Reflecting on Twenty Years of Headwinds, Hills and Cold

Your tips are greatly appreciated! Upgrade at 30% offI thought you might all need a little break, so here’s a more lighthearted reflection on finishing my 20th American Birkebeiner from a couple years ago.I woke up thinking about death. I was about to compete in one of the world’s most physically challenging endurance events and, as always, it kind of scared me.Like every year, I didn’t know if I could make it.19 times I’d managed to drag myself to the finish line. As a young man, I’d arrived triumphant. I’d laughed at the challenge, I thought it was easy.But they always say that father time is undefeated, and these last few years have shown me the merciless truth of that sentiment.19 times. 19 years. On that morning, I was going to try and make it 20.The event is the American Birkebeiner. It’s a grueling 50 kilometer ski race through extremely hilly terrain in the great Wisconsin Northwoods.Don’t be deceived by the number 50. Some of you might be thinking, “Well, that’s not much longer than a marathon.”True.But most marathons are run on relatively flat courses in the middle of summer. There’s little risk that if you become too exhausted to continue, you’ll freeze to death.Go skiing uphill when it’s 25 below, and you’ll see what I mean.There are many factors that make the American Birkebeiner more difficult than a typical marathon. First there are the hills. Those are a guarantee. It seems like all you do is climb, climb, climb.Then there is the weather. The weather is always uncertain. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get lucky and it will be 32 degrees and sunny. The American Birkebeiner can be downright pleasant when that happens. You’ll finish with a smile on your face and a spring in your step.Then again, maybe it will be 25 degrees below zero. Maybe there will be wind. Maybe there will be a blizzard that drops two feet of snow right on your head.On those days, there’s no glide, not a single centimeter is free. You might as well just take off your skis and trudge miserably down the trail.I’ve finished the Birkie on hard days. At the end, I sat huddled and shivering in my car trying to drive some feeling back into my fingers.19 times I’d finished that event. Today would be number 20. The Birkebeiner celebrates you when you’ve completed 20 races. Your race number is printed on a purple bib to signify you’re now a “Birchlegger.” It’s a distinction that earns you a certain amount of respect.Out on the trail, people know what a Birchlegger is. They cheer you on. Each bib has a sticker that indicates the number of Birkies you’ve completed. My sticker said 20. Spectators saw it and screamed.“TWENTY YEARS MAN! TWENTY YEARS!”I felt each and every one of them.The worst part is that I’m not even what would be considered old. I haven’t reached 50, but the health problems have already started.Last year it was breathing. Perhaps I had an undiagnosed case of COVID. The doctors seemed indifferent about figuring it out. I’ve had asthma all my life, but I’ve more or less been able to manage it.But last year I couldn’t breathe. I went out skiing and the hills defeated me. It was a sobering moment and I realized I had to ask for help. The doctor decided I had COPD, but wouldn’t tell me any more.“Am I dying or what?”The doctor shrugs.She put me on a medication that seemed to work, but my insurance decided that they didn’t want me to have it. The second doctor was indifferent about this development. He rushed me through his office and barely looked at me. He told me I’d have to take it up with the pharmacist and the insurance. He refused to help.The only time that healthcare professionals show any initiative is when they start hounding you for payment on their excessive bills.What about my life?What about my ability to breathe?This is the future I’m looking at as I get older and health issues continue to pile up. Our society doesn’t care about the elderly. If it cared, we’d reform the whole medical industry.The message is clear.You’re on your own.I eventually had to file a legal complaint against the hospital, and only then did they provide me with a prescription I could afford. Why did it have to come to that? Why doesn’t anyone care about you?They just want to squeeze as much money out of us as they can until we die. They just want to keep us barely alive so we can continue to work and pay them.That’s what I was thinking about that morning as I prepared to do my 20th American Birkebeiner.The milestone had been on my mind for a while. I have two daughters. They are 12 and 10.On Saturday morning, I make them pancakes. On the good days we go on hikes together or we play games as a family, or we grill outside. I think being lost in the moment with them is the best part of my life.But there I was, facing the weight of 20 years. 20 years makes you doubt whether you’ve made the right choices.Did I use my time wisely?How much time do I have left?No, don’t think like that. I have to be there for them. I have to! They need me.But already I am having a hard time breathing. Already I feel the toll of the wind and hills and cold.The weight of 20 years was making me feel old.Three days before the race, I drove through a blizzard to pick up my bib. The blizzard reminded me of death. Mother nature raged. It was dark. Wet flakes smashed against my windshield. I found myself being grateful for my 20 years of skiing. Not everyone gets them.They handed me my bib, I saw the flash of purple, and I was overcome by emotion. The color was another symbol of the years.Tears come easier for me these days. I’ll find myself crying without even realizing why.Have I made the right choices?Have I been a good dad?Have I been a good husband?Or, did I squander my time?These questions have little weight when you’re young. As you get older and you realize how much time has passed, they settle upon your shoulders and press you to the ground.Extra weight makes it harder to climb the hills.The morning of the race, I took my medication. I have to take it with a nebulizer. I sat alone, in the bathroom where my kids didn’t have to see, but the nebulizer makes a lot of noise and they probably heard it.Then I had to make my best guess as to what to wear. You don’t want to sweat or you’ll get dehydrated and cold. You don’t want to wear too little or you’ll freeze. For 20 years, it’s been a difficult choice.My wife and kids kissed me goodbye, and then I was off, driving through snowflakes in the dark on the way to the starting line.I’d completed this event 19 times, but I could feel the weight of the purple bib. It felt like a spotlight was upon me. My bib said 20 but I hadn’t yet completed 20. I felt as if the colors hadn’t yet been earned.I had to finish.It would feel wrong to take to the trail and bask in the achievement of being a Birchlegger even though I hadn’t yet finished 20 Birkies. If I had to pull out, I didn’t think I could bear the shame of that for a year.The buses took us to the start. The mood was festive. Everyone was skitterish and nervous. The temperature was 10 degrees.Good!I’d prefer 25, but I was grateful it wasn’t below zero.I met some friends, but there were many more that were no longer there. They’d moved on to other things, the Birkie was no longer the focal point of their existence. Once, I could depend on sitting with twenty people before the race. Now, most of them were gone. For a while, I sat alone.Waiting…We lined up for the race. The nerves ran higher. I looked at the faces all around me and they seemed familiar. With their sunglasses and their uniforms and their angular features, this new generation of skiers resembled all the ones that had come before. In year 1 or in year 20 they would have been the same.I’d thought my experience was exceptional, and here it was repeating again. Just another day. Just another winter. Just another year. But the thought didn’t make me melancholy. Instead, it gave me a sense of renewal. I don’t know how, but it did.All those faces that might have been mine twenty years ago. I felt a sudden fondness for them. I felt delighted that I knew what was in store for them, and that the years would be good.Then came the starting gun and we were off.When I’d been a young man, I used to ski like an eggbeater, arms and legs flailing about wildly.Today, I am deliberate. I concentrate on an economy of motion because I know it’s a long way. There’s no escaping it, I will be tired.Plant the poles, ride the ski, take another step, repeat.I get behind people climbing hills and make one stroke to their three. They’re wasting energy, but they have extra energy to burn. Good for them. I feel a sudden affection for them that borders on love. Emotion overtakes me.They were me! 20 years ago they were me! Go on you magnificent young men and young women! There are plenty of hills ahead, but you’ll climb them all! You’ll climb them! Go on!Thank you for this strength!I do the first 10 kilometers, then the first 20. I realize I’m more tired than I want to be, but there are other things in my favor.My breathing is there for me. I’m not too hot nor too cold. The weight of the bib has lessened. I’ve now completed 19.4 Birkies. The colors on my chest have been partly earned.That pacifies me.At the halfway point I’m tired. I feel like I’m as tired as I’d normally be at kilometer 39, but there’s nothing to do but carry on. I can’t pull out, I need this finish. The sadness I’d been feeling from the weight of years starts to harden into defiance.I’m halfway! You can’t pull me off this trail. I’m going to finish damn you. You’ll have to kill me to make me stop!The hardest part of the American Birkebeiner is always that middle distance. You feel a surge of adrenaline when you hit the halfway point, but it’s still a long, long way to go.35 kilometers is where it gets tough. You’ve come so far, but you still have so far to go. All you can do is put your head down and grind it out.I started having to take little rests. I’d pull over and lean on my poles and just… breathe.“Are you okay?” people ask. They’re worried I might be having a heart attack.“I’m good, thank you, praise life, I’m good!”A thirty second rest does wonders. The kilometers tick by, they’re coming more slowly now, but they’re as inevitable as years, 36, 37, 38, 39…At 40 something changes. You’re exhausted now. Your muscles are done. You’re well into the reserves. But you only have 10 kilometers more to go.“Actually it’s less than 10, it’s 9 point something,” you think. Then you cross the marker for 8 and you know you now have LESS than 8.From the start, the finish seemed so far away. Yet, now, here it is approaching.In the last few kilometers, you feel a wonderful euphoria. The doubts start to go away and you know you’re going to finish. All the petty concerns are gone. Your health is good enough for this day. Your clothing choices were right. You ate well. You trained well. You’re going to make it.You made good choices!Then, just before the finish line, you see your wife and kids. Your beautiful wife. Your beautiful kids. They’re smiling and cheering and saying “Go daddy!”And you feel pacified. Because you were able to meet this physical challenge, you know you’ll be there for them. You’re getting older, but you’re still strong. They can rely on you. You make good choices.The finish line is crossed.You can’t escape the weight of years. You can’t escape the wind and the hills and the cold.But every now and then you must rejoice, because sometimes you cross a finish line. And even though it’s a finish line that took you 20 years to reach, when you cross it, you’re reborn.I have more choices yet to make.I have more time to spend.Whenever you reach a finish, you’ve come to the start again!You all make this newsletter happen! Thanks for your sponsorship! 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