider themselves several rungs up the evolutionary ladder of sport, superior in every aspect. The knuckle-dragging snowboarders are blissfully unaware of cross-country or consider it something their grandparents might do. Snowshoers smile with the smug certainty of those in a hot growth sport, the new darlings of the deep snow.
Even the brandy-breathed ice fishermen consider their sport superior. That one hurts: How could one think that standing for hours over a hole in the ice is superior to anything in the world? Combining as it does the physical activity level (not to say the physical profile) of an emperor penguin with the mental strain of watching paint dry, ice fishing would seem well down on the scale of any popular activity. Alas, in most eyes we are even lower, seemingly looking up with resignation and envy.
In the eyes of popular culture, Nordic skiing has little going for it. The skeptics will list several reasons. Where to start that sad litany? The old saw "it's too much like work" will do for openers. "It's too cold outside" usually follows in short order. "It's too difficult to learn," "it's too technical," "you have to work so hard," all have their day in the eyes of the nonskier and, more importantly, the nonskiing skeptic of which
there seem to be legions.
As is the case with any critique, the objection raised illuminates the critic more than the object of the criticism. Those who feel cross-country skiing is too much work are usually overweight and lazy. The "it's too cold" objection more accurately reflects the speaker saying, "It's too cold outside for me and therefore it must be too cold for you."
"Too difficult to learn" and "too technical" speak of a short attention
span or perhaps one of the alphabet soup phrases so often bandied about in modern education to explain students that in simpler times were simply labeled "slow learners."
Less often mentioned, but nonetheless present, is the notion that for all our work, we don't go very far very fast. We're slow. Slow in this society is bad.
The concept that speed, and its companion, the adrenaline rush, bring redemption is part of our societal makeup. We, too, often take as faith that
fast-moving activities are superior to those slower-paced. Downhill skiing promises speed, thrills and glamour. Jacked up snowmobiles hit speeds that exceed common sense and all too often the ability of the driver to control. It's as if our fast-paced society collectively feels that if something is gotten to in a shorter time it is somehow more worthy. For those of that persuasion two words (fast food), an acronym (NASCAR), and a well-worn phrase ("speed kills") would seem to offer
a counterpoint.
Now we wait, we of slow pace and adrenaline deprivation, in these transition days of late autumn to early winter. We wait with each passing day and with each leaden cloud that drifts overhead. We wait for the time to practice our craft.
In our waiting we accept two basic and essential facts: The first is that we are not much in sync with the modern world. The second fact is that we really don't care. In the former statement we find puzzlement; in the latter we find
comfort. So be it. We are Nordic skiers and we develop an immunity to all talk of speed and pulsing adrenaline. We are different and we know it.
It is always helpful at the start of a new season to consider such things. It is useful to take stock of what we are all about. It is fruitful in a contemplative, inner-looking sense to consider who we are and what is important to us. We rarely do that in these fast-paced and essentially stupid times of rushing to and fro in a seductive but
damaging frenzy. But it is a good exercise.
We stand now at the cusp of the new season, optimism flowing like sap in the maples of spring, eyes alight with promise of good snow and fine trails. We stand and we consider things.
We realize in a short time of self-examination that we do not fit with the main of society. That is obvious. We do not let it bother us much. We find in our time on skis a thing more vast and all-encompassing than what we find in the socially accepted tasks. For
in skiing we find something so effortless that it gives great power. Skiing draws us inward, to our heart and to our soul and gives us sustenance and strength. We find in the bracing cold a truth about who we are, a truth that transcends the cold and shrugs off perceived work of our sport.
Skiing goes beyond the passing popularity of the latest rage in sport and takes us to a place we so often seek. We find challenge and satisfaction, effort and reward, adversity and comfort. In skiing we
find our truth, we find our heart and we find the soul in lives so often banal.
If you have stayed with me this long you know of what I write. We are not the pacesetters in the world of modern recreation. We are not role models for a generation. We are not held in overly high esteem by the nonskiing world. We do not play at our sport or practice this craft for reasons complicated or involved. We ski because we are skiers. We ski because we love to ski. We are heirs to the old Scandinavians
who dealt with the long winters by squarely taking them on, mano a mano. We ski because the rewards far exceed the effort expended.
Simple, isn't it? Simple and satisfying both. In a world of complexity of such magnitude that the complexity becomes almost a tangible thing, we find a simple sport and in the simplicity find who we are.
As skiers we take so much from a craft so simple. So much from a sport so misunderstood. So much from the ancient lineage that connects us with the hardy
Scandinavians who faced challenge far beyond what we know and in that challenge took strength and succor and comfort.
This is our heritage as skiers. In this we find our promise. In this we will find our reward. This is what awaits now as the snow falls soft and our hearts quicken.
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