A Moose

There is a moose standing on the finish line. I'm guessing it's still standing there, right now as you read this- a moose. It's not a live moose, but a moose made out of wood but adorned with real antlers. It's in a field, Roger Lowell's field to be exact, and it's standing on the finish line. Not a finish line for any race right now, but for a race that I remember like it was yesterday from 1991. Every time I drive by and see that moose I laugh, and think about how I got into ski racing.

The moose and where the moose stands has more to do with where I was once I got into racing, my entrance into Nordic racing had much more to do with a giant Paul Bunyan statue. If you've ever been up to Black Mountain in Rumford, you'll know what I'm talking about. But that moose got me to thinking about my start in racing.

I had always been someone who cross country skied. I had enjoyed many adventures on my skis that included boot laces so frozen and knotted that it took until the second mug full of hot chocolate before my mom or I could untie the laces. I remember many times using the old three pin bindings, that I would just lean has hard as I could on the bail to pin down the front of my boot, as the soles were no longer three pin, but about 12 pin with so many other holes having been pressed in. I remember crossing brooks, and skiing down hills that we termed "Death Hill", I remember home made knickers and itchy wool socks that the snow balled up on and made me look like the abominable snowman after a couple hours out skiing.

But ski racing wasn't something I had done, in fact I fancied myself much more an alpine racer with heroes like Pirmin Zurbriggen, Billy Johnson, and Alberto Tomba. Or if it wasn't ski racing heroes it was those fancy mogul skiers and "extreme skiers" that people like Greg Stump made cool movies about. Unfortunately many of the kids my age at that time felt the same way, at least in our areas, and that left our high school cross-country ski team a bit short of skiers. By the time I got to high school, if you were a freshman and you wanted to race alpine you had to do at least one cross-country race. In retrospect, this was a good idea on a number of levels, but for me in particular it had a profound impact on my life.

I'll never forget that first race. I had tried this new fangled skate skiing the day before at ski practice. I was awful. The coach, Peter Anderson, had asked me to go to the race at Black Mountain in Rumford, just to watch. I had agreed.

We go to the race, the Rumford Invitational, and there were a lot of racers as this was very big high school meet in Maine. I was glad to not be one of them, as I was not ready to race and didn't want to embarrass myself. I was hanging out near the back of the bus talking with some of the kids on the team while they waxed skis and I could hear Coach talking to someone.

"So Peter, who's this ringer you've got this year?", said the unidentified voice.

"Who are you talking about? I don't have any ringers," Coach answered.

"This Sven kid- is he Scandinavian? I bet he's fast," the unidentified voice continued.

I stood there wondering what they were talking about, then the realization that they were talking about me hit. It sank in even further when Coach tossed me a bib and told me he needed me to race.

For some reason I'll never forget this next series of events. One of the kids on the team lent me a pair of tights- blue and black tiger stripped. They looked like they had been stolen from some 80's hair bands lead singer. I coupled these stylish tights with a white cotton long sleeve t-shirt, a blue and grey fleece hat, and a pair of heavy alpine ski gloves- the padded cool kid race gloves with the zipper on the cuff that you always left unzipped (those gloves were always cold, but they looked cool so we all used them). Before I knew it I was in the starting gate being instructed by some guy wearing a blue and yellow parka with Lake Placid Olympic logos all over it and a pair of matching moon boots (not like the ones you can buy at Spruce Hurricane today), a headset and big pair of deer skin mittens. It would be years later but I would come to learn that it was likely that the starter was none other than Chummy Broomhall.

So there I am in the starting block, all decked out looking like a rejected rocker wannabe, and the starter says "GO!". This is where it gets interesting or from my point of view- horrifying. I slide through the wand, trying to double pole my way out onto the course, which immediately goes uphill and has spectators on either side cheering you on. I make it about 20 meters and someone; a female (I can still hear her voice) yells "NICE TIGHTS!" Being the polite adolescent male that I was, and excited that some girls was cheering me on, I yelled back, "Thank You!" and promptly planted my ski pole between my legs and fell flat on my face in front of a large group of people. In my mind now this riotous crowd of ski racing fans numbered in the hundreds of thousands, but the truth be told it was probably: four coaches, a bus driver, five mom's, a sister (who didn't want to be there- so she yelled to some kid wearing funny tights), and two dads- but I like my memory of it better.

That fall got a reaction from the crowd, one of laughter followed by encouragement. My face turned red and I picked myself up and flailed my way out of sight and around the course (SLOWLY), finishing 108 out of 120 starters. I could leave it at that but I think a more accurate representation of my placement is I finished 108 out of 109 finishers.

Believe it or not this race was what got me fired up to get into racing and figure this crazy sport out. Some of my fondest memories from high schools stem from ski practice and races, culminating with our team winning the overall State championship my senior year of high school.

This brings me back to the moose. The other day I was skiing with my wife and our girls, along with one of my best friends and her kids. Her father was with us, it was his field, his grooming, his moose. I reflected back on his encouragement, never pushing racing but always trying to get us out there skiing. And there we were, now three generations out cruising the trails and having a ball. The moose was on the finish line in my mind, and soon the kids were looking to race each other back to the moose. Maybe that finish line was still there after all.