How many girls can say they have had a man dressed in neon spandex, sporting a beard of snot and sweat icicles give them a big, cold kiss on the cheek? Not many, that is for sure, but I sure can. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything (Well, that is a lie, but I was going for emotional impact).
Every year on the last weekend of February, my family and I pack the car with skis, warm clothes and a ridiculous amount of food and drive four and a half hours north to Hayward, Wis., to participate in the American Birkebeiner.
You do not know what it is? That is not surprising—not a whole lot of people do, which is weird since it is the biggest cross-country ski race in the nation. No joke. Nine thousand skiers participate in the Birkebeiner and Kortelopet, and those are just two of the seven-plus races held over the course of the weekend. This year, 22 countries were represented. So, you know, it is not a big deal or anything.
Although I have never skied the Birkie (50 kilometers—also known as 31 miles—is just a tad too long for my skate-skiing skills), I have gone every year I could manage to tear myself away from commitments. I even missed my roommate’s 21st birthday for it this year! Why in God’s name would I give up a weekend of bar hopping and drunken mistakes to spend time with hyper-athletic people in northern Wisconsin? If you ever get the chance to experience it, you will learn it is not something you want to pass up.
The weekend starts with a huge expo held at Hayward Middle School where I would guess even the hardcore skiers are overwhelmed by the amount of paraphernalia available. I always have a good time at the event, mainly because of the free hot chocolate, granola, energy bars and even beer sampling tents. I guess it is the poor college student in me making an appearance.
There is even a radio show just for the Birkie, which consists of start-to-finish coverage of the elite wave as well as awesome songs dedicated to the race, including such hits as “Birkebeiner Rag,” “Birkie Fever” and “Let the Birkie Grab Your Soul.” Oh yeah, they run on repeat all weekend long, and it is great. You cannot help but to come down with Birkie fever while listening to people’s musical dedication to the race. Based on how packed those songs are with skiing terms and puns, the musicians must be dedicated to this yearly escapade.
My mom and I, the skate skiing cheerleaders of the family, rush around Saturday to watch my dad and a bunch of family friends at different points along the course. We leave early in the morning armed with hot chocolate, shnapps and fully charged cameras: the three essentials of a freezing Birkie spectator. And believe me, it can get pretty freezing! In 2011 the temperature never rose above zero degrees. My camera even froze closed. Medics were attempting to pull skiers off the course for fear of frostbite (I say “attempt” because if you are crazy enough to ski a 50 kilometer race, you are not going to let a little frostbite stop you from finishing).
The race finishes with participants skiing the two blocks up Main Street, which has been covered in snow for the occasion. Hundreds of spectators line the street screaming, ringing cow bells and drinking beer by the pitcher from the one bar located on the two block stretch. People dressed as trolls (the Birkie originated in Norway) wind in and out of the spectators as finishers try to regain feeling in their limbs and chip the ice from their beards. It is now that I receive the special, aforementioned kiss.
The camaraderie and intensity of the skiers is infectious. People celebrate with perfect strangers as everyone compares results and swaps horror stories of falling, gear breaking and psychological roadblocks. Every year I leave feeling that I was part of a huge party, determined that next year will be the year I ski alongside the best. Of course the next day I attempt to ski up Bitch Hill (a hill notorious on the course for its late point in the race and wall-like appearance) and realize that goal is still a little far off.
For now I am happy with just watching, cheering and sipping my hot chocolate with schnapps on the sideline. One of these days, though, I will put down the mug and grab my skis, ready to torture my body in the name of winter fun!
