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Turkey on a roll Footloose with Bruce Steinberg I still have the backpack I purchased in 1977 during my sophomore year in college. Two-tone rust colors, padded straps, a small pouch with one zipper, and a main pouch with two zippers, except one zipper remains forever a tangle of shredded threads. Usually the pack hangs in the utility closet where we keep the cat food, tool box and half-empty spackle cans left over from house projects gone by. If I leave the backpack out, our two cats fight over which one gets to sniff it, or until my wife finds it and pleads with me to throw it out in favor of the nifty high-tech backpack she bought two years ago. I refuse. It has sentimental value as well as usefulness, even if it's known as "that stinky backpack." On Sunday, November 19, I parked my car at a park in St. Charles, Illinois, and loaded up stinky backpack with my running shoes (also a bit stinky), water bottle, car keys, wallet and two canned goods. I then took off on my roller skis toward downtown Batavia using the Fox River bike path. Half a mile in, Jeff Palmquist jogged by from the other direction and warned me about ice on the wooden bridges over the various creeks. I think he also asked me what was up with the backpack, but I was worried about a race registration deadline and continued on. The first bridge nearly dropped me, and I had to pigeon-toe over ice to the other side. Five miles and six slippery wooden bridges later, I arrived in Batavia with 20 minutes to spare to register for a 4-mile prediction run, and not a single person along the way had asked me and my roller skis, "Where's the snow?" There was plenty of time to stash the roller ski gear under a bench and lace up my running shoes. A registration-taker accepted my entry fee and canned goods and then asked, "What's your predicted finish time?" "I hadn't thought about it much. I'm always way off." "You have to pick something." I picked 28 minutes, 18 seconds on a lark, a time that feels too slow one moment, too fast the next. The last time I did this race, I was 1:37 off. But this event has great post-race treats and gives away full-sized frozen turkeys to runners whose race times come closest to their predictions. At the start, race coordinators asked us to raise our wrists to conduct a no-watches-allowed check. Volunteers drifted through the crowd searching for cell phones and other gadgets that keep time. Even the race clock is turned the other direction. When all is in order, the gun went off and 157 of us ran south on the bike path. I enjoy this run, beyond the goodies it offers. It's a scenic trail through woods and along the river. No need to go all out unless you want to. Wondering how much we'll be off our predicted times at the end, I ran with Kara from the Fox River Trail Runners. She told me her predicted time was 10 seconds faster than mine. "At the end," I offer, "I'll slow down a bit." But at the turnaround point, she began to break away. To me, her pace felt too fast for our predicted times. A boy about 12 ran ahead of me. My male insecurities told me to catch and pass the boy. I resisted. This isn't a race of all-out speed. I was there to improve on a prediction that was off by almost 25 seconds per mile. Still, my insecurity told me perhaps Kara's pace is right, or perhaps the boy's is. It's too late, though. The final stretch appeared and I entered the chute. Crossing the finish line, I turned around to look at the clock. It says 28:20. Sure enough, the printout tells me the difference between my prediction and finishing time is only 2.9 seconds. I've won a frozen turkey! I also learned that by being the fourth-best guesser, I've won one of the whoppers: A frozen 20-pounder. I immediately wonder how I'm going to roller ski back to my car with this thing. Nobody will trade for a smaller turkey. I call home. There's no one to pick me up. A few running pals offered me a ride, but I didn't want to impose. The answer lay rumpled under a bench: The stinky backpack. The turkey fits, along with my wallet, water bottle and keys, but I had to tie my running shoes on an outside strap. After walking two blocks to get to the bike path, I rose up on my roller skis and hoisted the stinky backpack over my shoulders. It felt like I was hauling Haakon Haakonsson's older brother who had been on an all-Twinkies diet. It beat like an anvil against my spine. I soon realized stinky backpack's straps were not as padded as they once were. I began my double-pole along the trail. Several walkers passed by the other way, watching but not daring to say a word. Every misstep on the roller skis was magnified a hundredfold, and I moved along like a back surgery patient. One walker I passed mutters to a friend something like, "Blah blah I Quasimodo I blah blah." Unsure of what may happen even on modest downhills, I reached down to apply the speed reducers. This caused my running shoes to flip around and smack me in the face. Before I could recall Jeff Palmquist's pre-race warning, I found myself skittering over an icy bridge, muttering speedy help-me prayers until I got to the asphalt on the other side. Stinky backpack's straps tore at the skin beside my armpits. My back ached, and my left shoulder needed a break before it broke. This turkey probably cost less than the race entry fee, so what was the point? Then I wondered, why is a food pantry benefit race giving away turkeys? And how many people in the history of the Earth have roller skied with 20-pound turkeys on their backs? Suddenly none of this felt like a smart idea – something everybody in the history of the Earth but me already knew. John Duncker, a friend and fellow skier, happened to appear on his bike at an intersection in the path. "Frozen turkey," I said before he asked. "Yes, but what's in your backpack?S he replied. John rode alongside for a while, laughed a lot, offered to come get me in his car, then took off when I declined. I had a plan, and I aimed to finish it. My arms and back were about to give out from double-poling all this way with a frozen turkey on my back. (Has the previous sentence ever been written before?) Then I began to skate ski. It worked. I began an open field skate. For a while, I wondered if this could be some sort of training technique that finally launches me into the Birkie's first wave. As I rose up the path to cross Route 25, I stalled for a passing car, and then began to roll backward. I feared falling on the frozen bird and needing a surgeon to perform a turkey-ectomy. It would be a lot easier to CAT Ski with a mountain strapped to my waist. I caught myself just in time, and made one final climb to the parking lot where my car awaited. I'm done (even if the turkey isn't), except for the explaining I have yet to do. At home, my wife made space in the freezer, tossed the turkey in and turned to me. "You know, your brother has already paid for a pre-made turkey for Thanksgiving, and nobody wants to make one for Christmas." "I'd like to try." "It's not our turn to host Christmas dinner this year." Wish I could remember these things. The next morning, my wife smiles and says, "Look. Congratulations on winning the turkey. I'm serious. Now here's what I think you should do with it." Two hours later, I was in my suit and tie, carrying my prize to the front door of Lazarus House, my town's homeless shelter. Diane's been expecting me. "Wow. A Jennie-O turkey. Thank you," Diane says. She smiles wider when she realizes I'm taking stinky backpack home with me. For reasons that don't feel so ridiculous anymore, I'm thinking about doing the same thing next year. And if the Birkie organizers ever come up with a turkey-hauling ski race competition, all I can say is, I'm ready. Bruce Steinberg lives in St. Charles, Illinois, with his ski waxing intolerant but otherwise loving wife and their young son.
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