The Birkie

Anything is possible on a barstool

On a rainy evening in Madison, WI, I gathered at a bar with my sister Valerie and her friends. At some point Valerie’s friends began extolling the joy of skiing the American Birkiebeiner (aka The Birkie).

“Have you ever done it? Do you want to do it?” they questioned.

“No, and I’m not sure,” I replied.

“Well, you must do it. It’s an amazing experience. A lifetime achievement.” 

After a couple drinks and some bratwurst down the hatch, the thought of doing 50 km of Nordic skiing in the cold and snow didn’t seem too daunting. Both Valerie and I agreed to do the race. Did it matter that neither of us had ever done any significant Nordic skiing in our lives? Not at the time.

What’s a Birkebeiner?

The American Birkebeiner is the largest, by participation, Nordic ski race in North America. It runs 50 km from Cable to Hayward, and is considered one of the most challenging due to its hilly nature, drawing Olympians and newbies alike. Emulated from the Norwegian Birkebeinerrennet, 54 km from Rena to Lillehammer, these contests celebrate historical events which occurred in 13th century Norway.

In the midst of a Civil War, Birkebein party loyalists carried off with a young child, Prince Haakon IV Haakonson, who was in enemy Bagler territory. The rescue party encountered a blizzard, but two brave skiers continued on with Haakon. They crossed a mountain pass and brought the young boy, a future King of Norway, to the safety of the current King Inge. Thinking on it now, it’s odd that this ancient story of a Prince most people have never heard of is the inspiration for such popular races.

In Norway they ski with a 3.5 kg backpack to commemorate the young boy. In Wisconsin, three skiers, two men and a woman, are selected each year to recreate the event by racing the course in traditional costume and on wooden skis. For those not up for the marathon, the American Birkebeiner features two shorter races; the Kortelopet and the Prince Haakon.

Climbing the “Rocky Steps”

There are two ways to ski “The Birkie”; classic and skate.  I decided to learn the faster skate style instead of the traditional classic method (shuffling). I bought all the gear in Minneapolis and began my training. Throughout the winter I skied at Twin Cities trails, mainly Theodore Wirth, University of Minnesota, and Hyland Lake. I also ventured to the ABR trails in Michigan (https://jollyroutes.com/snow-globes-and-snowmobiles/). During Winter Break I skied at the Hixon Forest trails in my hometown of La Crosse, WI and at St. Mary’s Trails in Winona, MN, groomed and maintained by Christian Monks.

At first it was awkward and tiresome to ski through the snow in rollerblading fashion. Eventually though it became second nature, and I enjoyed the serenity of gliding through the woods. The next obstacle was endurance. I needed a break in the lodge after every 5km. How would I ever do 50km?

The only solution was to keep skiing. The weekend before the Birkie I pushed myself to do 25km at Theodore Wirth Park, which was just about every trail they had. It took me three hours, and afterwards I jumped up and down and threw my hands in the air like Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It wasn’t 50 km, but come race day I figured if I took the tortoise approach, slow and steady, I’d just make it.

You don’t race the Birkie. You survive the Birkie.

It was a dark, cold, and cloudy night when I drove to Hayward, WI the night before the race. I stopped at the high school to check in and pick up my bib, trying to push the thought of skiing all day in frigid conditions out of my head. Afterwards I drove to a cabin out in the woods, where I was staying with Valerie and her friends.

Valerie and I were the newbies amongst a crew of seasoned Birkie veterans. They were eager to go, and spent the evening reminiscing about Birkie’s past and making predictions about tomorrow. How would the conditions be? Hopefully nothing like the ice of ‘04. At least we know it won’t be slushy. Who will break their record? Is anyone going to surprise us this year? Valerie will put down a time, you’ll see.

One friend gave me some sage advice; “Remember, you don’t race the Birkie. You survive the Birkie.” Unlike the others, I had one goal and one goal alone; finish. It is not uncommon for slow skiers to be kicked off the course when the twilight hours arrive.

Next morning we rose at the crack of dawn, scarfed down breakfast, and piled into cars heading to Cable, the race start. We listened to the local radio station, teasing the amateur broadcasters. They updated us on the conditions; despite heavy winds at night, everything was calm and clear. Then, we sat back and listened to songs such as “Birkie Fever” and “Let the Birkie Grab Your Soul”. We arrived at Cable and stepped into the elements. No turning back now.

Let the games begin

Each skier is categorized and must start in a specific wave (Olympians first and newbies last). Many of our crew were mid tier or higher, so they departed for their start while Valerie and I waited behind. Most people congregated by the port-a-potties, waiting in massive lines for their turn to pee. In the distance I heard the announcer giving updates and sending waves of skiers out into the brutal course. The top skiers finished in just under two hours, meaning they were done while I was just getting started.

It was now time to go to the starting line. Valerie, ever the competitor, worked her way to the head of the pack. I found a spot in the back and waited, butterflies fluttering in my gut. The muffled voice on the loudspeaker said something, there was a period of silence, and then bang! The gun went off and I was on my way.

The first stretch was wide and flat, and everyone tried to find their groove. Some stayed with the pack while others charged ahead, committed to tracking down higher waves. Despite all the talk about conditions last night, I realized something unfortunate. When you race from the back, the conditions will always be poor. There’s not much hope when thousands of skiers have already laid tracks in the snow.

Beware the high voltage

The first few kilometers provide an illusion that the course “won’t be so bad.” Dreams are soon destroyed when skiers encounter the dreaded “Powerline Hills”. If you don’t think Wisconsin has hills, you are sorely deluded. Before the climb skiers are still packed together, but once on the hill they sprawl out like berserkers going to battle. From a distance it looks like a scene from Lord of the Rings, warriors vainly scaling an enemy wall.

Strong skiers have a technique which allows them to ski going uphill. Others, like myself, try it for a few strokes before giving up and doing the herringbone (the equivalent of walking uphill). On my way up I passed a group of spectators stoically banging on drums and shaking chimes, encouraging us to keep at it. I gazed up at the power lines overhead, got a momentary respite on a short downhill, and then began climbing another large hill. All said and done I believe there were three huge climbs, back to back to back.

Fans take snowmobiles out on the trails to places where they camp out and watch the race. They drink beer, heckle, and cheer. About every 7 km there are rest stations, where volunteers dish out oranges, cookies, water, and the infamous drink simply known as “energy”. I tried to do a pattern where I stopped for fluids at each station, and snacks at every other station.

Pileup!

Further along I noticed we were hitting a backlog. Skiers were slowing down and running into a wall of people in front of them. I remembered conversations from the night earlier and knew what was coming; the Firetower Hill, steep and icy. Often times on such downhills there are “pileups”, where one skier takes a tumble and causes the group behind them to crash and fall on top of each other.

The reason for the slowdown was that people were taking pauses before going downhill, a smart idea. My turn came and I shot down without thinking, eager to tackle the challenge. The wind rushed in my face, and my eyes squinted to keep out the flying powder. I was feeling the thrill and just about to level off on the bottom when the predictable happened; a crash. A crew of skiers ahead of me fell like a house of cards. I swerved around one, then changed direction and passed another fallen body. I was about to break through the pile when I saw someone directly in front of me. Instead of skiing over them, I titled toward the side of the trail and ate it. My legs flew above my head and I plopped on my back. I took a deep breath and stared up into the hazy sky.

Behind me a woman moaned, “oh my leg.” I asked her if she was okay. “No,” she said, clutching her knee. Knowing I was useless to help, I found a woman with a phone who called the ski patrol. That poor woman’s day was done. Out on the Birkie Trail skiers drop out for all kinds of reasons. Undeterred, I pressed on.

Nordic high

After the pileup I hit my stride. Runners will be familiar with the phrase “runner’s high”; I attained a “Nordic high” from ~20 km to ~ 30 km in the race. My endorphins were pumping, I kept a consistent pace, and most importantly, I was having fun. The snow flowed effortlessly beneath my skis, as if I was skating on ice. My body was warmed up, so it was refreshing to glide through the cold winter air. The sun also came out, and the forest shone brightly with its piles of white snow.

Just like any high, it came to an abrupt end. Eventually I was just barely slogging along, and cursing every new hill I encountered. At one point I just stopped. A woman, the same person who called the patrol earlier, gave me some encouragement. “Keep going, if you stop it’ll be even harder.” She and I had been going at a similar pace, so we encountered each other from time to time. 

My hands were frozen and I needed to pee. I took the gloves off to air them out, then took a short trek into the woods for the ceremonial forest pee. Unless you are a pro, it’s likely that you’ll have to relieve yourself at some point along the Birkie Trail. Afterwards I slipped my wet gloves back over my cold hands and continued. Every kilometer was more difficult than the last, and the sky turned gray as the afternoon hours whiled away. I looked into the pine forest from time to time and thought, “Boy that looks like a nice place to lie down and die.”

Crossing the line

Near 40 km I reached the last checkpoint after topping yet another steep hill. To my relief, an attendant was still there in his reflective vest. I grabbed some more energy fluid, and felt a wave of delight flow through my body. They could not kick me off the course now. I was dead tired, but I had less than 10 km to go and no pressure to beat the deadline. It was only a matter of time.

The final section of trail goes over the frozen Lake Hayward. A group of fans waits for skiers to arrive and offers them a shot of Jager. Hardy Birkie veterans will no doubt take the shot, but I knew my body. I had already pushed myself to the limits. It felt like my head was detached from my torso, likely a psychological protection mechanism. No alcohol for me today.

I crossed the famous International Bridge and then hit the home stretch on Main Street. There were still plenty of skiers ahead and behind me. I was slow, but still in the pack. In between telling jokes the announcer called out skier’s names as they finished. I crossed the line, heard my name called out over the loudspeaker, and then came to a grinding halt. The deed was done. Walking on jello legs I grabbed my medal, then made my way into the tent for water and chili. The woman from earlier had also just finished, and congratulated me.

Next time I’ll do the Korte

My final time ended up being something like 7 hours and 15 minutes. Just imagine that. Over seven hours on skis in the cold woods of Wisconsin. Valerie exceeded all expectations and finished in 4 hours and change, a testament to her prior experience running marathons. Back at the cabin we ate Famous Dave’s Barbeque and shared tales of our adventures on the trail.

The most persistent challenge for everyone, besides the endurance factor, were the little skirmishes that broke out between skiers. When 10,000 people don skis and start off down a snowy trail, there will be some conflict. It’s nothing serious; elbow jabs, cursing, getting stuck behind slower skiers. It’s just like driving in traffic. I found myself often passing someone who I felt was slow, only to get passed by them as soon as I pulled in front. Sometimes this back and forth goes on a few rounds before separation is finally found.

The next year I returned, with a different group of Valerie’s friends and Morris along as well. I did not do the full Birkie. Instead, I skied the Kortelopet, which ended up taking 2 ½ to 3 hours. Valerie’s poor friend Andy skied the Birkie and put down a DNF (did not finish), despite bringing a lantern to guide him through the dark. Morris one upped me by beating me in his debut, but I stole the show by racing the course in a Canadian Tuxedo.