American Birkebeiner

by Lindsey Addison

Cross-country skiing is my favorite way to get outside in the winter. Quietly gliding through a beautiful snowy forest can’t be beat. I grew up in Wisconsin and learned how to ski in elementary school. No formal lessons, no ski team–I just tried to keep up with my dad on winter outings to state and county parks. I’m grateful I learned at a young age, and today I love introducing newcomers to the sport. Teaching beginning Nordic skiing for the Mazamas with my co-instructor Larry Welsh is something I look forward to each year.

Since the late '90s, my dad has capped off his ski season with the American Birkebeiner. Founded in 1973, the Birkie is the largest cross-country ski race in North America, with around 11,000 skiers each year. It’s named after the Norwegian Birkebeiner Rennet, and both races honor the soldiers who skied infant Prince Haakon to safety in the 1206 Norwegian civil war. They were called “birkebeiners” because of the birch-bark leggings they wore. Each year three skiers reenact the event on traditional wooden skis, dressed in full costume, carrying a baby. Okay, it’s actually a doll – they swap it for a real baby just before the finish line. There are two disciplines in cross-country skiing—the Birkie’s skate (freestyle) course is the standard 50 km, and the classic (diagonal) course is 55 km. Both go from Cable to Hayward, Wisconsin. Over the years, my dad has asked me if I’d ever consider doing the Birkie with him, and I’d say sure, maybe someday. This year, I decided I was ready for a new challenge and said, “Yes, let’s do it!”

Up until this past winter I’ve strictly been a recreational skier. I didn’t even know much about proper technique until I started teaching in 2019. The furthest I’d ever skied in a day was 13 miles, and now I’d signed myself up for 33! Oh, and just because there’s no mountains, you think Wisconsin is flat? The course’s total elevation gain is over 4,500 feet! I knew this was going to push my limits. I enjoy going uphill as much as the next mountaineer, and I consider myself to be in fairly good shape, but I’m not a runner, and definitely not a marathoner. The closest experience I’d had were some bicycle centuries, but that was a few years ago. Over the winter, my strategy was to spend as many days at Teacup as I could. I trained to put in more and more distance, focused on improving my technique, and upgraded my gear. Plenty of snow in December got my season off to a strong start. Unfortunately, a health issue sidelined me for two full weeks around the holidays, but I got right back out there. By late January I felt pretty dialed in. I’d teach class in the morning, go back out and ski 10–12 miles in the afternoon, head to Mazama Lodge for a hot shower and Kiki’s delicious food, and then I’d go out again the next day for as long as daylight allowed. As the big day approached, I did the math. My average pace would put me at the finish line between 7½–8 hours, so it was going to be close—the course closed 8 hours and 15 minutes after my wave’s start time! Was I as ready or as fit as I wanted to be? No. But it would have to do. I wrapped my skis and poles in multiple layers of cardboard and foam, prayed to the baggage handling gods, and boarded my plane. Happily my gear arrived unscathed. My dad and stepmom picked me up in Madison, and we drove north.

Birkie morning dawned clear and cold with a beautiful pastel pink sunrise. Dad and I put on our gear and hopped in the car to catch a shuttle bus to the starting line. The local Ojibwe nation radio station was broadcasting live from the starting line, interviewing skiers, volunteers, and spectators, and playing Birkie songs with silly lyrics about the history of the race, ski waxing, and the course’s famous hills and landmarks.

The author skiing through northwoods Wisconsin, about 30 km from the start of the 2022 Birkebeiner.

The starting area was a boisterous mass of hundreds of skiers filled with pre-race nervous energy, wearing color-coded bibs over spandex and skiwear in every color of the rainbow, along with a few old-timers in jeans. Conditions were perfect—sunny, a 5–10 mph headwind, just 10 degrees Fahrenheit at the start but expecting a high of 30 degrees Fahrenheit. New snow earlier in the week meant the course would be well-groomed, but not particularly fast. As a rookie without a qualifying time, I was assigned to the last wave for classic skiers, lime green wave 6. By the time my wave began, the wave of elite skiers (including 2018 Olympic gold medalist Kikkan Randall!) would already be halfway to the finish line.

After one last selfie, a hug, and a “good luck and have fun,” my dad headed into the start gate with his gray skate wave 5 bib. I dropped our gear bags in the trucks that would meet us at the finish line, and then joined my lime green cohort. I put my skis down into the groomed tracks and clipped in—after months of preparation, this was it! After a few more moments of anticipation, the starting ribbon dropped and we were off!

At first, there were so many skiers around me, it was hard to maneuver. I fell twice early on, just trying to avoid others. But soon, we spread out and I found my usual steady pace. I passed my first bright red kilometer-marker sign that cheerily announced, (only) 54 km to go! Knowing I had a long day ahead of me, I focused on enjoying the experience. The cold, dry snow squeaked like styrofoam when I planted my poles. Dry leaves skittered across the trail in the breeze. I coasted downhill and shuffled uphill through the quiet, rolling forest. The scenery was different here—no towering firs and cedars, instead there were birch, aspen, slender pines, and the occasional oak. At just 13.5 km in, I passed the course’s high point, and my mountaineer’s brain celebrated and said, “It’ll all be downhill from here, right?” Representing my home turf in a Teacup Nordic racing kit, I met a handful of other Oregonians. The skiers around me are like myself—not fast, but bound and determined to finish. Every 5–10 km there’s an aid station with friendly volunteers to cheer me on and press water, electrolytes, and food into my gloved hands. I try to stuff in as much fuel as I can, as quickly as I can. I can only stop for a few minutes before I grow cold and stiff. The numbers on the red signs click steadily downwards. At 25 km to go, the skate and classic trails join, and skaters from various waves add some variety to the bib colors around me. I’m getting tired, but I know I’m on pace to finish. My skis have a frustrating tendency slip backwards when I try to stride uphill (more technique to work on next year), and the hills are relentless. When the red signs hit 20 km to go, I cheer myself on with the thought that “Today I’m going to ski The author and her father, Steve Addison, at the 2022 Birkebeiner starting area. Photo by Steve Addison. farther than I’ve ever skied before—that’s something to be proud of!” At 15 km to go, I’m telling myself, “That is a totally reasonable distance, I can ski that.” And when it gets down to single digits, “I can definitely do that, and there’s no way I’m stopping now.” The sun is starting to set, the temperature’s dropping, and the final part of the course crosses a frozen lake. I reach the lake edge and the headwind picks up, kicking up snow in the fading light. I can see the Hayward water tower on the other side. My subconscious supplies the perfect soundtrack—the ice-fishing polka from Grumpy Old Men—and I stride out onto snow-covered ice. The last hardy spectators are cheering and clanking deer antlers together along with the usual cowbells, telling me I look good enough to do another 55 km. Thanks for the vote of confidence! I don’t mind the wind chill because it’s finally flat, and I know I’m almost there. As I round the final corner onto Main Street, I smile because the speakers are blasting my favorite karaoke song—Don’t Stop Believing. At 7 hours, 46 minutes, and 45 seconds after I started, I cross the finish line and Dad is there to crush me in a big hug. We take off my skis, collect my first-timers medal, and pose for a finish line photo before heading back to the hotel. He finished his 19th Birkie over 3 hours ago and is doing just fine, but I am absolutely spent. I’m very dehydrated, a bit light-headed and nauseous, and as