How Our Family Started Doing the American Birkebeiner

It turns out the real story is the exact opposite of what I thought

I remember being instantly hooked on the Birkie. You could feel the energy in the air. I thought the skis were the coolest thing in the world. I loved all the colors and the excitement and the celebration.

I didn’t learn how to ski and then aspire to do the Birkie. I saw the Birkie and then aspired to learn how to ski.

We lived in Trego, but my family is originally from Hayward. As a kid, I was in Hayward enough that I never fully understood what a unique town it actually is.

These days, Hayward has embraced the ski culture a touch more than it did when I was growing up. Back then people were inclined to grumble about it.

“The darn Birkie is this weekend, that means you won’t be able to drive through town.”

Never mind all the revenue the race brings into the area.

Grumble, grumble.

This is Wisconsin after all. People look at you a little funny if your leisure activities don’t involve some sort of motor, or firearm, or both.

Now the American Birkebeiner Ski Foundation has a bridge to help with traffic flow, but the locals just find something else to grumble about.

Hoity-toity skiers… Why would you want to spend all day skiing uphill?

To be fair, it’s not all about skiing uphill. There are even events for your dog:

My grandfather had a house right on lake Hayward, so we could come and watch the skiers trickle in. I liked how everybody clapped. I liked how everybody smiled. They were all so tired, but happy.

The Birkie is big smiles on tired faces.

What had they just been through?

Actually, the only thing I can think of that compares is the look of joy and relief on my wife’s face after she’d finished giving birth.

Man… getting to that finish line is a relief.

In 1985, my mom decided to do the Birkie. That decision changed my life. Now we were up there waiting for her to come in. When she arrived on Lake Hayward, she wore that same expression of exhausted joy. I was young and filled with pride. I knew I had to do it someday.

I stole her skis every chance I could and went out to practice in the back yard. You can imagine how much she loved that.

“Ack! What are you doing? Those are my good race skis!”

“I want to learn to skate.”

“But those are classic skis, you can’t skate on classic skis.”

“Well, somebody did. How else did the technique get invented?”

I remember the first time I went and skied on the Trego trail. It seemed impossible. The hills were so big and the designers had neglected to install a steering wheel on my skis.

Then there came a day when I finished the Trego trail. I was overflowing with confidence.

Then there came a day when I tried to ski the Birkie trail, and that shattered my confidence all to pieces.

Ack! It’s completely vertical!

I skied my first Birkie when I was 18. It was more than just a single day on the calendar. It was a way out.

It was a way out of dark thoughts. It was a way out of dead-end opportunities.

I met inspiring people. Skiing became the focal point of vacations. I chased races in Australia and Europe. I was even part owner of a ski shop for a while.

Through it all, the Birkie was always there, winding its way through my life. The course is on your mind throughout the year. Every now and then I’ll catch myself thinking about a random tree that stands at the top of an especially difficult climb.

There’s a certainty to the Birkie that helps provide you with a sense of stability. The Birkie is coming. The Birkie is going to be a challenge. You can overcome the challenge if you prepare. You’ll be rewarded at the finish.

That’s an appropriate lodestone to help guide you through life.

I’ve always been grateful for the Birkie. I’ve always been grateful for the example my mother set when she brought that race into my life.

A few years ago, my mother shared something with me. It was an old piece of paper, a school assignment from back in 1985. She confessed that she’d kept it all these years and considered it one of her “treasures.”

Here it is:

My handwriting is famously illegible, but I can make out the words:

I am proud to be an American because my mom finished the Birkebeiner. People said, “You have worn these for a long time. Here, I’ll take them off for you.” And she got a medal with a red, white, and blue ribbon. I am proud she made it because I had to talk her into doing it.

A school assignment that I probably wrote in 4th or 5th grade. Apparently the question was, “What makes you proud to be an American?” In typical fashion, I figured out a way to bend that question to write about something that actually interested me: The American Birkebeiner.

Fair enough, the word “American” is right there in the name. That argument will stand up in a court of law.

But what surprises me most about that little paragraph (other than the fact that the teacher neglected to mark any of the errors), is the last line.

“I had to talk her into doing it.”

Imagine my surprise.

All these years I’d credited my mother for inspiring me to do the Birkie.

As it turns out, she felt the same way about me.

Upcoming presentation

If you are in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin and you feel the need to talk Birkie a little more, be sure to check out my presentation at the Public Library on February 16th. I think, by then, I’ll even be ready to share a wax tip.

If you can’t make it, pick up a copy of Beyond Birkie Fever. Put it under your pillow. Memorize it.

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