Goodbye, Bonkville!

Bill Holland's report on Craftsbury. He wins the prize!

After reading so many reports of people second-guessing their wax, I'm reassured that my going waxless was the smartest move, given my lack of klistering prowess. In pondering the options as I drifted off to sleep Friday night, I had vivid images of having decent kick for about 10K, then
losing it all by the end of the second or third corkscrew downhill scraped clean of powder. So I decided, "To heck with prepping four pairs of ski a al Rob Bradlee! I'm going waxless." As it turned out, my trusty Fischer Crowns (with Helix sprayed on the pattern) were pretty marginal on icy sections of track, but they worked great on snowblown powder where I often found myself diagonal skiing through the herringbone tracks of my predecessors. Had the anticipated sunniness occurred, and things softened up a bit, they might have been great. As for the downhill sections, I never felt I was giving away anything to the kick-waxers. On the contrary, that's where I would often start reeling people in.

Having started at the very back of the first wave, I had a lot of catching up to do. As a result, I overdid it over the first 25K, often relying overmuch on the upper body to propel me on slippery uphill sections. Once we hit the Outdoor Center trails, I could feel the arms going, so I backed
off the pace for a while and didn't start feeling strong again until after the big downhill following Ruthie's Run. It was during this phase that five or six people, including Wes, caught up and passed me. But even though I wasn't setting any speed records, it felt great to pass so many spots where I'd bonked in previous races: as you enter the Outdoor Center trails, at the bottom of Ruthie's Run; at the top of Ruthie's Run, where I once crawled inside a car; on that little open area just before you hit the trail along the lake; at the final aid station by the soccer field; and, of
course, on that last huge uphill. I passed those spots like those little crosses you see next to the highway, and each time I thought, "Wow! I've still got gas in the tank. What a novel sensation!"

As we approached the Common, I examined the urge to kill myself with one final superhuman burst of DP-ing. I remember thinking, "Here comes the trusty old Superego, telling me that only if I push myself to the point of collapse will I feel like a real man. Think I'll just let that one slide."
I settled for just finishing smoothly and congratulated the Dartmouth girl, who passed me in the final stretch and was coughing her lungs out on her hands and knees. More power to her!

Looking back, I feel my intuition before the Jackson 30K proved on target. That was the race to go all out for: the perfect distance, the perfect course, the perfect conditions. Craftsbury, I sensed, would be more about simply going the distance and banishing the ghosts of bonks past. And thanks to lots of work last fall and summer on the vertical Concept II rower with the Taylor bar draped over the handle, that's how it worked out.

Bill Holland