Pocket Watches, Roller Ski Ferrels and Other Lethal Things

Roller Skiing

Fall is a deadly kind of season, a beautiful one no doubt, but still poisonous enough to have an entire team of nordic skiers collapsed on ground in a state of excruciating pain. You might think I'm exaggerating...which I am, because we were actually hanging from our poles not lying down. Why though? I've got one word for you: time.

Obviously, as we are falling headlong into race season, the lovely luxuries of summer are replaced by a rather maniacal training regimen. The worst part of this is the uphill time trials. Possibly the worst invention the athletic world has came up with since overly padded running shoes.  I did two this fall, Agony Hill and Pinebrook Park. For boredom's sake I will only recount one of them, and to be honest I don't remember much about Agony because I have already blocked it out of my memory.

I finished the Pinebrook skate roller ski time trial 3 hours ago and as I write this my mental health, along with my pride, is lying in shreds along the road. 

Leading up to the time trial I was told very conflicting accounts of exactly how hard this was going to be. One teammate seemed to be describing the predetermined death of my nordic career: thirty minutes (not sprint pace, not enduro speed but the nasty grey area in the middle), on skate (my least favorite), for 5 kilometers of non-stop uphill (no downhills). The smile on my face when I arrived at Pinebrook Park was what you could call "fake it until you make it." I wasn't smiling because I was happy, but because I hoped that if I smiled long enough I would eventually start feeling happy about this. 

Then as I was standing in the parking lot while ignoring the nightmarish visions clouding my thoughts, I heard seven completely different accounts of what the time trial was like. People suddenly started saying that it was, "hardly even a mile," and "under 20 minutes, for sure," and "pretty fast and not that hard." My confidence levels shot up, which was a mistake, let me tell you because all three of those were lies.

I started skiing up strong, my technique slipping under the critical watch of my older teammates, but altogether pretty composed. I figured I'd go up a few hills and the climb would be over, finished. Then I hit the first steep part and I was filled with a sudden sense of premonition. I actually don't think I'd skied up a lot of hills that steep before, if any at all. By this point I was skiing with my teammate, Claire, using her pace to make sure I didn't blow myself up before the end. That was probably the only good decision I made that whole 24 minutes. About the third corner I thought we were probably close to the finish and kept skiing enthusiastically up on Claire until I became aware of the pavement-sharp-ski-tips flying near my face.

That was when my shoulder started hurting. Probably because my technique was quickly deteriorating with my growing exhaustion. Thinking that I shouldn't kill my arms too fast, I skied no-pole for a while until all the muscles in my legs were burning to the point of collapse. We reached what my teammates want to consider a downhill, really it's flat, but it doesn't matter because at that point you're too tired to care what it is as long as you can ski it. Then a gaggle of teammates passed us, I freaked out, and caught up to Julia.

From there the road turned into a series of false hopes. At every turn I thought it was going to be the top, only to be greeted by the terrible sight of another steep hill. I was getting tired and every hill seemed less and less doable. My legs didn't have the strength to push myself up the freaking hill anymore, my arms were useless, my shoulder killing me...and I had no idea when any of it was over. It was then that I realized my coach could make us go up and up forever. He could have us skiing up this hill for the entire night and we would do it. We would just keep skiing up until you couldn't ski up any farther because we're nordic skiers. It might kill us but we would probably keep skiing. As far as I knew, this would NEVER be over.

As this very unrealistic vision played in my head, I seemed to be getting exponentially more tired. I got mad about everything. I got mad about everything that's ever happened ever and hot tears filled my eyes and breathing became impossible because I was crying. I stopped, I hate that I stopped, but I did. That's where the time trial turned into the rubble of hope and the victory of despair. But it turns out despair is a perfect segway into stubborn determination because I kept skiing. I went around the corner and there was the team van. There was the finish. I stopped. A hundred yards. In front of. The. Finish. Why?! Bonus: I did finish and as I sit here fuming about my stupidity and recovering from what I can safely say was the hardest 24 minutes of my life, I am struck with a crazy desire to do it again.

To do it again next weekend to prove that I can. I'm not going to because it's supposed to be an annual thing, but in some insane way, I want to.

I wrote this post for a couple of reasons. Partly, I admit, because I had to write a post in the narrative structure. I also needed to rant about this terrible experience, so I apologize to those of you who don't nordic ski and could care less about time trials. I also wrote it because I think there is good that can come out of a situation like that. A situation where you let yourself down, so close to finishing. I will remember this when/if I ever reach that point in a race. 

In a vain attempt to connect this to everyone's lives I will say this. Whatever experience you've had in your life similar to this, try to find a way to look on the bright side. Try to find a way to learn from it. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

That was cliche, ignore the last sentence,

Victoria