These days make winter.
In the aftermath of the Election, I’ve struggled for words and motivation, wondered if all the effort I make in sport — or writing about it — is worth it, or if I need to start putting my efforts to something more substantial and meaningful.
But I haven’t stopped and that inertia alone may be its own payback as things evolve and hopefully not devolve over the coming months.
I finished up the road season in New Haven and Boston.
After 15 years away, I raced a nearly full cyclocross program, spending perhaps as much time on the ground as on the bike.
I got on snow early and have carried that bike racing fitness into the new season. Seventeen hours in 5 days at MSA has just add to that base.
Winter is coming.
Winter is here.
And I finally climbed it today. 21km in 1:36. Once I was past tree line, the wind was blowing me backward — when it wasn’t threatening to blow me off the mountain.
It really feels like climbing to the moon. The terrain changes. The temperature drops. The air becomes thin. The summit is surreal with the bleached rock fields and all of Provence spread before you.
In the end, it reaffirmed my faith in the bike. And in my ability to ride it.
I took off the two weeks following the Marathon. It was the first real break in training I’ve had since last year. I didn’t feel particularly tired after Boston, but I knew I needed a rest. My feet certainly told a hard story.
After two weeks of recovery — some easy bike rides to and from work and a couple of short runs to clear out the legs — I started training again for the cycling season (primarily) and nordic (secondarily) with core strength, on-the-bike intervals, easy recovery rides, and roller skiing.
I was itching to ride miles, but the weather wasn’t cooperating. Rainy, dreary, cold wet — perfect marathon weather, ironically.
But now the sun is back and the days are warming and if it weren’t for these nasty allergies, it would be pretty nice. But it will be all good from the saddle of the bike.
So ends the 2016 ski season. Out with a sad soggy finish on a dirty slushy patch of snow at Leo J. Seventy degrees and then the rain…the balance of races cancelled for lack of snow. The skis are packed away, awaiting next year and hopefully a better season.
The Boston Marathon is around the corner. And the running weather is good.
The Craftsbury Marathon is always characterized by the waxing speculation, weather forecasting, waxing panic and special combination of experience and voodoo to arrive at the right wax job. The one that will withstand 50km of climbing and descending. The one that will adapt to a temperature range that can swing dramatically over the course of the 3 hour race. The one that will give you reliable kick with no penalty for speed.
Each year I’ve done Craftsbury, the simpler wax job has prevailed. Don’t over think it. K.I.S.S. Keep it simple, stupid. But that slipped my mind as I got wound up in the decision between stick wax, klister, and covered klister.
Was the snow transformed and aggressive? Or was it refreshed by the recent stuff that had fallen. Would it warm up and cause the klister to ice? Or would the temperatures hold? Should I go with my tried and true race skis? Or use the special klister ones that seemed to have been designed just for these conditions? The ones that I’d never really been able to make work for me? The ones that just a few weeks ago I had decided to get rid of?
In retrospect, it should have been an easy decision. Even in warm-up, testing identical wax jobs — Swix KR50 covered with VR45 — on the two pairs of skis, even skiing one of each pair on different feet, I should have made the right call. Even if the skis felt virtually the same.
Because this year was going to be different.
I’ve never quite had a good Craftsbury. The first year was a death march. I bonked hard. The second year, my arms cramped up. Two years ago, Torin Tucker tragically died on the course. Last year, separated ribs, temps that never broke single digits and 60-grit snow made it the slowest edition I’d ever done – though I did win my age group.
This year was different. I was healthy. I was fit. I was even excited to race it. And I wanted something special, something magical. And I thought it would come from those Carbonlites with the short, high wax pocket.
While the skis performed well in warm-up, once I was at race pace and on the hills, I realized my error. I’ll take some credit for figuring out that quickly. But that left with about 45km to absorb it.
The defect was simple enough. The skis were too stiff and/or the kick zone too short. It kept them fast , but my striding had to be perfect. Every stride had to be perfect. Once I lost the rhythm, I started to slip, then started to flail, and couldn’t bring it back together. And each slip sent a jolt of uncompensated energy return into my hips and back.
It would have been better to just go for herringbone up the hills. But I was convinced I could get on top of my technique. Because when I did get could kick, it was amazing. The problem was, I was only getting it 60 or 70% of the time. As I result, I watched my competition float away up the hill. No kick = no glide. And no momentum. I was working hard just to minimize my losses. And my hip flexors and iloapsoas were getting hammered quickly.
It didn’t help that I fell the first time down Elinore’s Hill. The damn skis again. I got my weight a little back and was instantly bum sliding down the track. The other pair were just more stable…more familiar.
After 2 laps, I was cooked. With 2 more to go.
I could barely manage a crawl up the hills. My arms were cratered from catching myself each time I slipped. So I put myself into the hurt tunnel and settled in for a long ski. I briefly considered abandoning. But I knew that would leave a worse feeling. So I raced for my own dignity.
I toughed it out. Even while I continued to fade. Even as I was passed by first and second place in my age group. Even while I knew I could have been having a very different race, if I had trusted my gut and left the klister pair at home — or in the trash, which was where I intended to leave them.
But I’ll never know for sure. And that’s the obsessive beauty of it. Because there will likely never be another day quite like that one. But that won’t stop me from re-playing it over and over again. And wondering. What if.
And if there is another similar day….
I know which skis NOT to use.