Cheater!

The valley, remote and on the verge of Canada but still in Washington, is blanketed in snow. Huge mounds test the strength of historic barns, houses, and massive trees. And while yesterday the weather was bleak, blowing snow storms and freezing temperatures, today a calm sun promotes a feeling of peace, hope the day will be warmer. But it’s only slightly warm where the sun throws down targeted rays of light, making shaded spots a good 15 degrees colder.

The course for my Nordic ski race cuts through this valley, through flat hayfields and then climbing, winding through a dark forest. The course is a narrow one, requiring much talent to change positions, especially with 100 skiers stretched out across the 10k course.

The start is quite hard to imagine, with all the skiers taking off in one quick tempo and fans beating on loud cow bells that are the signature of any good ski race. Poles dangerously flying in all directions. I know my place is not in the front, not near the top skiers who are men gunning for the Olympics, for top spots in nationals, or for just bragging rights at the local pub tonight in this tiny town of Mazama, Washington. And so I stay in the back, waiting for the congestion to clear, for the them to sort themselves out. Various parts of poles, mainly lost tips, litter the start as I try to step, step, step around one downed skier. And soon we are off … I can see the string of skiers elongating across the course as the top skiers push the pace with little effort.

The loudness of my skis pushing through the snow tells me the course is slow, the snow is dry and not well packed. It will take a bit longer than I had hoped. But I swish, swish, swish along, planting poles and skating, covering the initial flat part of the course in a wonderful tempo. And soon, I find that tempo joined by another skier, matching me stroke for stroke.

Now if this were an Olympic race, I would use the narrowness of the course to block her from passing. But I am sure her one position will make little difference in my sports resume. Kindly, I ask, “Want…” interrupted by a gasp and pole stroke, “pass?” But I hear nothing to indicate that I should “skinny up” and let her by.

So over the hills and through the woods we go. Stroke by stoke. I can hear her breathing right behind me. She drops back a bit when we climb short steep uphills and then gets closer when we tuck and glide on short, winding downhills.

We are together for a good 30 minutes before at last we reach a rather tricky part. It seems to be a downward S , with piles of snow carved out in tough moguls. I slow up to choose a careful route, not the most direct route as I fear I have little control on my skis. And she takes a direct line down the hill, a beautiful move that lets her glide quickly by.

And now, it’s the first time than I can see her. She is a leggy creature, with a slick red and white Lycra suit similar to the one I am wearing, with bright silver boots connected to long white skis and black slender glove. Her hat covers most of her head, but I can see blond hair slipping out of the back.

We continue the race, I now match her stroke for stoke through the woods, over amazing narrow bridges. Winding along. On occasion we find scattered spectators with more bells, motivating us to ski faster even though we are nowhere close to the front pack. As we ski, I notice the exactness, the equality of our strokes. Neither of us are particularly graceful skiers; we have awkward moments where we miss a pole stroke.

And while this sport requires both upper and lower body strength, I laugh at how we try so hard to use our legs more, looking for ways to rest our tired arms. We both tuck unnecessarily on easy downhills and drop into a pure skate on flatter surfaces. We do not have the ability to do the long massive glides, the powerful pole strokes of the top skiers. It’s no mystery as I watch her why we are towards the back of the race, why it will take us nearly double the time of the top skier. We look more like runners than like skiers.

In the last few kilometers she opens a lead through lowering her body and skating faster. My leg muscles burn as I try to match her. We finally hit the finish line, finding tired fans who have little “cow bell music” left to bring us in. And soon we are standing next to each other, sucking in oxygen. And it’s then, the first time that I look into her face, I realize she is about the same age as me. She’s a bit taller, a bit leggier, and a bit blonder.

"Congrats,” I say and reach out to hug her while trying to not tangle our poles, “you really earned that.”

“Yes, you almost had me on those hills, I couldn’t keep up with you going up. But I think I was a tad faster coming down.” She says.

She is being kind. I reply, “You really had me on that one hill. That was an incredible route you took down.” I think about the swollen face and big bump on my nose I have from a crash earlier in the week.

She replies, “You know I lost a basket going out, ripped right off my pole. I had to stop and put it back on.”

It’s then that I remember a brief moment at the start. I say, “Oh, then you really deserved that win. I think I stepped on your pole going out. So sorry about that. But I am glad you got even at the finish. I would hate to think I tried to cheat.”

We laugh about that for awhile. But soon the coldness of the day makes us both realize we cannot stand there in our slick lycra uniforms without finding more clothes. “Congrats again,” I say and we ski off in different directions. I put on another layer of clothes, a neck warmer and a jacket to fight off the coldness of the day. And then I relive the play by play events of the race with my husband, who was somewhere miles ahead of me in the race.

I laugh to myself ... one knotch off the sports resume for losing the slot in the race, and two more knotches for cheating. I am really going to have to ski well next weekend!