It hurt. I anticipated that. About 40k in, my arms were starting to cramp. When I reached the lake I could feel the gas really running out. When I crossed the finish line I could barely walk, my feel were so sore. But it was a success, I finished. My first Birkie, I was proud of my effort and I couldn’t ask for anything more.
What I hadn’t anticipated was the view, the sounds, the feeling that greeted me when I topped out on the bridge and looked down onto Main Street. A thousand people? More? The sound was deafening, the air was electric. The road covered with snow and skiers, the sidewalks packed with screaming fans, for a brief moment we all shared in the spectacle. I wasn’t ready for how that made me feel.
In a word, inspired.
For a few hours I stumbled around watching new friends finish, meeting fans, drinking coffee, beer, eating doughnuts, whatever I could find. I walked up onto the bridge and looked back down Main Street, it made me want to cry.
During a time when everything feels so fragmented, so divided, when huge problems loom all around us seeming bigger than we could possibly ever solve, here was a writhing, thriving, refreshing, and reassuring mass of people gracefully proving all that wrong.
Close to six thousand people skied the birkie that day, and each one of them possesses a spirit of courage and determination necessary to overcome challenges we can’t even imagine, all borne from the most simple love of sliding on snow.
I’m grateful for every facet of the ski industry and culture that occupies my life, but this one runs deepest, it’s opened to door to it all. There’s no paying back where it’s gotten me or how it’s helped me navigate the twists and turns, the hills and icy tracks of my life. There’s only taking part, in continuing the tradition, skiing every day with love and gratitude.
Thanks to the over three thousand volunteers who made this event one of the most memorable weekends of my life. I look forward to seeing you again.
