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The author and her husband, Rob, and their children – Luke, then 5, and Annika, 3 – took part in the 2006 Barnebirkie.
The 1K kids' race was Annika's first and Luke's third. by Teresa Olson What I remember best about the 2006 American Birkebeiner I heard in two seemingly unrelated settings: shortly after the race at Angler's Bar and Grill on Hayward's Main Street and, Sunday morning, at St. Joseph's Catholic Church. After the race, Angler's is where I find my husband, who finishes well ahead of me, as well as several friends. We're certainly not unique for picking this rendezvous, but part of the fun is seeing all the other post-Birkie reunions and celebrations. The eventual arrival of "The Bitches" is especially festive. The conversations begin with cliques and humble formalities: "How was your race?" "Congratulations!" "Good." "I was happy." "I'm glad to be done." "OK." But as the beer flows so do the stories: "I had the best start of my life until someone cut in front of me and I fell." "I fell on Bubble Head Hill and broke my ski tip but didn't realize it for about 15K." But the story from this past winter that has stayed with me is a variation on a theme that repeats itself year after year but involves different characters. A friend witnessed a fellow racer break a pole while jockeying for position before the race even started. I once lost several positions moving to the start line when I dropped one of my poles. It never occurred to me I could breaking one before the start. Great, something else to worry about in those last few minutes. But the triggering of own private anxiety is not the reason I remember this story. Apparently the poor chap with the broken pole became quite agitated and spewed R-rated verbiage. Again, I have a large degree of empathy for the guy. I have dropped a pole, had a pole ripped out of my hand and have broken a pole. There are a plethora of possible pole problems that can occur, and I'm sure few are followed by the utterance of something as tame as "Oh, shucks." One skier's misfortune illustrates what can happen in an instance to dash the focus, dreams and goals of any Birkie skier. While thousands toe the line, each of us occupies our own little world so that any disappointment or frustration can feel like our world is collapsing. This is fairly common part of the Birkie experience. With a huge feeling of gratitude and sometimes a need for a little repentance, I usually find myself at St. Joseph's on Sunday mornings after the Birkie. I also look forward to listening to Father William Green. Father Bill is known to many Birkie skiers because of his warm and welcoming presence at St Joe's spaghetti feed the Friday before the Birkie. Friends told us that just before we arrived at the feed last year, Father Bill blessed all the skiers. We also missed a skier thanking Father Bill that was followed by an ovation from the crowd. But while there, I did observe how people were drawn to him. They shook his hand, recalled past encounters, and had their picture taken with him. Father Bill was gracious and humble. Sunday morning at mass he asked the skiers and then the volunteers to raise their hands. He asked us not to be shy and raise them high. He thanked the volunteers, estimated the number of skiers fed, and shared some of his Birkie stories from over the years. Father Bill's stories are always about how the Birkie touches and inspires people. I recall Father Bill's explanation for why the church holds the spaghetti feed each year. They make money but not a lot. Primarily, it is a way for St. Joe's to become part of the community celebration. In turn, the Birkie experience encompasses the church, Father Bill and all the people who work so hard on every aspect of the event. And Father Bill is but one of the many who plan, participate, volunteer, spectate, work for hire, make a profit and even curse the inconvenience the Birkie causes them. I would be presumptuous and maybe even a little snobbish to think that because I ski the race my Birkie experiences are deeper or more fulfilling than those who fill other roles. This event is much bigger than any one of the athletes skiing 51K. My sister, Mary, has joined my husband and me the past few years for a long Birkie weekend. She watches after our two kids while we ski. I am grateful but a little concerned for her. I worry she does not have enough fun to merit the vacation time and money she spends to be there. But my worrying is silly on two counts. One, she assures me she would not do it if she didn't want to. And two, I do tend to underestimate the Birkie experience for the nonskier. My experience as an individual skier reminds me of the paradox of standing amidst the Rocky Mountains or oceanside. When you marvel at the vastness of it all, you feel very small and insignificant. Yet being a part of something so enormous and amazing gives you a feeling of strength and purpose. It's a paradox, but many things that evoke such passion are that way. A friend of ours trained for his first Birkie three years ago with an enthusiasm and passion that was contagious. Talking to him about skiing and racing helped rekindle my enthusiasm after missing the event for a few years due to having kids. I relived the excitement of my first Birkie through his accomplishment. After completing his first Birkie, his passion was only fanned by the desire to improve and move up a wave or two. Unfortunately, this particular friend fell 9K into his second Birkie trying to avoid a downed skier. He tried to go on but couldn't. I don't presume to know the depth of the disappointment he felt as he waited for the ski patrol to retrieve him. Nevertheless, a few days later he was once again infused with the Birkie spirit and talking only positively about his preparation for the next race. Then there was the guy in the seat behind my husband and me on the bus to the start last year. He had a severe case of Birkie fever. His energy was palpable. He gave the immediate and captive audience a complete in-service on his training and racing style, from theory to practical application, as well as a personal testimonial about the beauty and magic that is the Birkie. I didn't agree entirely with his race strategy, but I admired his enthusiasm. Part of me wanted to invoke the name of Prince Haakon, raise a clenched fist and shout, "Power on, Birkie Brother!!" But that would have been pretty much polar opposite of my pre-race demeanor. I tend to turn inward come race time. I struggled to make a meaningful connection with my husband, but the most I could muster was a bland comment like, "Uh, no frost on the trees this year." Every year, despite feeling overwhelmed or just plain frustrated by the enormity of the event (the hassle of parking, the crowded start, waiting for a bus), I manage to focus on my race. (Do I eat one orange and two energy drinks at rest stop three?) And if I experience a pole shattering personal crisis, I can then turn to the greater event unfolding around me. When both worlds orbit in concert, I just enjoy it and remember why I come back every February. Teresa Olson is a 42-year-old mother of two children, ages 4 and 5, in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. She will line up later this month in Wave 2 for her 10th Birkie. Her husband has bagged 14 Birkies.
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