Pride Goeth Before the Fall

I unearthed this 1996 gem while cleaning out my old tax files.

I gleamed in my new lycra racing suit. Its blue matched the color of the spring sky and the splashes of purple gave it added flair. I topped off the outfit with a pair of dark Oakley's to give that slightly mysterious and threatening look.

We were gathered at the Putney School in Vermont for a a 30K skate race in early March. We lined up at the start in our brightly colored suits and charged up the hill when the starter shouted "Go!". I pulled myself up near the front as we flashed by John Caldwell, dean of American ski racing, who watched approvingly from a lawn chair. Soon after we entered the woods we shot down a steep hill which has a lovely banked right-hand turn at the bottom. I careened full speed into the corner, but was horrified to find myself suddenly on my side. Alright, I thought, sure I've fallen, but I'll just slide along, get up, and jump right back into the race. But the hard-packed snow was slick. Sliding on my lycra suit like a kid on a snow tube I shot straight as the trail went right. I found myself sliding off the trail and over the edge of the embankment. I heard Bob Haydock shout my name as I disappeared from sight. Quickly I realized that this was a south facing hillside on a sunny spring day. I oozed down the muddy face of the hill bumping to a stop at the bottom. In only a few spots did little bits of blue and purple peek out from the uniform brown muck that covered me. I leapt to my feet. As I stood I was eye-level with the boots of the other racers whizzing by. I herringboned franticlly up the muddy bank to the trail. Racers were still flashing past leaving precious little room for me to stand on the side of the trail and absolutely no room to begin skating. There seemed to be more room on the inside of the curve. I waited for a break and sprang across the trail. Just as I gave my final pole push a skier whipped past me neatly severing my pole in tow with his thigh. I picked up the pieces of my pole. For only $95 I could replace the shaft if I rescued the tip and handle, so I had to save them. I slowly skated down the trail. A vision in brown clutching the splintered pole parts in my formerly yellow Saloman racing glove.

I managed to skate my way around the loop back to the start/finish line. I had completed one of nine laps in a 30K race. Should I go on? As I came to the line Caldwell's weathered face brighted to a big smile. He ran to my ski bag and helped me retrieve my extra set of poles. "Here", he said, "after such a good start you can't quit now!" I sighed and skated off down the trail in dead last. With luck perhaps I could catch the elderly woman skiing in the woolen knickers.

Rob Bradlee