Marcialonga

Sunrise in Valle de Fassa.
5000 skiers gather in the cold blue predawn glow.
Disco blaring and skinsuit clad babes girate calisthenics to warm the skiers.
Pavorati sings “Nessun dorma, nessun dorma... No one sleeps, no one sleeps”...
The inspiring finale of Nessan Dorma, “al All’alba vincerò! At dawn, I shall conquer!
Frozen tears stream down the cheeks of skiers as the cannon signals the start to our conquest. Double pole up the slight grade as 20 tracks turn to 10 and then finally to 3 sets of crowded tracks. The sun peaks into the narrow valley between the jagged spires of limestone. Six months ago I was pedaling though this very same valley along with 700 other cyclists. The Giro delle Dolomiti bore very little resemblance to this day. The hot dry summer sun was a sharp contrast to the cold blue light breaking the still winter air. Clouds of dense cold humid air hang above the dancing river. 5000 skiers move with a bobbing double pole cadence, writhing along the valley floor. For the first 10 k it is follow the skis and poles in front without overstepping the limits of speed and pace. We rise up the slight climbs to the villages and the cheering encouragement of the villagers that line the trail. After the first feed station the train fractures into numerous smaller groupings. After a long icy descent to the valley floor the space opens up and I ski at my own pace.
Off in the distance I spot a skier in a yellow numbered bib. He is one of a proud but diminishing group of Macialonga skiers who have completed every one of the past 32 races. This year the ‘Senatori’ number 22. As they age their numbers dwindle. Thirty-two years of Marcialonga take their toll. They start with the first group and I am only now passing my first Senatori. All in all I will only pass 6 of these venerable skiers, a testament to their experience, skill, and persistence. The course meanders up the river to the top of the Valle de Fassa at Canazzai, where it doubles back on the other side of the river for a long slightly downhill ride to the village of Molina at the other end of the Valle de Fiame. At this point I spot the Elite skiers on the other side of the river. The first indicator of their impending appearance is the lone lead snowmobile… and then a lone skier double poling, chassed by tentative groupings of tall slender pumping arms like Buster Keaton on a railway hand car. It will be a while before I can settle into that downhill coast to Molina. At Canazzai I pass the bridge feeding skiers over the river and down the valley as we loop into the chip control and feed zone. This year the Marcialonga is using disposable transponder chips built right into the bibs. This cleaver technology uniquely identifies each skier to the electronic timing and surveillance system. It is the same system used in retail stores to track shoplifted merchandise, (electronic article surveillance) and to bill KM’s on toll roads. A tell tale beep reveals its data acquisition as I slip beneath the overhead tracking wires and enter the feed zone at Cannazzai. Cookies, chocolate and hot energy drink; the chocolate is like chewing rock. The hot drink eases the chew, leaving enough residue in my teeth to get me to the next feed zone. Over the bridge the psychology of a downhill (river) ride takes over with a wave of optimism. Kick double-pole and double-pole turn the ultra-marathon 70km classic into a manageable citizen marathon that any healthy skier should be able to complete or so says Santa Clause. Phil Shaw, AKA Santa Clause, happens to be another Canadian staying in my hotel. The St Nick moniker derives from his participation in the CSM and the Keski in traditional red garb and a silver sack of goodies slung over his shoulders. Phil also happens to be an elite skier who has recently discovered the World Loppet circuit. My friend Bob (a 5 times World Loppet Master) concurs and places the Marcialonga at a physical level just below the 54km Birkebienner Rennet and an excitement level rivaling the 16,000 skier Vasa Loppet. They are both right. There is not quite enough snow in the valley for a ski race. Natural snow is supplemented with man-made flakes. The combination of old transformed snow, cold humid conditions and slick tracks set up a diversity of waxing solutions. Bob and I have been happily skiing on a combination of green and silver klister, while Phil was privy to a secret recipe of hardwaxes courtesy of None’s Sports in Cavalese. Toko is recommending green Klister covered with a jam sandwich of blue-violet-blue hard wax. Our Norwegian celebrity friend Jurgen Kvale (the 150,000 Macialonga Participant) is convinced that just plain hardwax will take him in bib#150,000 the abrasive 70kms to the finish line in Cavalese. I expect there will be a long line of skiers with soar arms from double poling, waiting at the klister station. In spite of the variety of wax solutions everyone seems to be coping just fine. As I approach the ski Stadium in Predazzo I spy a fan with a start list in hand proclaim “Bravo Sa-oool”. Bob warned me of the enthusiastic ‘Tifossi’ (fans) armed with start lists, look up bib numbers to shout encouragement to the struggling skiers. Three times I am cheered by name forcing me to perk up and shave at least 7 minutes off my now sluggish pace. On the other side of the river I spot the climb to Cavalesse. The unmistakable white snake climbs the brown snowless valley to the finish line. I still have 7 kms to go before the climb. I have to first get to Molina and then double back on the other side of the river. In Molina the celebratory sound of music and cheering fans is supplemented with a key ingredient that up until now was lacking at feed zones. The ingredient…coffee..espresso to be exact in tiny hot cups awaited. It is the stimulant that fuels me to the Klister Station at the base of the final climb. Sure enough there is a lineup at the klister station. My wax is holding up fine, so no need to stop. The previous two nights Bob, Phil and I walked the 2.5k climb up the snow-covered cobblestone streets, past our hotel to the main square of the village. I know exactly what to expect. With that familiarity and the remaining klister on my skis and caffeine in my veins I push up and past numerous struggling skiers. At the last switchback “Andiamo Saul” and I am into the home stretch. Cow bells and noisemakers drown out the sound of my own gasping lungs as I crest the hill. Under the bridge, past the big cheese and into the finishing straight a beep of the timer adds a Marcialonga medal to my collection.

Dolomiten Lauf -Meatloaf

Just as Pavarotti symbolizes the passion of Italia, Schnappi the number one song on the Pop Charts in Austria is indicative of the Austrian psyche.
Lienz is a picturesque village in the hart of the Tirol. Growing up in southern Ontario, psuedo Tyrolean architecture has come to represent the essence of ski country. This is the real thing. Post and beam construction in the heart of a winter wonderland like the sound of music minus Maria and the Von Trap kids. There are lots of other kids and they all seam to have skis sprouting from the bottoms of their feet. There are ski lifts everywhere. Cross-country trails extend from village to village giving true meaning to the term cross-country. Our first destination is the high village of Obertilliac, just above Untertillach. At 1800m elevation the snow is fresh and untransformed. The trail system extends from the world-cup biathlon stadium in all directions up and down this high valley. In previous years lack of snow in the valley lead to relocating the Dolomiten Lauf to this challenging, hilly terrain. A couple of hours of pushing up these challenging trails are just what I need to push the jet-lag out of my system. We enjoy lunch at one of the numerous cafes to the sound of ‘Schnappi das kliene crocodile’. This catchy bubble-gum tune is everywhere. It is a tune written by a grandmother and sung by her grandson. It is all about a cute little crocodile.
The next day we explore the trails in the valley that we will soon race. The valley is flat, with spectacular views of the surrounding peeks. This is the setting for the ‘meatloaf’, the word that immediately follows when I say Dolomiten Lauf.  It starts at the sports complex on the edge of town and finishes in the main square of Lienz. Skating 60km can be a tough challenge. The transformed snow and flat course should make up for the distance.
The next morning I assemble at the starting line with 600 eager participants. The gun sounds and we move with fury through the wide valley. It stays wide for a long time giving skiers a chance to find there own pace. Ahead I spot the first sign of trouble. A small sharp climb has skiers all tangled up. The ones that are still actually moving have removed their skis to walk up. I follow suit. Skis off and quickly back on; I skirt the trouble and see that my experienced friend Bob has done the same thing. A long flat section follows through the next feed zone. Again I spot a pile-up of skiers trying to squeeze though a narrow opening in a fence with a sharp drop to the road. As if the waters have parted for me alone; I spot a slight opening at the left. I glance back to see following skiers tumble as the sea collapses on them. I am alone in the wilderness on the other side of the Red Sea for about 5 minutes. The course is like a bowl of spaghetti. I see elite skiers on one side and slower skiers on the other as the trail zigzags through the valley.  We follow the remains of a railway bed along a river. The skier in front of me reaches for his water bottle as I pass him. His ski catches the fence as he spins around. There is only one significant climb and it passes without a hitch. I catch up to a friend Piotr. He heads out on the descent as I stop for refreshment. The descent takes us out into the wind swept open sections of the valley. I hook up with a group of like-minded skiers and share pulls into the wind in a cycling style pace line. Eventually I find myself at the front with no-one willing to relieve my efforts into the wind. I turn back to see Piotr on my tale who says, “I’m just hanging on”. I tow the group at an ever decelerating pace until a young woman passes. I follow, leaving my friends behind. Her pace is perfect. We fly through the remaining 10k to the main street of Lienz. Across the finishline I congratulate her for setting a great pace. I receive my participation medal and call myself a World Loppet Master, having completed 10WL races.