At the World Cup in Lake Placid, I served as a journalist, writing stories about the competitions. I was warmly welcomed to stay with the family of Annelies Cook, who is a biathlete from Saranac Lake, about thirty minutes away from the venue. Her mother, Maryke, served as an anti-doping officer for the competitions, while her sister was a forerunner. Definitely a biathlon family!

Because parking is banned on the streets of Saranac Lake during the night, I parked in the Cook's driveway at night. Friday night, the eve of the women's pursuit competition, was no different. My Ford Explorer was parked in front of their house, located in the nice part of a nice town.

After completing my work on Saturday, I remembered that I had a rifle to give to the Belorussian team from the U.S. National Guard. It seems that Sergei Vinogradov, who was the former coach of the program, had loaned the rifle to the team, and the Guard wanted to give it back. I was the middleman.

I walked to my car, and got the rifle out of the rear of it. In my car, I had left my skis, my ski boots, and my own rifle. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. My large black ski bag was still there. However, I remembered putting my rifle underneath the rifle that I was to give to Sergei. I figured that maybe I had taken it out to dryfire with while at the Cook's house, so did not start to worry too much. I walked back to the shooting range and gave Sergei his rifle.

As I walked back to my car, I started to wonder if I had actually taken my own rifle out of the car. I had dryfired a great deal the week before, but did not think that I even had time to do so while I was at the Cook's house. Then, I thought that perhaps I had forgotten my rifle at home in Jericho. Driving back to Saranac Lake, I began to worry about my rifle. Though I knew that I needed a new wood stock for my rifle, the action and barrel on it were just perfect and quite precise.

Having walked into the Cook's house, I immediately went into the room in which I was staying. No rifle! I looked everywhere. It was neither underneath the bed nor mixed in with my clothes. Where could it be? I called home to Jericho, but no one had seen it there either.

After talking about it with the Cook's and some other people, I realized that my rifle had been stolen. It did not make any sense. Why would someone steal my rifle, but not the other rifle nor the dozen pair of perfect skis? And how did this horrible person know to check my vehicle when it has dark tinted glass in the rear? Nothing made sense about the crime, but that is what the police are for, right?

Down to the Saranac Lake Police Department I went. After being looked at for a moment as if I were just some weird kid, who did some sport called biathlon, I was taken seriously. A report was made up. APB's were sent out. I imagined a squad of officers closing down the town, setting up roadblocks, and searching houses. The officers told me that much worse robberies had taken place on the same night in the vicinity of where I was staying. Unfortunately I was not the only one, but there is strength in numbers!

Thankfully, it is very likely that my parent's homeowner's insurance will cover the theft of my rifle, minus a hefty deductible. Nevertheless, it certainly put a brake on any chance of me getting some late-season shooting training done. It also severely decapitated my race at U.S. Junior National Championships the next week. Though all of my goals had passed and I was already focusing on the next season, it would have been nice to shoot well in my final race as a junior-level competitor.

Meanwhile, the law enforcement community continues to investigate my case. If you see a rifle with the serial number 287704, then be suspicious of its origins! Strangely enough, on my way to the men's pursuit race on Sunday in Lake Placid, there was a roadblock…

Peace,
Brian