My Quest to Become a Badass Snowshoe Racer: The White Out

Part 3: The White Out

Shortly after the Squall, it started snowing and hasn't really let up since. I got lazy and stopped training. Stupid of me. There's 80” of snow out there, and not much is packed, I hate road running, and there's no room on the side of the road. And I'm an idiot for not going out anyway. The White Out wasn't nearly as much fun as the Squall...

Due to an impending storm, the race got bumped up a day, but didn't start until late afternoon. I arrived at the park and Ryan (the race director) pulled me aside and let me know that conditions were very different than the first race and that there was a cut-off time (if you didn't make a certain point by 4:30, you got shunted down the short course), but that it wouldn't affect any Badass standings. I've been snowshoeing long enough that I know the amount of snow and how well it's packed make a huge difference in conditions, but I'm thankful to Ryan for making sure I knew. He wants people to know what they're in for so that they're prepared. His mission is to keep the races fun and safe. Fun is a relative term, I might add.

Photo courtesy of TAMERELLA'S Photographs

Fifty-seven of the eighty people registered make the race. It was a last minute change and Ryan is impressed by how many people made it. I stand at the back again. I know I'm going to be slow, and as I look around, I know I'm probably going to be last. And that fact bothers me not at all. I'm not here to compete against anyone else today, just myself, the weather, and the time. Someone has to be last, and today that someone might as well be me. I start off at a pretty good trot, I have too much pride to not run while the photographer is standing there taking photos at the start. Plus, the trail is packed hard from the snowmobiles. I know this is probably going to be the best footing I'll get for a while, and it will be the fastest I'll be moving until the end. I hope. I do OK along Lanzo, I keep Jerry, the 77-year old guy from the last race, in sight and not too far ahead, but I'm struggling. The past couple of weeks of being a couch potato are coming back to haunt me big-time. We come out on Tuttle Rd, and it's all uphill. I'm trying to keep with the 90 seconds/two minutes pace, but it's a no-go. I realize I'm just going to have to do what I can and be happy with it. By the time I hit the top of the hill and turn onto the Snowmobile Trail, Jerry's still in sight, but the gap is widening. Pete, the volunteer at the trail junction, gives me encouragement and sends me on my way. I get some running in on the hard-packed snowmobile trail, but have to slow down when I hit the less well-packed snow on the single track of Fox East. I'm still doing OK, until I trip myself up and take a digger. I'm wearing a pair of fingerless wool gloves at this point, and my hands get cold and wet from the fall. I keep moving while trying to swap my gloves for my warm mittens until my hands warm up again. I'm not paying the attention I should to my footing, and down I go again, this time turning my ankle and wrenching my knee. I try and shake it off, especially since there's a nice bit of downhill where I can maybe make up some time. Jerry's out of sight, but I see Carrie coming up the hill on the next section of trail and she yells encouragement to me. I see a several more runners coming up that section of trail as I go down my section. That will be the last I see of anyone until I see Pete again at the cutoff point. I know the trails, but everything looks different covered in snow. I'm having a rough time of it. My knee and ankle hurt, and I'm having muscle spasms in my back. I keep going, though, because at this point, I have to, I'm out in the middle of the woods. I keep telling myself all I have to do is finish. I keep looking at my watch, wondering if I'll hit the cutoff by 4:30 and sort of hoping I don't. I give myself a mental kick and decide to pay attention to my surroundings and enjoy having the woods to myself. I see squirrel, snowshoe hare, and mouse tracks. Maybe fisher, too, but hard to tell with the snow as powdery as it is. Not the best tracking snow, but I'm not out here to track, I'm out here to finish this race, although I'm feeling like it's a stretch for me to call myself a racer at this point.

I come off the single track of Fox East and head down the hard-packed Snowmobile Trail again. I try running, but my knee tells me that's not such a good idea, so I go back to a fast walk. I come to the junction with the Link Trail and I entertain a fleeting thought of just walking down the 3/10 of a mile to the finish and calling it quits. It would be so easy... I keep going, I'm too stubborn to quit, and quitters don't get to be Badasses. And if I don't finish, what the hell did I bother showing up for? The Link Trail disappears behind me, along with the temptation to quit. The cold is starting to affect my very mild exercise-induced asthma. I'm coughing a little, it's not pleasant, but it's also nothing more than annoying. My knee and ankle still hurt, but at least the muscle spasms in my back have let up. I head off the nicely-packed trail and back into the woods for more powdery single track. I take another digger and pick myself up again and I keep moving. Eventually I see Pete and his bright orange parka at the cutoff. I haven't looked at my watch for a while, but I know it has to be getting close to 4:30. Pete's yelling encouragement, lets me know I beat the cutoff time by 11 minutes. Part of me is relieved, part of me is disappointed. I say something to that effect. Pete says “well, you can stand here and talk to me for 11 minutes and then walk down that way” indicating the short course, “but I know you're not going to” and I continue past him. Those words of encouragement mean a lot at this point. He tells me I have a little more than a mile to go, but I know this trail well, and I know that it's only a mile all the way around the loop and I'm not doing the whole loop, so less than a mile to go. I have landmarks to go by now, I know how far it is between informational signs and what to expect from the terrain. I keep moving. That last hill is a killer, though. It levels off briefly in the middle before climbing again, but I know if I can just reach the crest, it's all gravy from there. One foot in front of the other, just keep moving, I tell myself. I start counting steps in Norwegian, it gives me something to focus on that isn't how miserable I feel at this moment in time. I make it to sixty-something before I lose count, but it's OK, I'm only a few steps to the top of the hill. I reach the end of the loop, and I've only got a hundred yards or so to the end. They see me coming before I realize how close I am and they cheer me in. Not only the finish volunteers who have to be there, but a bunch of other people have waited for me to finish, people who didn't have to stand out in the cold but did so anyway. I cross the finish line walking, no reserves to left to run and my knee hurts, but I finish. And I finish amid cheers that are just as enthusiastic as if I'd finished first instead of last. I love these people. And I'm one step closer to earning that Badass designation.