IN THE ZONE PART II: XCOMFORT
Hanging by our back door is M's 2019 XC ski pass for our local National Park. I was going to purge it, since it clearly has no application anymore. But then I noticed the face-splitting grin M has in the picture. I reverently hung it back up. It serves a very important purpose: spreading joy to anyone who happens upon it. It is fitting that I noticed it today, because this it is officially the first day of the XC ski season. There was a huge dump of snow last night and our slice of the world looks magical. This also marks the end of the four week span between bike season and ski season that for M is sheer torture. So, today is his happy day. And mine, because he can stop bouncing off the walls now. You might think XC skiing, a sport I have been doing all my life, would be an area where M & I would find common ground. You would be wrong. (Bet you saw that coming!)
In my family, cross country skiing consisted of going out the back door and setting off into the “Back 40”. We wore rough wool knee socks, scratchy toques, corduroy knickers, and fisherman’s sweaters - all things that might as well have been specifically designed to accumulate wet snow. There was not a wind or moisture resistant synthetic in sight. If it was really cold, we would add our 1970s striped puffer vests (that I wish I still had, if only to sell on Depot for $1,000). Up until circa 1980, our skis were wood, and I have no recollection of ever waxing them. Our poles were bamboo, and basically disposable as we busted at least one on every outing. We were the XC skiing equivalent of Mennonites.
There were trails, but these were usually abandoned in favour of “Let’s go over there!”. A typical route would involve limbo-ing under snow laden, ground height pine boughs; straddling slightly higher than crotch level tree falls; hurdling barbed wire cow fences; evading angry farmers and their dogs; crossing wet creeks (after which your skis were encased in a 3 inch crust); and Jerry-of-the-Day-ing down bramble, groundhog hole covered hills.[1][2] The truest test of athleticism was the ability to vault fences without taking your skis off, and without getting caught on the rusty barbs (my Puffer vest had many duck tape patches). The snow was deep, and you were basically a human snow plow. There was no “kicking” or “gliding”. Certainly no “skating”. The most fitting verb would be “slogging”. These were the sorts of excursions where you have no choice but to embrace the insanity and brain wash yourself into redefining “fun”. Anything could happen. The only guarantee was that the outing would go on for at least an hour too long. [3][4]
I experienced quite a culture shock when we moved to a city with world class XC skiing. And by XC skiing, I mean REAL XC skiing. Like the kind they have in the Olympics ’n’ stuff. I had never been on a groomed trail. Never seen anyone skate ski. But when in Rome…right? I was game. Now M, of course, was/is a very good XC skier having competed in high school and being…well, him. Skiing together was a non-starter. We quickly devised a go-to strategy of timed Out-and-Back trajectories for me. I ski one way for 30 minutes and then turn around a retrace my steps with the hope of arriving back at the correct lot at the same time as M (who will have done 10x the distance). Given that I am directionally incompetent, and we are skiing in a park with over 20 different parking lots, accessing over 200 KM of ski trails, deviation from this plan would likely require the involvement of rescue teams.
And so, off I went…solo. The first thing I encounter are the groomed trails, complete with neat, inset tracks. I am excited! So civilized! No obstacles, no snow to push through, no tree bows or brambles or groundhog holes! This is going to be a cinch, even though, like virtually all routes selected by M, the trail starts by going straight up. First hiccup is that the tracks are spaced for a common denominator height that is slightly taller than me. My feet are awkwardly spaced apart, so I have to ski like I am trying to hold my pants up like Marky Mark. And, even with with my O.G. 1982 wax-less skis (that I still have/use) the parallel troughs are slippery as heck. My skis are skidding out behind me. I am basically gliding in place. I devise a “technique” of skiing along the edge of the groomed trail, one ski in, one ski out so at least one foot has some traction. I manage to stomp my way to the top just as my watch timer to goes off, telling me to turn around.
I get myself realigned on the far side of the groomed trail and insert my skis in the return set of ice-slicked grooves. As soon as I push off, I immediately realize that this is a very, very bad idea. I am trapped in the troughs with no way to slow down, no way to exert any kind of control. In my previous XC experience, you could go into a tuck and head straight downhill - there was so much snow that picking up any real speed was unlikely. Plus, if/when you did face plant you would simply land in a pile of soft snow. Here the tracks - which now resemble roller coaster tracks in my mind - run along the edge of the tree line. There is no soft-landing zone in sight. As I register all these details, I am careening down a steep hill. Suddenly my skis hit a bunch of little twig bits that have confetti-ed unto the track. Teeny tiny little bitty bits. Nothing compared to the obstacles of my childhood outings. But far more dangerous as it turns out. My skis instantly stop cold…while the upper half of my body continues at pace. Queue: yard sale. Or what would have been a yard sale if XC gear popped off like downhill gear. Instead, I am sprawled with skis and poles at all angles. After much groin pulling and shoulder twisting, I get back on my feet just in time for M to whizz by with a “How’s it going?”. (In these circumstances it’s best not to comment - although I am sure my eyes said volumes).
Having been conditioned to expect a certain amount of bodily abuse during a XC ski outing, I try again. This time rejecting the tracks for the flat middle zone of the groomed trail. My (again, 1982) skis are too long and not designed for “pizza slice”-ing. Thighs burning, pole tips gouging massive grooves behind me, I try to keep my legs from splaying out into the splits. Suddenly, the trail, does a steep drop followed by a very sharp turn…a turn that keeps you from going straight off the edge of a scenic outlook.[5] I am basically a run-away train at this point. The only recourse is a self-induced wipeout. Not surprisingly, I finished my inaugural ski…on foot. In an attempt to keep the dream alive, M followed this inauspicious start up with a night ski to a ski hut for fondu dinner. The results were slightly improved by my poor night vision and the fact that I was hopped up on chocolate and Kirsch. This dulled-senses approach remains my preferred mode operandi for ski outings.
Later when we have kids, I tried again, for their sake, to lean into the XC world. We joined a local XC ski club. When we arrive the first morning, there are children and adults zipping by in spandex and wrap around glasses. There are waxing stations. The coaching crew contains multiple Olympians. It feels like a completive training ground for mini Alex Harveys.[6] I was a juuuust a little bit a fish out of water. M is coaching. But having no skills to speak of, my contributions aren’t useful here. At most, I am an example of what not to do. I am also being reminded, at every turn, of a childhood experience that I wish was one of those recurring dreams, like the missed exam, but that I fear actually happenned…
I am on a grade school field trip to a ski hill. I am no more than 10, but not super young because I was off on my own. I don't know if I am the only one of my friends who opted to XC versus downhill, but for whatever reason I am skiing solo. I am guessing it is after the requisite hot chocolate break because I need to pee SUPER badly. True to lifelong form, I am lost. I have no idea how to get back to the club house bathroom. In desperation, I cut through the woods and duck behind a tree to go pee.
As I am squatting, I can hear voices approaching. They are getting closer, but I am small, and I am tucked behind a decent tree screen. I am all good…except…wait a second! The voices weren’t coming from behind the tree, they were coming from right in front! Sure enough, though I am shielded from one trail, unbeknownst to me I have selected a spot that is basically right on top of another trail!! A trail that a group of kids is making their way down towards me!! While I am fully mooning them!! (I cannot use too few exclamation marks here! (!!!!!)) Out of pure social preservation reflex I immediately pull up my pants…mid-stream. I skuttle off in my damp pants as fast as I can with boards strapped to my feet.
Having successfully evaded anyone seeing my bare butt, I was relieved…But then came the bus ride home. It is a cold winter day, and we are inside a hot yellow school bus. I have positioned myself at the rear of the bus, hiding as much as is possible when you are sharing a bench seat with another person. At first my seatmate is my only concern. But then the heaters jack up and it becomes clear that I am sitting right on top of the primary vent. Slowly, as the air circulates, the kids on the bus, one by one, row by row, start commenting: “What’s that smell? Eeew! It smells like pee! Who peed their pants?!…”Now imagine this for an hour and a half. Followed by having to THEN get into my friend’s car, a big plush Cadillac, for the carpool ride home. If there had been any doubt about the source of the stench on the bus, the list of culprits has certainly narrowed down now. To one. Me. (I will take this opportunity to express my gratitude to my friend JT who didn’t, justifiably, disown me then, or since).
Back in adult land, I opt to eschew the groomed club trails that are laden with the twin mortifications of being lapped by grade schoolers in the present, and flash backs to my past grade schooler nightmare. I head off into the woods. (Read: hide. I go hide in the woods.) I am completely off trail. I bumble about, taking mental pictures of the way the sunlight is radiating through the trees; the snow-capped tree fungi; the ice patterns forming over the creek beds. I eventually happen upon a random dude - who turns out to be the farmer from the property next door (that I, in keeping with family tradition, have trespassed onto). He is hanging out with his dogs, sitting on a stump, and smoking a gigantic doobie.
“Sure is pretty in here, eh?”, says he.
“Sure is.”, says I.
And so it is that I found my personal XComfort Zone. It can take some searching. And you may need to send the rangers out to find me lost in the woods. But it’s there…just off the beaten track. Where I belong, apparently.
Plus, you can safely go pee if you really need to.
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[1] These were the circumstances in which I became known ironically as “Cannonball K”. In retrospect I am wondering if I hung back out of an innate sense of self preservation. “I’ll just wait and see what happens to the rest of these lemmings first.”
[2] These obstacles were not chosen for mention at random - use your imagination as to how they might be memorable.
[3] This is apparently a genetic trait passed down through the male line. Just ask my brother T’s family.
[4] Occasionally we would have guests in tow, all of whom later said some version of “K’s family tried to kill me”. A 1,000% fair assessment.
[5] Years later our town hosted an event called “Crashed Ice” which is a form of downhill ice skating, an event I never would have thought I would be able to relate to, but do because of this trail. M held the KOM for this trail for a long time. After he briefly lost the lead time, he intentionally went to ski it after an ice storm so that he could go faster. Literally Crashed Ice on skis.
M, himself, never crashes. But one time he returned from doing this same segment with H, aged 2 or 3, in the XC ski sled. She had road rash all down the side of her face from flipping on the right angle turn. M, at the time: "I hoped you wouldn't notice.” M, when recently retelling this tale, “Well, I made the turn.”
[6] As context, when we were on our Cycling Mecca trip, we biked one of the famous hill segments alongside of family of four who were doing it on roller XC skis. I jokingly bet M $100 that they were from this XC ski club. M didn’t take the bet because the odds were so clearly in my favor.