Nationals Fever, part one

Note: this will be more like a short book I'm afraid. But I'm developing a few stories ideas, and am trying them out here. Please forgive my diva-ism. This is about my first year snowshoeing, in 2013.

Ever since I saw the movies “The Other Side of the Mountain, and “Ice Castles” as a kid back in the 1970’s, I’ve wanted to compete in a national championship. It didn’t matter what sport, or what place I got, only that I was there representing my town and state. And heaven forbid, if I ever won a medal, I wouldn’t care what color it was.  I was also inspired by my late uncle placed 4^th in the National Skeet Shooting Championships, and proudly wore the hat he got there.

But how would I accomplish this when I was a fat kid who didn’t care for guns and could barely do a figure one?  I “figured” it just wasn’t in the cards.  (Speaking of cards, I could forget the World Series of Poker too: I’m a terrible liar.) Life does take its twists and turns though, and eventually this couch potato found distance running at 39. I am a back-of-the-packer who may lack speed, but not stubbornness. I average about 50 road races or trail runs a year, and am a member of the Half Fanatics, with 40 half marathons under my hydration belt. I started racing to stay healthy and help some good causes, and I truly enjoy it.

But let’s face it. A 3:06 HALF marathon personal record will qualify me for the Boston Marathon when I’m approximately 137. So I forgot about national championships and just enjoyed running for fun in tiny Wisconsin hamlets like Eland and Navarino, and made some new friends.

As the leaves began to fall a few years ago, my new buddies started speaking in tongues, about strange things like Northern Lites, Redfeathers, and the Braveheart Series. They were snowshoe racers. I had been intrigued by the sport years before as I sat on my couch, so I decided to join them.  That first race in Rib Lake, Wisconsin was an utter disaster. I felt totally off balance and kept tripping over my loaner Northern Lites snowshoes. I was sure I’d end up breaking something vital. I cried at the top of my first sort-of steep hill. The race director pointed to the short cut back to the lodge, and assured me I’d still get a bowl of chili even if I didn’t finish. But I guess I had developed a reputation on the running circuit for strong finishes and never giving up, so I literally tripped over the finish line a little too close to the fire pit. That was it, I was done: this sport was too dangerous for me.

My friends continued on to the next races in their series, and I did a memorable winter run on a golf course south of Green Bay. It was very cool event benefiting Iraqi war veterans, but it got awfully lonely out there by myself. I tried a few more races and felt comfortable enough to buy my own snowshoes the night before the race in Tomahawk. It was an epic fail. I had put my new shoes on the wrong feet, and was making a tough course of powdery snow that much harder for myself. I took so long in this rugged area, my gang was getting ready to call the sheriff’s department.

I was not going to quit again (perhaps due to Tomahawk’s excellent chili), but something had to be done. I got so wound up about it I must have made myself sick. I missed the race in my hometown the next weekend, a place where I had fallen twice in trail runs, and where I really had something to prove. As I recovered from the flu, I started examining what was going wrong here. I was trying too hard to keep up with the Joneses so to speak. I was putting too much pressure on myself on the race circuit. I really needed to take my time, and not worry about speed and just go at my own pace.

Turns out the perfect opportunity was coming the very next week. The local Catholic high school was holding a non-competitive snowshoe hike fundraiser for their cross-country ski team at 9 Mile Recreation Area (or 9 Mile Swamp, as us locals call it.) The very course that I wanted to conquer! While I did get the shoes on the right feet this time at least, they were still a bit loose. A nice lady helped me tighten them, and although I was slower than one of the turtles in the swamp, I actually started to relax and enjoy myself just a little bit. I got back to the chalet unscathed and uninjured: I had told 9 Mile who was boss! I enjoyed my bowl of wild rice soup, and then they gave me my “medal:” a small bag of soup mix to take home. I was so proud of it I posted it on Facebook. (Unfortunately, I didn’t quite cook it long enough and the rice was a little hard, but my cooking skills are another story for another day.)

In the end, I discovered I had missed earning the beautiful handcrafted Braveheart Series award by the one race I missed due to illness. I hated unfinished business, and was determined to earn one the next year.  Also, a developing personal situation with one of the snowshoers also inspired me to earn the award and perhaps earn a medal the next season...