A beginning Nordic skier goes the distance, from learning the basics to the sport’s Super Bowl, all in one winter

HAYWARD, Wis. – This winter, at age 45, I decided to learn to cross-country ski.

The first thing I did was sign up for the Birkie. OK, not the full Birkie. To go from zero to skiing the full 50-kilometer American Birkebeiner — the annual Nordic ski race/massive party in the north woods of Hayward, Wis. — would be akin to leaping from assembling an IKEA bookshelf straight to building your own log cabin.

Instead, I chose the beginners’ track, the 15-kilometer Prince Haakon.

Still, to go from “how do you put these skis on?” in December to skiing 9.3 miles by February seemed a mighty challenge. I feared every bit of it: Climbing up the Birkie’s crushingly long hills, whizzing down dicey, winding slopes on too-skinny skis, and (hopefully?) crossing wind-whipped Hayward Lake into the joyous crowds of downtown Hayward.

I needed this challenge, something to push me through these Minnesota winters.

Since moving to Minnesota a decade ago, the second-hardest part of living here has been our long, cold winters. (The hardest part is Minnesota passive-aggressiveness. Don’t get me started.) I’ve always thought winter was something to endure, not something to enjoy. Lack of sunlight depresses me. So does lack of outdoor exercise. By February, the hardest month, I’d fantasize about spring runs around Lake Harriet and outdoor summer concerts.

Things started to change that first COVID winter. Life felt so isolating in spring and summer 2020 that by the time the leaves turned, my wife and I were plotting ways to be outside during the colder months. We enrolled our kids in downhill ski lessons at Buck Hill. We got a Solo Stove and a patio heater for outdoor parties. My neighbor quit his corporate job and started a company that builds mobile saunas; my sauna-induced joy marked the first time I’d fantasize about winter during summer.

So cross-country skiing felt like the natural next stride in becoming a card-carrying Minnesotan.

Without doing much research, I chose skate skiing over classic skiing. I figured that since I grew up in Pittsburgh occasionally playing pond hockey with friends, skate skiing would be a natural motion for me.

I was wrong.

My first time out was the first Saturday in December, on the machine-made snow of Hyland Lake Park Reserve in Bloomington. It was quickly apparent I was working twice as hard as experienced skiers, but going half as far. I was gassed partway up any hill. I thought I was in decent shape, riding my Peloton four times a week, but this was a different beast. Before my first lesson, I went out a couple more times to get my ski legs, which included an epic crash with my training partner that broke one of his poles.

That first lesson, with former Edina Nordic Ski Team assistant coach Anne Hinrichs, who now coaches for the Loppet Foundation at Theodore Wirth Regional Park, was humbling. We didn’t make it out of the training area. The standard V2 skate skiing technique — double-pole while leaning to the left, then step to the right; double-pole while leaning to the right, then step to the left — felt counterintuitive, barely even a cousin to ice skating. My instructor had to undo the bad habits of my self-taught technique. When I double-poled, I kept “woodpeckering” — bending at my waist and losing my power — instead of staying more upright while powerfully crunching my core.

It was two months until my starting gun. What had I gotten myself into?

Through January and February, I skied at every chance. I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. for morning skis; sunrise while skiing was glorious. I sneaked in a quick ski or two over lunch hour. I went out at 8:30 p.m. some nights. Once, I was the last skier of the night at Hyland. I saw an owl swoop over the skate deck, and I had the sensation that woodland animals were chasing me. (They weren’t.) On a subzero night at Elm Creek in Maple Grove, I saw a stunning full moon rise low over the trees. Later that night, I experienced my first case of frostbite. I purchased new gloves.

For Birkie week, I set modest goals. I wanted to finish all 15 kilometers. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t in last place. I wanted to take as few breaks as possible. The night before the race, I was nervous.

Sun broke over a perfect Friday, sunny with the temperature climbing up to the 20s on the day of the Prince Haakon. (The full Birkie would be the next day.) A few minutes before the race, the Pitbull song “Timber” blasted from speakers, and I correctly predicted that song would ring in my head the entire race.

The start was maddeningly slow, which I suppose is to be expected when 550 skiers take off on a narrow trail through the woods.

After a kilometer or two, things opened up. Skiing up hills separated wheat from chaff, and I was shocked to actually be passing people. Maybe I was better than I was giving myself credit for. I clipped another racer’s skis, stumbled but didn’t fall. Volunteers handed out drinks and encouragement, the latter especially necessary on the steepest climbs. During training, I took breathers in the middle of long hills. On race day, I took no breathers; the adrenaline pushed me.

The final stretch of a couple kilometers across frozen Lake Hayward was the hardest part. Gone were any downhill coasts. Instead, I plowed ahead on a flat, seemingly unending trail. A fierce crosswind nearly knocked me over. Spectators tempted me with Fireball shots, but I stayed on course. Then up a short, steep bridge, and at the top, downtown Hayward and the finish line came into view.

I fully expected to biff it at the bottom, in front of the crowd, but I didn’t. A few hundred meters later, I crossed the finish line in 1 hour, 38 minutes and 5 seconds, 143rd place out of 550. I was only a little deflated when I heard the winner was a 14-year-old kid from Knife River who did it in 47 minutes and 29 seconds, less than half my time.

After crossing the finish line, I had a cup of steaming chicken noodle soup and promised myself to come back next year. Maybe I’ll do the 29-kilometer Kortelopet. Maybe, if I lose my grip on reality, I’ll aim for the proper 50-kilometer Birkie. Maybe I’ll also do the 30-kilometer Loppet in Minneapolis a few weeks before the Birkie.

Either way, I felt I’d accomplished something. I had fully leaned into a Minnesota winter. I enjoyed the darkest, coldest months of the year. I mourned when, days after the Birkie, the temperature rose above 50 and the little snow we had melted. I’m hoping for a couple more snowfalls before spring settles in.

It was a weird feeling. I went to Wisconsin, and I finally became a real Minnesotan.

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