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As published in Dec.99 Ski Trax Magazine
Blueberry Soup for the Skier's Soul
By Saul Goldman
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Fourteen years of listening to the dream adventures of my ski shop customers have inspired many of my own dreams and challenges. I have skied the Canadian Ski Marathon and the Gatineau 55 and along with wife enjoyed trails across Canada. But the stories of the big European loppets, the challenging historic races that are the embodiment of Nordic culture, were unskied. With the ticking of the millennium countdown, I decided to take the leap and nourish my soul. It was time to partake in the blueberry soup of Nordic skiing’s legendary loppets. |
| One customer sold me on the excitement of this new challenge. Bob Palliser, a World Loppet Master on his second passport, would be my guide. I chose three loppets on three consecutive weekends that were barely within driving distance of each other: France’s Transjurassienne, 76K Skate, the 75K classic Finlandia, and the grand-daddy of Loppets, Sweden’s historic 90K Vasa Loppet, classic skiing with 15,000 other skiers. |
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On Monday, February 16, Bob and I land in Frankfurt, Germany, rent a car, and become cross-country ski bums in search of fuel for our soul. On Wednesday we arrive in the Jura region of France near the Swiss border. |
We ski out the back door of our Swiss hotel onto the GTJ (Grande Traverse du Jura) trail heading to Bois d’Amont, France. Visibility is poor. Snow is falling with heavy accumulation. We start the major Trans climb at the 50-kilometre mark of the course.
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We meet an older Frenchman while we catch our breath. He asks where we are from. "Canada." "Here for Trans?" "Yes, and you?" "I am from here." He points to the valley below. "Skied Trans every year. This Sunday will rain. I stay home." Up he continues. We slowly make our way up the climb, eventually passing him and lots of other skiers. At the top, only a snowy singletrack continues. We both turn around and follow what now feels like a short descent to return home.
At 4:45 a.m., Sunday, Race Day, we awake. It is 3°C and raining.
We get on a special bus in front of our hotel. It zips through dark rain-soaked roads, gathering skiers along the way. We drive through Les Rousses. Groomers and ploughs are setting a track right down the main street of the village. The bus barely squeaks by as the Piston Bully fills in the road behind us. There is no going back.
At 8:10 a.m., I arrive at the start.
8:15: Remove warm-ups, dump gear bag, and take my place at the third of the four starting sections. It’s pouring and 3,000-odd skiers (very odd) are soaking it up.
8:30: The cannon signals the start of the first wave, then the second and third.
8:34: I’m skiing. I take short quick strides and guard my poles to stay out of trouble. My heart rate quickly rises.
8:55: This lasts for about 20 minutes until the pack thins out and I assume a more sustainable heart rate. We follow the wide, rolling GTJ valley trail to the first checkpoint. The coarse is lined with umbrella-wielding fans ringing cowbells and cheering as we pass in the pouring rain. Each of the villages along the way has set out a spread of refreshments, entertainment, and energy food. Each village appears to be trying to outdo the others in welcoming the soggy skiers. In Les Rousses the trail takes us down the main street. We are greeted by cheering fans and a Caribbean-style steel drum band. At the end of the village we form a double conga line and skate up a short steep climb arched by a cowbell-draped banner, which sets the cadence of our wet waltz.
At the top, we continue up the valley on the now-familiar GTJ trail. This familiar part of the trail zigzags the wide alpine valley: through Bois d’Amont across the Swiss border to Le Brassus and then back on the other side of the valley to Bois d’Amont for the big climb.
As I ski into Bois d’Amont, I see the lead pack across the valley just arriving on the zag portion of our wet excursion. I enter the zag at Le Brassus into a cold, wet headwind. I know that, if I can stick through this heat-robbing traverse, the sheltered climb out of Bois d’Amont will stoke my internal fire. Once in Bois I witness numerous damp, hypothermic skiers abandon the race. After a quick gulp of warm refreshment and a handful of apple jellies, I begin my ascent. Over my shoulder, I spot the tail end of the pack entering the zig. This puts me right in the middle of the pack after 50 wet, cold kilometres. Only 26 more to go. I settle into a steady climb and reach the summit, huffing but warmed. The descent is quick, cool, and blind with rain-soaked glasses. The last 20 kilometres are a never-ending grind with some surprisingly steep climbs followed by wobbly, icy descents that are invisible on the coarse profile.
2:29 p.m.: I cross the finish line.
2:30 p.m.: Return transponder. Collect Participant’s Medal. This one is a large, beautiful, enamelled medallion with a map of the Trans trail. This will take up a prestigious place in my underwear drawer.
7:00 p.m.: Pizza supper and celebratory beer.
10:00 p.m.: Sound sleep.
The next morning we check out of the hotel. The manager tells us his dream is to fly to Canada so he can shoot salmon with a bow and arrow. Some people have peculiar dreams. |
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Thursday, February 24,
Ferry to Finland, Drive to Lahti.
11:00 a.m.: We arrive in Lahti. Toronto has the CN Tower, Paris has the Eiffel Tower, and Lahti has the triple towers of the Ski Jump Stadium. This is Nordic skiing heaven and we are drawn to it like flies to honey.
12:00: Find our hotel on the edge of town. It is an eight- room historic country inn. We introduce ourselves to Ula, the woman at the front desk. She excitedly responds, "The Canadians, the Canadians are here." Before we register, she warmly sits us down at a table and serves us delicious sandwiches and hot coffee. This sure isn’t Kansas.
After three days of driving, we are anxious to see if our legs still know how to ski. The race is only two days away. So we wax our skis and dress to ski.
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3:00 p.m.: Return to Lahti Stadium. 0°C to –4°C and fresh snow is falling. This amazing altar to the religion of Nordic skiing is the spectacular finish of Saturday’s 75K Finlandia. Right now I just want to see if my legs still work and if I can find a workable wax. I start out with some Swix blue with a little violet underfoot. The high humidity turns the fresh snow into an oil slick as my skis crush the delicate snow crystals. I am not going very far with this wax. I try a little Start Black Magic wax. It does the trick and I kick and glide up and out of the stadium.
Bob and I ski out along the beautifully groomed, treed roller coaster trail to a warming hut that will be the last feed station before the stadium finish on Saturday. This is the shakedown after a wet Transjurassienne and three days of driving. I feel okay in spite of a slightly feverish sweat.
As we head back to the stadium, we swing under the massive concrete tower of the 120-metre ski jump. I anticipate the infamous descent into the stadium. The ride is spectacular, the chatter of my skis in the icy track sounds like the cheers of the thousands of imaginary fans that fill the stadium. I can ski this!
Saturday, February 27, Race Day –5°C, clear/partly cloudy, stuffy head, soar throat.99 Race Day -5C clear/partly cloudy, stuffy head, soar throat;.99 Race Day -5C clear/partly cloudy, stuffy head, soar throat;
4:45 a.m.: Breakfast. Load car and checkout.
6:00 a.m.: Park car at Lahti stadium and board bus to the start in the historic village of Hameelinna, the birthplace of composer/tone poet Jan Sibellius.
In its heyday, 1985, the Finlandia hosted over 13,000 skiers. Today, some 3,000 skiers are gathered to test themselves on this 75K snowy, human-powered roller coaster. Most of them appear to be in the same line up, waiting to use the one heated toilet stall in the restaurant.
8:54: I finally arrive at the starting line and take my place.
9:00 a.m.: Start double polling slowly ahead in an orderly game of follow the leader.
After 20 minutes of feverish double polling to stay with my wave, I decide to ease up and assume a sustainable pace.
9:00 a.m.: First checkpoint 10K. Not a bad pace, but it sure hurts. Beyond lies the first major climb. The race literature warns that skiers may wish to take a 750-metre detour to avoid the tough climb and treacherous descent. I didn’t even notice the detour and before I know it I am at the summit and heading downhill. Nothing to worry about. It’s fun.
10:30 a.m.: Second checkpoint. I am skiing at a comfortable pace.
11:16 a.m.: My arrival at the third checkpoint signals the beginning of tightness in my knee and an overall muscle ache.
12:00 p.m.: Bob passes me. He tells me about the improved grip that is propelling him. At the last checkpoint he stopped to let the Start Wax techs spread a little Black Magic. At this point, my left knee is burning and I am getting hungry. At the next checkpoint, I load up on raisins, gingersnaps, and blueberry soup. I pass on the pickles and beef broth.
I hand my skis to the Start Ski techs for a little Black Magic. Recognizing the Canadian flag on my bib a Swedish television crew swarm me with questions about the race. I’m a celebrity. After a couple of quick answers, my freshly waxed skis are returned. Refreshed, recharged, and rewaxed, I zip back into the track trying to look like I know how to ski with all of Scandinavia watching.
After a couple of quick kilometres, the burning returns, along with the constant muscle ache. As I pass groups of cheering fans, they recognize my Canadian flag and cheer, "Go, Canada, go." Their cheers stoke the barely glowing embers to fuel my damaged engine.
I kick and glide through the pain. As I enter a wooded area, I hear an unfamiliar baritone rendition of "Oh, Canada." I turn around to discover a large, obviously American skier anxious to expend some excess energy in the form of English conversation. I ask, "Where you from?" "Rhode Island," he responds, in his thick, east-coast accent. "What’s your name?" he asks. I introduce myself and in turn ask his name. "Bob Rude." This is the American skier my friend Bob told me about. At a race in Norway a couple of years ago he bent his ear. Was this my turn?
At the next checkpoint, we pull in together. I soothe my throat and rehydrate on blueberry soup, while Mr. Rude munches a Powerbar and snaps photos with his instamatic. We both head off together. "Nice weather, beautiful scenery. What kind of wax are you using? Your grip is great and you sure are outgliding me," he continues. After a polite, "Black Magic Grip and Fluoro Glider," I quicken my tempo and extend my stride and say "so long" to Mr. Rude. I value solitude and so do the 3,000 other skiers along the trail.
The pain in my knee disappears. I hook up with a group of faster skiers and start passing others. The trails near the stadium are finally familiar. These are the toughest ones. The pain returns but nothing can stop me now. Five kilometres to go and the ski jumps are in sight.
Finally, the descent welcomes me. I can hear the roar of the crowd. I slow down for the hairpin and pull one ski out of the icy track for stability on the final, high-speed turn into the stadium. I don’t want to crash now. A final burst of energy pushes me past three more skiers to the finish line and the chirp of my transponder.
3:58 p.m.: Across the line I get my medallion and a big hug from a pretty girl greeting the finishers. "How do you feel?" "Tired—very hard ski."
4:00 p.m.: Limp out of stadium, collect my clothes, shower, have a Pripps beer, and meet Bob.
5:00 p.m.: Leave Lahti to catch the ferry back to Sweden.
We arrive in Mora, Sweden, on Monday, March 1. Vasa week is in full swing. I’m nursing a soar throat and slight fever. That’s what I get for not listening to my mother’s advice about playing in the rain. By Saturday, I’m battling congested lungs and a raging fever.
On Vasa Loppet Sunday, I join five million Swedes and watch 15,000 skiers drink blueberry soup and follow the "tracks of their forefathers" on television. On Monday I return to Canada, my soul refuelled with blueberry soup.
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