The Birkie (1-25K)

The most appropriate way to describe the Birkebeiner is to break it up by kilometer. In a race so long, the storyline can change three times or more from start to finish, giving it the quality of an episodic adventure.

Arrival:
Due to the annually congested traffic in small town Cable, WI, we arrived at the athlete drop-off area about 10-15 minutes before Nels's actual start time. This wasn't the ideal time-frame Nels was hoping for, but it did provide for some last-minute excitement, including watching him jump out of the back door of the bus and getting  scolded by the bus driver. Needless to say, he missed his start, but the race was managed with chip-timing so it turned out to be more of an inconvenience than anything. That was the last time I saw him for the next four hours.
  Somehow, per usual, I took my sweet time getting ready for the start (45 minutes later), and just barely strapped my second ski grip on when the starting gun went off. Luckily, the time that elapsed between the gunshot and the person in front of me actually moving was another 2.5 hours, so I had plenty of time to get everything in order.
  Starting in wave 5 was an interesting situation. The Birkebeiner is broken up into skate and classical skiing (mostly the prior), and each discipline is broken up into waves so the race course won't be too congested. With a total attendance of 8,700 racers, congestion is inevitable, but organizers do a great job at mitigating it. The way they do this is by seeding each skier by their finish time from the previous year, or by an officially-sanctioned qualifying race earlier in the year. This way, they can break up the pack by speed, sending the fastest first, and have each heat of 500-900 skiers start at 10 minute intervals.
  I started in wave 5 and want to give all of the readers ample evidence for pending excuses I will soon present for not winning the race. Or coming in top 100. Or 300.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here, let's start the play-by-play.

1K-
After a relaxed and slow start, I'm in great spirits. Despite the cold temps (~0F), the sun was out, and I felt good. Not only that, but the pace was AMAZING (AKA slow). Seeing as how I didn't give myself enough time to warm up (zero seconds), this casual saunter through the first leg of the course will get me up to speed, cardio-wise, and then I can make a move when the field starts to thin out.

2K-
I've already passed a dizzying number of wave 5 skiers. Each skier's bib number starts with the number of their wave, and has an associated trim color. Nels gave me some advice from his experience last year, which was to "ski relaxed", so I planned to do just that. I kept my technique non-labored and smooth, relying on slow long kicks and long glides. I felt great. I was passing people like it was my job.

3K-
(Don't worry, there isn't a post for every kilometer)
The first section of the Birkie traverses "the powerlines", which are a typical source of cross country trails in the US. It's easy to groom a course on land that the government already paid to deforest. I had studied the elevation profile of the course the night before and was fully aware that the first 15k contained most of the climbing for the race. On the first few hills I could feel the burn in quads, but attributed the sensation to not warming up.

4.5K-
We turned into the woods, and I am still surrounded on all sides by a sea of red-colored bibs. My late starting position meant that I needed to pass hundreds of skiers to get some fresh air up front and stretch out my legs. At this point though, I wasn't panicking. It's a long race, and you can do more harm than good by pushing the pace so early. As I round the first turn into the woods, I see a mass of skiers and spectators obstructing the trail. My first reaction was that of alarm. It was hard not to see this type of gathering and assume that someone was terribly injured. As I got closer, I started to see plastic Dixie cups strewn about the snow and realized that I had arrived at the first of 8 feed stations. Water, powerdrinks, sliced bananas and oranges were being offered by the race crew, and the skiers swarmed like flies to either size of the feed zone. There was no way I was slowing down this early in the race, and I took full advantage to weave through the crowd with care. I estimated that I passed about 50 skiers in five seconds. Not bad. I contemplated taking a swig of my "emergency mix" that I was carrying in a water-bottle holder, but it was still to early. I still need to focus on moving forward through the pack.

Intimidation is half the battle

~10K
Throughout the large climbs that accentuate the start of the race, I have not once been able to ski at my own pace. Each hill followed the same format.
1) Weave through traffic at high speeds.
2) See everyone stopped at upcoming hill
3) Slam on the brakes and stop at the bottom
3) Pick a line to stand in, and move up the hill at the pace of the slowest skier ahead of you
4) Start a conversation with the guy/girl standing next to you
5) Wish that person good luck and take off when you get to the top.

On one hill I complimented a gentleman on the festive blue wig he was wearing. As I was about to take off at the top of the hill, he noticed my Olaf ski suit and shouted "I go to Olaf right now!". I yelled back "Good luck!" and then began to play a high speed game of Frogger on the trail. I was actually starting to enjoy the pace. The hills were slow enough that I wasn't getting tired (at all), and I could show off some top speed and zoom around people at the top. Fun!

15K-
The course is now on a gradual decline, and I have already passed a considerable number of wave 4 skiers, and I'm starting to see wave 3 (those who started 20 minutes prior). Someone on the sidelines shouts "I've only seen a couple other 5's! Go 5!". What he was telling me was that I was top-3 in my wave at this point, which was encouraging news, because I was pining for some open trail. It also meant that I might be in better shape than I had hoped! Spirits are still high. I've gone through three feed zones now, without stopping, and estimate that I have passed at least 200 skiers because of this. I don't want to get cocky though, so I take my first sip from my emergency mix, and chew down a frozen goo pack.

Emergency "Anti-Bonk" Mix (16 oz.):

• 1 part Red Bull
• 1.5 parts Gatorade
• 2 parts water
• Two ibuprofen liquigels (opened and squeezed into the mixture)

Because of the temperature, I need to keep the water-bottle upside down in my holder. This is a winter athlete trick so the top layer of the drink doesn't freeze over. As I take a pull of the elixir, I taste slush, and can see the ice layer forming on the bottom. This started earlier than I had hoped. It must still be colder outside than I thought.

20K- 
I no longer feel great, but I don't feel bad yet either. I call this time in the race as "the zone". I have settled into a moderate pace that my body feels comfortable with. I now lack that childish exuberance that had me jovially cracking jokes with other skiers in the first 10K. The race has become more internalized, and I keep my focus on staying efficient. Right in front of me, I see another wave 5 skier. I see this as a great sign. It means I am still reeling in the leaders from my wave. A little voice in my subconscious, a pesky little pessimistic nay-sayer, who had been quiet so far in the race, began to whisper a word of warning. Don't try to draft him, it says, race your own race. You might go too fast if you try to run him down. I listened to the voice. I watched the skier in front of me, and he was "skiing strong" (as they say). His technique was marginal, and his sloppy upper body motion led me to believe he was probably a freshman in college. His hips were on a swivel, and his arms were all out of whack. But despite all of his dynamic flaws, he was moving at a good pace. He had strong legs, and I could tell that he wasn't tired. I didn't feel all that fatigued yet, but I was definitely not feeling strong. In fact, to be honest, I haven't felt strong since college.

18.5K-
I stopped at a feed stop for the first time, downed some warm energy drink, and scooted back into traffic.

25K-
My water-bottle is starting to freeze considerably. I squirt whatever is left into my mouth on a series of winding downhills and flats. I can't see myself, but I imagine that my Buff is covered in ice around my chin, and I have a considerable amount of frozen snot under my nose. My feet hurt, but that is par for the course. After a 60 mile rollerski 10 years ago, my feet have never been the same and I tend to lose sensation in my toes once the temperature drops below 15 degrees. After a series of back-and-forths with the poor-technique wave-5 skier, I suck up my pride and let him go ahead of me. If this were a 30K race, I would be on him like glue, but I need to conserve my energy and ski smoothly.

As I near the 25K marker of the course, I start to feel something in my quads. It's a sensation that I have been dreadfully anticipating. I had jokingly predicted to Kaj before the race that "I'm going to push the pace for 30K, bonk, and then drag my sorry ass the rest of the 20 kilometers".

As that 25K marker slowly passes to my left I feel the dull aching in my legs. The aching isn't constant, and I only feel it on the steep uphill. The sensation I have at this point is unmistakable. After thousands of hours of distance training throughout my life, I have learned how to read my body's hints and signals. I'm starting to bonk. I reach for my water-bottle, which is a useless cube of frozen caffeine and NSAIDS. I rip off my last goo packet and squeeze as much of the frozen goodness into my mouth. I can only get about half of it out using my teeth. It tastes good, but I want more.

I haven't bonked yet, not all of the symptoms have presented themselves. But I do know that the game has changed completely. I no longer have any aspirations of a reasonable time, but I do know that the aching in my legs can be mitigated if I am careful. I need to slow down a little bit, and focus even more on skiing efficiently.

I think about the fact that I am 25K into the race. Where I was once excited to be halfway to the finish, I'm now filled with a quiet dread. I didn't know it at the time, but there was still 6K until the next feed station.

I'm only halfway there.