Rensfjell Rennet
54km

In Norway nobody says hi. Melt-Down in Trondheim
I bonked.

I just fell over. Maybe I lost my balance. When I got up someone said something in Norwegian. ‘Are you OK?’ I say nothing and continue to ski uphill.
I trip again. I stumble as I get up. I’m not usually this clumsy. It must be the glazed tracks that are giving me problems. I step out of the tracks and continued shuffling uphill. The hill seems to be shuffling me off to the right. There is no cant to the hill. I try to counteract my drift but I trip. There is something wrong. My uphill progress slows to a very minimal walk. Even slow skiers are passing me. I must look bad because they give a long stare as they pass.
The signs of trouble are now too numerous for even me to ignore. I am having trouble keeping my right pole up high enough to keep it from dragging. At the top of the hill a guy wearing a red cross vest runs up to me and says something in Norwegian. I ask, “How far?” He waves another first aide guy over. “Are you OK?”
I respond, “I don’t…”and for the life of me I can’t think of the next word. Guys in red vests now surround me. One offers me chocolate. I eat some. Another offers me sugar cubes I don’t know what to do with those. One says, “12 km to go. All downhill, can you make it?” I try to respond but words fail me. I shake my head in disgust of my inability to answer. They throw a blanket over my shoulders. I try to say something, like Thanks. Nothing emerges, just an overwhelming feeling of despair. It is like trying to come up with a cleaver response in a conversation where all attention is on me and nothing comes to mind. I am not looking for cleverness, just a simple statement like, “I am cooked put me in a basket and take me home.” Well I didn’t have to be cleaver as it turned out because they did put me in a basket to take me home, sort of. The basket is an enclosed sled that they drag down the hill by snowmobile at breakneck speed. The driver stands to soak up the impact of crashing over bumps. All I can do is lie there and retract my elbows to minimize bruising. I pull out my camera a snap a couple of shots. I can take pictures but I can’t speak coherently. The mind is a mysterious thing. We pass skiers that I once passed. Every so often the driver looks back to see if I am still there. Finally we reach the finish line. I can see the banner signalling the end of the my toughest ski race, the Rensfjell Rennet. I didn’t cross the line. I am dragged across. I can’t get my legs out of the sled. With some help I get out and almost fall over. I steady myself and head into the building for a shower. On my way I see my friend, Bob. He proceeds to tell me about his race. I couldn’t get a word in. Not out of embarrassment but out of inability to speak. After a bit it is obvious to him that I am in trouble.
I trip over bags
I spill coffee
I blend in perfectly.

Birkebeiner Rennet

From Fiord to Fjell

The next morning I am fine. What a difference a day makes. Our last breakfast at the Luftkeiger Skola is a pleasant blend of muesli, eggs, bread, tomatoes and cheese.
Then off we set for Lillihamer.
The drive is long and sleepy. It takes us almost 4 hours to cover the 200km from Trondheim to Lillihamer on the slow photo-radar enforced speeds of the Norse Highways. From Fiord to Fjell, we traverse the land of Greig. With it’s spectacular vistas of rock, wood, ice and sky. North of 60 the tree line falls at barely 700m above sea level. Climbing the Fjells brings you to a magical land of arctic tundra, complete with snow, ice, dwarf birch and lichen covered rock. The temperature in this sub arctic wasteland is a balmy +4°C. This being Sunday, the roadside is littered with parked cars. There is a constant procession of families parading the distant hills and nearby trails on skis, pulling sleds and soaking up the late winter sun.
We pick up Lech at the Lillihamer train station and head up the hill to our cabin in Sjusjoen. Sjusjoen is the last checkpoint in the Birkebeiner. It is also the top of a 10km descent to the Birkebeiner Ski Stadium. It is also a perfect setting to prepare for the coming event, forget about the last one and learn from my mistake.
Our cabin is on the threshold to a world that is cross-country skiing. Some 1,200 km of groomed trails verge on our doorstep. You can cross this country on skis.
In Norway nobody says hi when they pass on the ski trail. I thought it was because Norwegians are unfriendly or maybe they are just shy. Whatever it is I make a point of saying “Hi” as I pass fellow skiers to blank stares. Maybe it is because we are skating. The next day we head out on our classic skis. Now we are doing as the Norse do. We are skiing. Skating after all is a deviant cousin, somewhat a kin to snowboarding. We chose this spectacular sunny morning to ski out to Neverfjell to enjoy the view on this windless day. Every skier we pass has a smile and a “Hej” even an occasional “Hej Kanada”. After all, we did wear our Canada jerseys. We cross rolling hills of gnarly dwarf birch trees as we make our way to the tree line. Before us lay a bald mountain peak (fjell) covered in snow like a great igloo. The Igloo is topped with a small wooden shelter. We drink in the view, sun ourselves and enjoy lunch on top of the world.
The only question is, can I survive after my melt-down in Trondheim? I am determined. I will eat before I get hungry this time. I will fend off hypoglycemia. I am loaded with gels, bars and a CamelBak full of water. No problem making up the mandatory 3.5kg backpack weight to symbolize the rescue of the infant king Hakon Hakonson that the Birkebeiner Race commemorates. Pacing is key. My plan is survive, go the distance, 54km and 1200m of climbing. Five hours will be just fine for me. The Norse are big on age group competition. Each skier starts in 5 year age groups clearly identified by a sticker on the back of your mandatory backpack and a bib on the front. The Elite and oldest skiers start first and progress in five-year groupings at 15-minute intervals. It takes a while to move 11,000 skiers from 16-90 years. The upshot is that you ski with your peer. It is always obvious where you stand in the aging process. You pass older and younger skiers and get passed as well. It is a unique and humbling experience. The climb off the start is gentle and steady. Good wax, technique and pacing are key. The cold morning snow offers great grip and glide. We climb slowly out of the sheltered forest and above the tree line where the snow turns dry cold and windblown. The trick is not to ice up the sticky wax underfoot. The hardwax covering the klister does the trick. The usually shy, reserved Norse have gathered in numbers along the trail. Above the trees where the wind can be unrelenting they have dug themselves in. Sitting in carved dugouts, surrounded by sculptured igloo-like walls they have planted themselves firmly in the winter snowscape to cheer and feed their friends, family and strangers like myself. My Canada Jersey elicits numerous cheers of Hej Kanada. Strangers feed me oranges and a big bearded fellow pursues me with a spoonful of sugar. I gracefully declined the carboload in favour of chocolate covered cookies and energy drink at the numerous official feed stations. I slowly make my way to the highest elevation on the course. My time to this point is off my planned pace. Knowing that the downhills will bring my time into line and the feeling of inspired strength and experience, I push on. I cross the barren sun filled snow-covered tundra to the rhythmic chanting of Heja, Heja, Heja. The rolling tundra yields to a quick return to the trees and my target pace. At the 30km mark we finally return to the familiar trails of Sjusjoen. One final climb and then a blast downhill to the stadium is all that lay ahead. The noonday sun is warming the snow into slush and reducing the effectiveness of my wax. Grip and slide is all I can manage. It is enough. I clear the Sjusjoen Climb. The last feed zone is a welcome site. This is the point where self doubt evaporates. It’s down hill to the finish.
I know this section all too well. This is Sjusjoen; my home for the last week. Just 3 days ago we classic skied down this icy bobsled run to the stadium, to familiarize ourselves with this very tricky part of the course. Days ago we enjoyed waffles and coffee in the stadium served by a 74 year old Norwegian. He could tell that we were here to ski the Birkebeiner. We asked if he was skiing it this Saturday. He was enjoying a new knee and was not ready to test it. He had already achieved 36 markers in his skiing career. Finishing within 125% of the top skiers in his age group on 36 occasions is no small achievement. The Norwegians are brutally efficient skiers. The top 60 and 70 year olds routinely ski faster than me. On our prerace day easy ski we saw him on the trail. Although he had a definite hunch to his back he moved with effortless grace and skill. It took us a surprising amount of time to skate past him on the trail. We asked about his wax recommendation for race day. He simply shrugged and said klister with hard wax over. To Norwegians wax is simply a means to and an end, kind of like the air in your tires. It is a factor in racing especially in the tricky conditions that lay ahead in the Birkebeiner. Wax is not something to obsess over. This attitude suited me fine, but with morning temperatures well below freezing and noon temperatures reaching well above freezing and elevation changes to boot, ‘it would tricky,’ as the Norse say. As it turned out my wax was fine.
I can do this. The wet snow took the edge off this tricky downhill section enough to allow me to push down to the stadium. The last 5km into the finish is flat and seems to drag on. The sounds of the stadium are unmistakable. Around the corner I see it. I muster the energy of relief and burst into a kick double pole burst to the finishing chirp of my transponder and the beep of a barcode reader. I am presented with a Birkebeiner pin and a package of Birkebeiner Ham; perfect prize for a Jewish vegetarian.
I strongly believe in moderation, in fact I believe that even moderation should be taken in moderation. With this in mind I registered for the skate Birkebeiner on the following day. A thirty-kilometer skate race following the 54km classic marathon will be a walk in the park, or maybe a limp in the park.
Today is my birthday. My birthday is not complete without a day skiing. I will ski today. I am 49. I feel great. The sun is shining. The snow is firm and waxing is “no worries” as the Aussies say.
This the first year for the Skoytebirk and the turnout is modest 110 skiers. My race strategy is simple. Enjoy my birthday. With that in mind I start at moderate pace that I know I can sustain over the long climb ahead. The course is familiar. It consists of the last part of the Birkebeiner trail, up a long steady climb to the plateau at Sjusjoen, a long flat, and the final descent to the stadium. I slowly catch up to Bob as we reach the steepest part of the climb. The top is just ahead. I can see it. The young woman in the saran wrap ski suit is fading. She moves over to the side. This is my cue to move. I pick up the pace knowing, what lay ahead is literally the high point of the 30 km skate course. Beyond is a long exposed flat followed by the final descent to the Birkenbeiner stadium. Over the top, the trees are gone and the headwind blows. The summit gives me energy. I push ahead. On the next rise ahead of me I spot two skiers. My cycling experience tells me that if I can bridge the gap and get into their slipstream I can save some significant effort and make up some time. I push on and reach this modest goal. After a short ride in the shelter of these two skiers I fight the urge to move ahead. Instead I hang back and snake into the wind. I enjoy the ride occasionally dropping my poles to avoid running into the skiers ahead. The ride is fast and exciting with cheers of onlookers. This is racing. The last feed zone looms ahead. The lead skier moves off to the right, the second slides left, while I slide to the right taking a cup and downing it on the fly. We reassemble our threesome and continue downhill to the stadium. The now familiar sight of Birkebeiner Stadium in Lillihamer is a welcome sight. I cross the finish line with a final burst of energy and a big smile. This is a great birthday gift.