VAN RIDES (Chronicles from the Not-So-Glamorous Side of Ski Racing)

Nordic ski racing in all of its snowy and sweaty glory is a thrilling, competitive, and dynamic sport.  Race days are full of tense and vibrant energy as legacies, goals, dreams, and races are won or lost.  Endorphins fly around like snowflakes and random yet incredibly exuberant dance parties are frequent occurrences.  The flashy suits, the glitter, the screaming, the photo finishes… Everything surrounding race day is full of excitement.

But what spectators commonly don’t see are the slightly-less-than-exhilarating sides of skiing.  The background events of racing (AKA a professional skier’s typical, run-of-the-mill, every day life) aren’t always as dazzling as the races themselves. Shocking, right??

So I’ve decided to create a new blog series titled “Chronicles from the Not-So-Glamorous Side of Ski Racing”.  Picture it like a blog-version of the TV series “Dirty Jobs”.  I’ll cover everything from cleaning klister to crashing on rollerskis to living in hotel rooms to what it’s like to race in the pouring rain.

And our first subject?  A personal favorite. Van Rides!

Packing up the SVSEF limo

PRE- VAN RIDE: Packing. 12-15 ski bags each weighing 50+ pounds, pole tubes, wax boxes, wax benches, duffle bags with zippers barely hanging in there, backpacks, food bags, boot bags, trash bags, bags with who-knows-what-but-it-could-be-dead-bodies-and-why-on-earth-did-you-bring-all-this inside; it ALL has to fit on top of, inside of, or behind the 15 passenger vans that we are all soooo in love with.  God forbid we forget anything.

The view from the back of a 15 passenger van (isn't it scenic?)

HOUR ZERO: Everyone clambers in, jostling (only slightly competitively) for their most preferred van spot. For some, this is the front row: easy access to the doors so you can pee faster at gas stations, you can see out the front window (aka less carsick-ness), and this is generally a central location for conversation. (BONUS: control of the radio or auxiliary cord.)  For others, the back rows are where it’s at: you can sleep, it’s perfectly acceptable to not talk to anyone at all because you can claim temporary deafness (thank you headphones), and there’s usually a tiny bit more room.

HOUR ONE: Fitful sleep for some, shot-gunning coffee for others.

HOUR ONE AND A HALF: Someone farts.  All the windows roll down as faces are shoved into sweatshirt hoods and jacket collars. Cold air blasts in for about 30 seconds. Windows go back up, leaving the van smelling only slightly better than before. (You never truly realize just how bad a van smells until you step out of it to pee at a gas station and have to get back in a couple minutes later.)

HOUR 1.75, 2.5. 3.75, 4, 5, ETC: Pee stop.  Basically every half an hour because we endurance athletes love nothing more than bragging about how hydrated we are.  Untangle yourself from seat belts, pillows, blankets, bags, iPod headphone cords (the worst), somebody else’s legs, and gingerly climb out of the van trying in vain not to pull a muscle. Fall out of the van doors, stumble into a gas station that’s definitely seen better days, and try not to touch anything in the bathroom. (I’ve gotten super duper good at opening doors with my feet.)  Skip around the parking lot to shake out your legs and don’t make eye contact with any locals.

HOUR THREE: Are we there yet? How long is this van ride again? Oh, 12 hours? Well that’s fun.

HOUR THREE AND FIVE MINUTES: … Are we there yet?

HOUR FIVE: Lunch stop. After much heated debate, a location for lunch is chosen. Preferably near a grocery store so a run for more food can be simultaneously completed.  Eat as fast as you can, get back in the van, feel instantly disgusting.

HOUR SIX TO TEN: Stare out the windows at the landscape and count cows. Crawl into a coma if able and hibernate under heaps of jackets.  Plead with your iPhone battery to keep lasting through the drive, and then compete to see who gets the charging stations. (FRIENDLY HINT TO ALL MAKERS OF 15 PASSENGER VANS: It would be to everyone’s benefit if you just installed 15 charging stations instead of a depressing 2. This is the technology decade people.) Plow through a book if you’re lucky enough to be able to read in the car without feeling like you’re going to yak. Pretend to be productive and write a blog post.  Watch as much of a movie as your computer battery will allow.  Text everyone you know trying to start a riveting conversation, but then you remember that most normal people are currently at work so that’s not going to be very successful. Text your mom.

HOUR TEN AND A HALF: Sleep. Wake up thinking you’ve slept for hours and you’re at your destination, but really you’ve only slept for 10 minutes and now you have to pee again.

HOUR ELEVEN: Travel through the US-CAN border. (Coaches, please count your athletes pre-border arrival.) Pray to every supreme-being you have ever heard of that the border patrol decides to be nice and not search your vehicle because you can’t remember if you ate the apple in your bag or not, and you’re going to have a super fun time explaining to them what the blowtorch is for and why you have about 50 explosive-looking tubes of an incredibly sticky substance called “klister”. Hold your breath, hand out passports, buckle up, answer all of the seemingly unrelated questions (why do they want to know if we have family in Russia…?), and make it through. 

HOUR ????: ARRIVE AT YOUR DESTINATION! LAND!! FREEDOM!! AMERICA! (or Canada, whooo.) Leap out of the van, kiss the ground, realize you now have to unpack everything and you can’t feel your legs. Instantly wish you could get back in the van and just go to sleep.

Sometimes your vans get stuck and nice gentlemen in
pick-up trucks have to pull you out of the snowbanks.
"Everybody out.. and PUSHHH"

Some can't wait for van rides, others are not as thrilled.