That Time I Was A Ski Bum
A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster
When you get old and possibly more than a little senile, it is okay to write about things you remember from your past. Whether anyone wants to read them or whether they would prefer to skip your inane ramblings and move on to something interesting is up to them.
A while back, like 49 years a while back, I went cross-country skiing with the late Bill Bell, a friend who could actually ski without falling down every 10 feet and breaking body parts. Just how, a skier, a marathon runner, and a pretty good all-round athlete could convince me, the next thing to a two-toed sloth (although not as active) to go to Burk’s Falls for a 20km Nordic ski loppet is a mystery, but he did.
We agreed not to ski together once the loppet started, which made a lot of sense since I didn’t want to have to nurse-maid him for 20 kilometres. That decision worked out well since once we set out I never saw him until after the race ended. I know he finished the race because he was in the clubhouse working on his second beer when I staggered in and collapsed in a chair.
My memory is a little vague about where in the Burk’s Falls area the race was held; we gathered (I think) at a lodge near a small lake. There were at least 200 or 300 skiers from all over Ontario inside the lobby signing up, and in my case on the phone checking to make sure my OHIP coverage was up to date.
Over a coffee, I met a guy, maybe in his mid 40s with badges and crests all over his jacket, all from a number of ski events he had entered over the years. While we were talking, a young lad, a child really, maybe 19 or 20 years old, not much more, walked by wearing a cowboy hat. My new-found friend looked up and said, “You aren’t planning to wear that hat today, are you son?
The kid said “”No sir, I have a toque I wear skiing.”
“Well, try your best and you will make it.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try.”
The starting line for the loppet was on the edge of a frozen lake, maybe a half a mile from a sizable hill on the other shore. There were two groups skiing, a group of fifty or so competitive skiers and the rest of us bozos milling around trying to keep warm. Did I mention it was around 0° Fahrenheit if not lower? Damn, damn it was cold!
The competitive skiers were placed at the front and being timed by members of a national ski association, the rest of us by grandfather clocks and in one sad case, a calendar.
A gun started us off and within minutes the real skiers were across the lake, and over the hill. We never saw them again.
Now about me, I was not the fine athlete I am today; the 20 kilometres almost killed me. Somewhere around 19 kms I thought I would never make it, then a race marshal told me I was almost at the finish line and after another hundred yards it was downhill all the way. It was, at least that part was true, but what he forgot to mention was in between there was a small mountain and the trail ran straight up. (That may be when I started to cry)
When I got to the top I was looking down a snow-packed road that ran all the way down to the officials’ table at the bottom. I was so exhausted I couldn’t turn my skis and ran right smack into the side of a school bus parked along the way.
I can’t remember my official time, two and a half hours maybe, not exactly Olympic-qualifying I suspect but nevertheless I finished. And there waiting, was my friend with all the badges who had finished just minutes ahead of me.
Now the dumb part, they announced the winner whose time was under an hour. It was the young kid, now wearing his cowboy hat. As he walked by our table he leaned over and said to my friend, “I made it, sir.”
I moved over to the next table and pretended I had no idea who the guy with all the badges was.
(Image Supplied)
