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Poor, faithful reader. Expecting an update on the biathlon world, or, if you’re my mother, and update on my life, you visit over and over again, only to be disappointed by the unchanging site as of late, with a dated picture from the Olympics and a month-old message from me about skiing around inside a tunnel. Alas, I am no longer in Sweden, cold and dark country, lately more warm and rainy than cold, but dark nonetheless.
A week ago, I left Sweden behind for a point further south, with much more pleasant weather, though much less snow. So much less, that in Obertilliach, Austria, the fields are still green, the river still flows freely, the mountaintops are brown and barren, the birds sing like it’s spring. In fact, the only snow worthy of mention is the 1.3-km ribbon of man-made snow at the biathlon range. Abrasive stuff, highly unnatural, for it was birthed by machines, not the sky.
Attentive readers might remember that 1.3 kilometers is sort of the lucky distance of the month. The Fortum Ski Tunnel in Torsby, Sweden, so named after the construction company that built it, complete with some small fissures in the concrete that now allow drips of frozen mud to fall onto the track, is also 1.3 kilometers in length. However, because the tunnel was built in the middle of nowhere, very few people visited the attraction while we were there, except on the weekends, in which case all bets are off, and all the master skiers of Stockholm and Oslo could be seen skiing around at Mach 5 on shiny new race equipment, in addition to over-zealous youth and junior skiers, who tried as hard as they could to not be passed by said master skiers.
No, fear not, there are only two master skiers on the short track of snow here in Obertilliach, one nicknamed Stomper, for his very intentional style of technique, and the other, Cannot-Lose-Him, because, just as the name implies, he cannot be dropped, even by the most talented and BALCO’ed east European. But, also, he cannot be passed, for his technique is of such an advanced form that it requires a greater amount of space than the more primitive version of the new, younger generation…
Instead, the track in Obertilliach has been occupied by perhaps as many as 150 men… and 5 women. (To further digress), yes, it seems that gender is a major point of contention still in central and eastern Europe. There are few women partaking in biathlon at the moment in the region, or in the regions from whence the fuming buses, vans, and horse-drawn carriages of Eastern Europe have come. Perhaps it is because the very proud, confident, and “always right” men of these regions wouldn’t want “their” women to be equipped and knowledgeable in target shooting, lest they be wrong about something, and themselves become the targets. But that may be just a generalization and may be false completely.
So, it is around this 1.3-km loop that these 150 men and 5 women train each morning. It is quite a culturally diverse group. This is exemplified by the choices each unique group makes about which side of the trail to ski on. The majority seem to recognize the universal idea of sticking to the right side, except to pass (for some reason, all three Minnesotans are sticking to this norm, even though it is well-known that sticking to the right is not a common custom in Minnesota itself). Then there are those who have perhaps been infiltrated by the British element, though they are not themselves British, and select the left side of the track. The worst “unique” group of all is the side-by-siders. This “unique” group, which is rumored to come from a medium-sized nation on the Black Sea, bands together in unity, making a band of impenetrable – and often deaf – skis, boots, poles, rifles, and bodies across the track. War is a bygone tradition in Europe, but you would be shocked to witness the zeal with which athletes attempt to break through this blockade.
To be specific and to the point, the track is crowded.
Now, a short story.
Recently, I received a pair of the well-respected and ingeniously designed Casco glasses worn by the likes of Ole Einar Bjørndalen and all of his followers, which despite the suggestion of official press releases and biography information, I am not one. Anyways, the reason I received them was that all other glasses that I have tried fog up, fall off my head, or simply break. That’s the background to the story. Oh, and I haven’t received warm-up pants yet, so I have been skiing around in Sweden and Austria in my Patagonia pajama pants. That’s sort of important, too, and equally as humorous to witness as the Casco glasses.
Brian: “So are your glasses fogging up?”
Jill: “Yeah, on the hills, are yours?”
Brian: “No, not at all.”
Now, both of us are starting to head downhill.
Jill: “So is a flood coming?”
Brian: (Remembers reading the forecast, and seeing only clear skies). “A flood?”
Jill: “Yeah, a flood.”
Brian: “A flood? No, I haven’t heard of one, have you?”
Jill: “Well, you have your pants hiked up so high that I thought that there was a flood on its way.”
Brian: “Ha ha.”
Now we’re on a sharp turn, being passed by a Belorussian.
Jill: “Isn’t that the funniest joke I’ve ever told?”
Brian: “Ha ha.”
At the time, after classic skiing around the 1.3-km loop for an hour and half, this joke was so funny that I could not tuck down the remainder of the hill because I was laughing so hard. But I was on the right side of the track, so thus not affecting anyone else.
That was amusing, but four days later, an event occurred that was far from amusing to me. It might have been painfully amusing to others, and maybe to you, too, as you shall soon read.
For the past three weeks, I have been training quite hard, to the point where the body is so confused, it believes that it is not tired, the opposite of tired. Whereas tiredness would usually mean hunger, sleepy, thirsty, and so on, this form of “reversed tiredness,” as I shall call it, lacks all of these desires. When you are reversed tired, also known as overtrained, I, at least, am unable to sleep and lack an appetite, which is quite horrifying for those who know me and my sizeable portions of spaghetti, served in large mixing bowls with a jar of sauce.
Anyways, so I have been training hard recently. The final workout of the period was yesterday in the form of a competition. The first Austrian Cup race. Because the loop is only 1.3-km, they decided to make the race 9 laps of 1.1-km, with shooting after the third and sixth laps. Thus, a sprint-format. I entered into the race with some hesitation, realizing that I was already a bit toasted, as some might say, but figured that it would be a good opportunity to get the bugs out of the system, as yet others are often fond of saying.
My skis were fantastic, especially on the first few laps. The snow is so abrasive that the waxman cannot be blamed for the wax wearing off. I think a belt sander would have been gentler. On one part of the course – really, on a 1.1-km loop, how many parts can there be? – at the bottom of “the” downhill, the track narrows to what I call an isthmus. On both sides, the ground falls away, like cliffs, ten meters high. The track is less than two yards wide.
Granted that my skis were fast, and I used the “tuck” technique down the hill – apparently not as commonly used as I had imagined – I quickly came upon two fellow competitors as we all neared the isthmus. I shouted politely, then loudly, then excitedly, and finally, direly, because at that moment, the two ahead of me blocked my way and it was too narrow to snow-plow, and my skis were underneath on the competitors, such that, if he liked, he could have been skiing on my skis. I ran into him, and fell back.
But I plopped back up and skied further, quickly passing this friendly fellow, with whom I exchanged some polite words and looks. And I was on my way, for the second of nine laps.
When I came in to the shooting range for my prone stage, I took my left pole off, as I always do, using the Leki quick-release system, but the right grip was giving me some trouble. I kept clicking it, over and over again, but my pole would not come off. I was just gliding down the range now, passing shooting lane 14, 13, 12… and so on. Until I came to a complete stop and fiddled with my pole. My imagination was running wild. “How am I going to shoot with the pole still attached to my hand,” I wondered. I believe that I looked calm, but some range officials ran up to me to offer their help. Alas, finally, I used the tip of my other pole, and was able to un-jam the quick-release device, which must have been clogged by that most unnatural and abrasive of snow when I fell earlier on loop two of nine.
Fifty seconds later, according to one witness, I finally collapsed on the shooting mat to shoot. Missed two, my first and last shots. I was not so happy. On the ensuing laps, I slowed and last all signs of snap in my legs and arms, not because I was tired, but probably because I was “reversed tired” – overtrained, for which I take full responsibility. After lap six of nine, I pulled into point 25 for standing, and missed one, my first shot. And I finished after another three laps, and had a horrible result, but picked up a few good lessons, mainly, that in the event that the Leki quick-release grip gets clogged with ice, why not just take the strap off completely, like any normal strap system? And two, take some time off, man, and rest. Both lessons I promise to heed.
And that’s it.
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