The Fool on the Hill

(3 of 5)

Walking down the street brings on another surprising revelation (surprising for me anyway). After an uneventful block or two, a vague uneasiness begins to settle in. There is an unattached bit of anxiety floating around, waiting and watching for something that is expected but not happening. I realize that I haven't been nearly run down like a dog by a taxi in several minutes. "This just can't be right" says the threat manager inside my brain. "You're long overdue for a taxi close call, approach next intersection with extreme caution". Using my watch to time the waves of anxiety, I realize that I have become acclimated to being nearly run down by a speeding, weaving, soulless vehicle approximately every four minutes while walking the streets of New York. If it doesn't happen on schedule, I get nervous.

I realize that the deserted streets are creeping me out, and decide to go for a ski.

In hindsight I can see clearly that this was a golden opportunity to quit. Nobody knew I was even there! I could have made up any story I wanted. Gone home, flown to Vegas, had some fun driving around that fantastic country or anything else that came to mind. It was all laying there in front of me and I blew it.

I went skiing.

I relaxed a little.

I thought "Boy, this isn't so bad, this might be kind of fun".

Stupid, stupid me.

That night my freinds from the Saratoga Biathlon Club arrived from New York. We had rented a large log cabin/condo unit that was preposterously comfortable and settled in preparing for the races that were going to start in a couple of days. Tom, Pat Rod and I trained in the mornings and spent the rest of the time waxing skis and talking strategy. It was good company, I was learning a lot and the thought of quitting didn't even cross my mind.

Too bad.

My next big chance came on race day, but for reasons that seem completely silly now (you're not a quitter if you don't actually start, right?) I ignored all the clear signals I was getting and kept pretending I was an athlete. Before the race actually starts, all you need to look like a contender are some cool sunglasses, decent equipment, well-placed logos on your gear and a plausibly athletic stature. I made sure I had all of these before leaving the bathroom on race day, which allowed me to fake it just that much longer. It was also a beautiful day, the scenery around the venue was spectacular, and there were banners and flags and more biathletes than I had ever seen in one place. The U.S. national team, the Canadian national team and the U.S. Army team were all there looking sleek and serious, and it was a big thrill just to be rubbing elbows with Olympic hopefuls and folks who had been recently competing on the World Cup level. During equipment check I recognized Dan Westover, a veteran of the American '88 Nagano team. There was a powerful charge in the air, and I got completely caught up in it, utterly forgetting that what I really needed to do was get out of there quick, because once the race began, the whole fantasy was going to crumble very, very quickly. I didn't. I warmed up and zeroed my rifle along with my teammates from the Empire State, and before I knew it, I was out of the starting gate and out on the course.

It was too late.

Things actually went OK for a lap or two. I hit a few targets during my first shooting stop (including my first shot of the race, which produced an unexpected thrill), and there was a rolling section after the big downhill that had a tailwind and a tremendous view of the Yellowstone plateau (rolling terrain with a tailwind can make anyone feel like a champion). There were a few moments where I thought, hey, this might not be so bad.

It was not to last. Fatigue finally overcame adrenaline, and the inevitable disaster occurred during the long steep downhill on lap three. The combination of a tight turn, treacherous icy, slushy snow, some extremely inauspicious ski work, and good old fashioned physics all conspired to whipsaw me off the trail in a savage, ass-splaying, crater-creating, laughter-eliciting wreck. I hit my head on my gun barrel. I landed facing uphill. My arms were crossed and my poles were interlaced with my skis in a most confounding fashion. The two course officials who happened to be standing there watching the corner saw the whole thing and chuckled discreetly as I floundered in the deep snow untangling myself from my equipment and trying to remember what my name was. I could tell they were not there to mock the competitors, they just found it too funny not to laugh. It must have been a doozy.

Despite my disorientation and my hind quarters feeling like they had been run through some kind of juicer, I finish the downhill and hit four out of five at the next shooting stop, regaining my composure somewhat.

NICE SHOOTIN'
Shooting remains my strong point in biathlon, and it always gets me through the tough times as I work my way out of being a novice skier. It was tricky finding resources on biathlon shooting, but my Oregon upbringing seems to have given me an advantage in the marksmanship department that has been a pleasant surprise. Even though there is almost no apparent relationship between the plinking and goofing off I did with rifles since I was a little kid growing up in Oregon (I got my own .22 rifle when I was 12 years old) and the specialized technique used for biathlon, it seems that my general confidence and affinity with guns is a big help. It's a good thing that I have some advantage, because I need it.