Hostile T-shirts at Odds

I've been thinking about a family we saw at breakfast last week in our Minneapolis hotel. I noticed a skinny blond boy about 13 years old bouncing around in the breakfast bar, deciding what to put on his plate. I smiled, thinking about the energy some boys seem to radiate and how they just can't help it. Then I noticed the t-shirt he was wearing, pictured on top to the right, and my good feeling about him was gone. Why wear something with a hostile message like that? I watched him sit down with at the table I assumed was his family.

There was another younger boy, maybe ten or 11 years old, with a striped rugby shirt on, spooning up cereal. Across from him sat their mom, her gaze unfocused, wearing a plain black shirt and black leggings, with longish blond hair that could use a wash, an empty plate in front of her. To her right was the dad, finishing a mound of eggs, potatoes, toast and sausage. He was wearing the t-shirt on the left.

Nobody was talking. The dad looked like maybe life had been pretty disappointing and he didn't know what to do about it. He couldn't have been more than 40, but his face and body were puffy, skin mottled, and he was dealing with going bald with a comb over configuration. I figured my husband and I looked like the enemy to him, meaning the label "liberal elites:" retired, healthy, and, if our technical clothing gave away that we were there to cross country ski (Minneapolis has an amazing park system in case you don't know), his suspicions would be confirmed. I'm sure I had my judgey face all over him, if he had cared to look.

Those t-shirts have been bothering me ever since, mostly trying to understand why that father and son wore them, but there was something else nagging at me. This morning I finally figured it out. I could have said to the dad, "I guess your feelings would be hurt if I stomped on the flag, but I have a right to do that."

Then I thought of another thing I could have asked instead: "Are you a veteran?" Because that adds a layer I don't pretend to understand.

Highlights from Classic Wave 5 at the 2013 Birkie

• The cute young man skiing past as I tried to surreptitiously (and safely) slow down at the bottom of a hill and turn to see if my husband was still behind me. He said “Your dude fell,” then gave me a smiling, sly little sideways glance. “I know you didn’t want him to.”

• The man off his skis, posing at the 13K maker, taking his own picture of his face right next to the sign. I wished I had the generosity to hop off my own skis and do it for him. But I didn’t.

• Skiing next to Jacque Lindskoog and seeing the look of determined concentration on her face. I wanted to yell “I love you, Jacque Lindskoog!” but couldn’t bear to bother her.

• The music booming out over the slope where the 39K club hangs out. It lifted me up and carried me and I had tears. I vowed to remember the song but of course I’d forgotten it by the next hill. You know which one it is.

• The woman dressed as a leprechaun, dancing in the middle of Bitch Hill, and the woman handing out pins who laughed as she chased us to zip them right into our pockets.

• Skiing up Main Street, side by side with my husband, the sidewalks lined with people cheering us on, me smiling so hard, having no idea how I was managing to do that and keep moving without falling down.

• Crossing the finish line and skiing up to the tall and skinny young man, with clouds of hair and beard, who stapled our 4 year pins on our bibs and told us “Congratulations!” with
  whole-hearted sincerity.

2013 finishers

• The young man working at the bag pick-up who expertly watched people approach, dazed, wearing their Birkie bibs, looking around, trying to make sense of a sea of numbers and white bags. He came up and put our bags in our hands, calling out our numbers with the authority of a professional announcer but the face of a high school sophomore.

• Walking unsteadily into the changing tent, knowing I could never manage getting out of my wet clothes without a chair to sit on, but seeing they were all in use. Just standing there, trying to make my brain work, when a young woman in the corner gestured me over. She said “Ma’am, you can have my chair!”
  
  I was so grateful, and tried to think of what to say. “So you skied the Birkie!” is what came out. She lit up and said “Yes! My first one!” I said “Were you happy with your time?” and she looked at me, uncomprehending. “I’m just happy I skied it!” Which is exactly how I felt the first time. I was so tired I forgot about the point of the whole thing.

Byline Surprise

Last year my husband and I set a goal of skiing the American Birkebeiner race from Cable to Hayward in northern Wisconsin. That was pretty ambitious for a couple of novices: the race is 54 kilometers (that's nearly 32 miles!) for the classic course. But it was a really great way to stay motivated to get outside during the freezing, dark days of the winter months when we just didn't feel like it.

We managed to do it, and the experience was so powerful I wanted to capture in writing. I submitted my story this year to the American Birkebeiner Foundation web site to be included on its page of people's Birkie experiences. The editor said thanks, but we can't use it right now. I was a little disappointed but at least I'd written it.

Our plans were to ski again this year, which would have been this past weekend, but a family medical emergency came up and we couldn't do it. I clicked through the web site a couple of times this week to look up results and news stories, and consoled myself that next year I'd be there.

Yesterday my mother called and said "Did you write a story about the Birkebeiner?" A family friend who lives in the area had sent my parents a clipping from a newspaper which contained my story! Apparently the Birkebeiner people invite the local media to use stories they've received, and the Sawyer County Record took them up on it and published my story.

Not only am I thrilled to have it published, but in a way, I got to participate in the excitement of Birkie weekend even though I couldn't be there.

Valentine Skiing

Today was the best kind of Valentine: cross country skiing on a sunny day on perfectly groomed trails with Terry, my husband. Skiers around here are always talking about Lapham Peak as if it were a given that everyone goes there, but we never had.

No more of that. Its kettles, moraines and eskers have miles of wooded trails, perfect for Birkebeiner training, with climbs like Asthma Hill and Stairway to Heaven that leave you gasping for air and wondering if you're going to live to get to the top, and downhills like Big Slide that go on and on, making your quads beg for mercy--exactly what we were looking for with two weeks to go before heading up to Cable for Birkie weekend.

The morning sun was bright but low when we got there, and the long shadows of the trees weaving patterns across the snow on either side of the trail kept us smiling and congratulating ourselves on being outside in the woods on a beautiful winter day. Five deer leaped across the trail ahead of us, then stopped at the top of the slope to our left, looking down at us. They seemed magical, and maybe they were wondering if we were real, but a lot of people go to Lapham Peak...more likely they wondered if our presence meant there'd be anything to eat.