Ski Racing in Weston, MA?

More Fun than I knew you could Legally have in Weston

Two weekends ago, Jeff and I talked about the Tuesday night race series as we made laps around the course in Weston.

“You ought to try it.”

“No, I’d get killed.”

I mean, dressing up in lycra in the summer is one thing, but in the middle of the winter? A guy must really have issues doing that. I want no part of it. Er, ah, maybe? Nah.

This past Saturday, the nudges continued. “Hey, I think you’re ready for racing.” Hmmm, maybe if I set the bar high enough (don’t finish in an ambulance, don’t finish dead last)?

So during the commute home from work last night I decided to take the plunge and try my first race. For all of you guys who were wondering what this is like, here goes…

First, a couple of warm up laps. I was surprised – about 80 people turn up each week to race this series. And they are fast. And fit. Yikes. With each hill I went up, I’d get passed by a high school kid or two. Hmmm – this might be a humbling 25 minutes?

As I pulled into the start chute, guys were peeling off layers. Under the jackets and baggy pants were lycra ski suits. One guy’s said “R-U-S-S-I-A” down the side – as in former national team member. Another from Sweden. A few more from Harvard. Northeastern. Tufts. Dartmouth. Belmont Hill.

Hey, who’s the geek in the jacket and baggy pants? The guy who’d be a little bit leery of a full lycra approach at this time in the winter, that’s who.

We were instructed to line up according to “seeding” which is apparently Nordic ski race talk for “new guys, get out of the way and get in the back.” So to the back I went in my Amish outfit.

We stood four rows across in classic tracks (the two grooves in the snow for the old fashioned kind of Nordic skiing) about 75 yards long. We’d pole in these classic tracks hard and then hop out into the skate lanes. Apparently, this is a better solution for a mass start skate race with about 80 people. Less eyes getting poked out by flailing poles?

As the two-minute countdown started, the guy next to me leaned over and asked, “is this your first time?” “Yeah,” I said. “You?”

“Well, I haven’t raced in awhile, but I raced in college for McGill.” No baggy pants on this guy and he’s in back. Maybe time to reset those goals? Last might be a real accomplishment in this crowd. Yeah, last, but first non-Olympian, non-college racer… I just might be able to live with that.

“Five”- “Four” -“Three”- “Two” – “One” and with that, 80 bodies surge forward and start poling furiously. I can see McGill out of the corner of my eye and he’s already gapping me. I’m redlined and we’re only 5 seconds in! (according to my Polar, my heart rate went from 60 to 190 in a mere 8 seconds)

The next minute was like a roller derby on snow. Elbows, skis and poles flying around and lots of contact. I was gasping for air, but could only think, “I should have glasses on. These poles are coming up about an inch from my eye and I’m going to be lucky to have two functioning eyeballs at the end of this thing.”

I was holding my own in the middle of the pack and in the first turn a guy fell and came tumbling through the pack. Shouts of “Racer down! Racer down!” as people jumped, slid and hopped to avoid running him over and/or impaling him with their poles.

We were going faster on skis than I have ever gone. About 20 bodies hit the next turn at the same time and it was my turn. In a big way. The guy next to me planted his pole right inside of my ankle. I was airborne – for a minute doing the superman through the air. I looked at him, he looked at me, then I looked at the ground – bam, hit the ground and went tumbling head over heels out of the turn and into an embankment of fresh snow.

To add insult to injury, I was directly under the snow gun and it was now raining fresh and frozen Charles River water down on me. Whosh, Whosh, Whosh. About 30 people passed me as I dug myself up and scrambled back into the race.

I was now in the tail of the pack and ticked. Knowing that my son was waiting back at the start finish line, and I would subsequently hear, “Uh, dad, you’re like, last” as we came through our lap, I decided to dig deep and pretend I was trying to follow Lebo and MikeM behind one of their signature “I’m going to rip your legs off” summer time pulls.

It worked, I started to pass people. Not many, but a few geriatric types. Mostly women about 70 years old, but, I was passing people darn it!

This was the hardest effort I’ve done in a long time. I could feel my lunch surfacing a few times. The race settled into small packs, much like a bike race. And we were pushing each other hard and taking turns at the front. Around one turn, a woman crashed a broke a carbon race pole (about $250). Yikes.

It was wild and really sort of fun (as long as poles and eyeballs stay intact).

After 6K, I managed to pull myself up about 12 spots. “Hey Dad -- wow, you’re not last! Nice job! That was crazy sick.” Even a 13 year-old liked it.

Mission accomplished. No hospital visit. No last place finish. Lunch stayed down (just barely). 22 minutes of shear redlined thrill. 186 average heart rate.

So who’s up for next Tuesday night? Come on! I need some baggy pant company. I mean, who wears lycra?