When In Rome (or the Midwest)

Welcome welcome WELCOME to Houghton, Michigan, home of Michigan Tech, Yoopers on snowmobiles, and the U.S. Cross Country Ski Championships for the next week!

In case you were wondering just where we are..... see map below.

Thaaaat's right folks, we are currently as immersed into the snowy, blustery, deeply cold Midwest as we could possibly get without snorkeling across the Great Lakes to Can-ah-duh.

Which, of course, I am just loving.  Since moving out West, I've gotten used to getting some laughs for being a "Midder" (apparently slang for a person hailing from the Midwest), so it's kind of fun to have the rest of the country in my neck of the woods for once. So in the spirit of skiers convening in the Midwest for an entire race series, I thought I would offer a tutorial for those who AREN'T Midders but would like to try to be.

Ready? Here we go!

Do: Learn how to love hot dish and pasties (the kind you eat)
The Midwest is notorious for its home-y cuisine.  And who doesn't love a warm casserole when it's -15F outside and you just got off the lake from ice fishing? (The crock pot is the Midder's best friend.)

Don't: Say goodbye too fast.
If you say goodbye to a Midder and simply turn around and walk out the door, you're probably going to get a look of confusion and bewilderment. The Minnesota Goodbye requires you to walk to the door, say goodbye, chat for a bit while you put your shoes on, hug goodbye again, chat some more while you put your coat on, end up talking for an hour, finally get out the door and down the sidewalk, talk some more while you stand freezing by your car, and finally back down the driveway to the entire family waving until they can't see you.  We really milk goodbyes for all they're worth.  If you say goodbye too fast, we'll probably assume you don't didn't like our hot dish.

Do: Extend those OOOs and AAAAs
"Oooh yaaa I'm goin on the booooat after I eat some baaaagels."

Don't: Take the last piece of food.
Proper etiquette while dining: There's one last piece of bread. Don't take the bread. If you really want some bread, break a piece off and leave some left in the basket. Or at least wait for 20 minutes, announce to the entire table that you're going to take the last piece, and then take it and try to look apologetic.

Do: Slip in the "oh jeez" and "you betcha!"
Study up on Midder lingo. It will make communicating easier, dontcha know.

Don't: Assume everyone lives in Fargo. 
Fargo is a great movie. Also a great tv show. But not everybody in the Midwest is from there, and it's probably not a good idea to ask them if they are when you see them.

Well, I hope these helpful hints make your experience in Hooooughton a great one. Remember, if the waitress calls you "hon", you've officially been accepted.

The racing kicks off on Sunday with the skate 10/15k individual start. The trails are absolutely amazing, the snow is glorious, and it's going to be a good week of skiing! See you out there!

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.

Shaking Out the First Races of the Season: Trust

Hello from Bozeman, Montana! With the last few weeks, the racing season has officially started.  It's absolutely surreal to finally be putting on a SVSEF Gold Team race suit (thank you to Podiumwear), and standing on the line facing the courses and competition after all of the hard work, sweat, and tears (that's actually not a joke though) that went into this summer and fall.  Racing season is HERE!  And I literally couldn't be more excited. Clearly.

These past two weekends were eye-opening reminders of how unforgiving ski racing can be, and therefore, how much trust goes into the process.

Now. You're probably all like "Dude. It's skiing. You start, you ski as fast as you can, you finish. Why would trust matter?"  Well, let me enlighten you.  First we'll start with a quick definition, just to clear things up a bit.

Trust (noun): firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone of something.

Synonyms: confidence, belief, faith, certainty, assurance, conviction, credence, reliance

Alright.  Now that that's all cleared up, maybe you can see it. Trust underlies almost every aspect of nordic ski racing.

First, you need to trust your skis.  Whether this is cornering on skate skis, kicking on classics, or just surviving sketchy downhills, having trust in your skis is starting the race confident that you chose the right pair.  I am notorious for not trusting my classic skis.  I'll work all season trying to learn which skis work for which conditions, how to kick each pair of them, and where my kick zones are, but ask me by the end of the season and I'll probably tell you I only truly trust one or two pairs. But this season, I'm really trying to get it down.  I'm confident that Fischer has sent me some awesome pairs, and the classic races this weekend gave me a chance to "bond" with them. (Literally, each training ski is like a date.)

Pre-race in West Yellowstone!

Tim, Clark, Andrew, Tom, and Colin = the SVSEF A Team

Second, you need to trust your coaches.  This one may seem obvious. Your coaches pick your wax, they prep your skis, they give you tactics, they calm you down or pump you up, they write your training plans, they drive you to the races, and they put all of their energy into doing everything they can to help you perform your best.  If you don't trust your coaches, racing can get real hard real fast. (Shoutout and thank you's to the A TEAM this weekend: Colin, Tim, Tom, Andrew, and Clark completely nailed it, and it made the weekend awesome!)

And while you're at it, fill out your training log. oops.

Third, you need to trust the training.  It is so easy to get to the start line and have a mini-freakout in the back of your mind about all the work you have (or feel like you haven't) done in the past 6 months. But let's be real, you can't cram a season's worth of training in at last moment. There's nothing you can do about it now, so you might as well take a deep breath, realize that the training plan is created the way it is for a reason, and whether you feel ready or not, it's time to race.

Fourth, you need to trust your competitors.  This weekend we faced one of the iciest courses I have ever skied on, and it didn't help that it was a classic mass start race.  And I'm not exaggerating, the race was delayed by a full hour because even the coaches were afraid to go test wax. Once the sun hit the race course, the snow slowed down a little, but the downhills still mimicked massive ice slides.  In this case, you had to be confident that the skier next to you wasn't going to crash and take you out at the same time. And if you weren't confident in the person next to you, you had to trust your instincts and adjust your line on the course to stay on your feet.


Finally, you need to trust yourself.  This one is my favorite, but it's also the hardest.  Confidence creates successful performance in so many ways, but it's dynamic, unstable, and susceptible to change at the slightest event. Great example: when you're racing and you make a mistake (ahem, crashing into the V-boards and the fence on the lap turn), you've got to be confident in your ability to calm down, catch up, and get past what just happened (no matter how embarrassing). If you let a mistake slip you up, you'll spend the rest of the race wasting energy by panicking. And that's not productive.

So. Trust.  What happens if you don't have it? You second-guess decisions, you overanalyze your technique, you avoid taking risks, and you dwell on past mistakes.  Nobody wants all that in their head while trying to race their best. Trust the process and the results will come.

After a couple great weekends in Montana, we're heading up to Rossland, BC tomorrow for some classic sprints and classic distance racing.  I'll be back in Minnesota on the 17th, and headed up to senior nationals on the 31st.  Hooray!!

Thanksgiving with my amazing host-sister LONI!

Shenanigans in Bozo

MOM!!!! So excited to have her in West Yellowstone.

This team is pretty great.