My Septuagenarian Mother Keeps Skiing Like a Hero

This year my mom is set to attempt her 34th American Birkebeiner. That is no small achievement. I’m not allowed to say how old she is, but I’m 46, so that should provide some perspective.

We live in northern Wisconsin, which is rightfully considered one of the Earth’s last remaining rugged frontiers.

Our winters are brutal. One of the comical things about Wisconsin is that the residents often say, “It’s freezing!” even when it’s fifty or more degrees below freezing.

Freezing is 32.

That’s actually a pretty warm day for a Wisconsin winter.

Ironically, nobody from Wisconsin ever declares, “It’s freezing!” when it’s 32 degrees. Instead you might catch them saying, “It sure is nice today!”

Right in the middle of the harsh Wisconsin Winter, there’s a brutal cross-country ski race called the American Birkebeiner. It’s a 50 kilometer race that winds over some of the most rugged terrain you can imagine.

50 kilometers is 31 miles.

The race is longer than a marathon. It’s run in sub-freezing conditions. It has hills that rise like mountains out of the northern wilderness.

My mom, now in her 70s, has done this event for the last 33 years.

The American Birkebeiner has played an enormous role in my life. We grew up in a rural town of just a few more than 2,000 people. It was a backwards little place where anyone who had ever read a book was regarded with suspicion.

Had it not been for the Birkebeiner, or “Birkie” as it is known, I do not know what would have become of me.

My hometown was bleak. It was dreary. It seemed impossible to escape.

And then, once a year, vibrant people from all over the world came to do this insane race in the middle of nowhere.

It was as if my hometown exploded in fireworks! There were colors everywhere. There were new sounds. There were beautiful languages. There were people telling us to come to Europe or Australia or Asia to see where they lived!

It was wonderful!

It’s said that people who do the Birkie catch ‘Birkie Fever,’ and my mom caught it. She did her first race in 1985.

Thanks to her example, I did my first Birkie in 1994.

For a while, I even owned a bike and ski shop, but that came apart in 2017. With the end of my business, I spent some time flirting with depression.

My mom came to visit me and handed me a note. It was a note that I’d written in 1985 congratulating her on skiing the race. In the note, I took credit for urging her to ski it.

All this time I’d credited her with instilling me with a passion for the event. Right when I needed to hear it, I came to find out that she, in turn, credited me.

It was the boost I needed to get through a hard time.

Throughout the years, throughout all of life’s challenges the one constant has been the Birkie.

My mom starts getting nervous just after Christmas. Then she trains and the Birkie is upon us, and she finishes.

She always finishes.

She’s skied in Birkies when the starting temperature was -10.

She’s skied through blizzards.

She’s skied through rain (actually, we liked the rain because that meant it was warm).

For many of these events, I’ve been there as well. I’m up to 18 Birkies. My mom has always been there at the start. I haven’t always been there when she raced, but she has always been there for me.

Sometimes I’ve suffered, but I’ve always finished.

There was one miserable year when we got 18 inches of snow and it was sub-zero conditions and my hands froze and I was in agony, but I knew I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t quit because I knew she wouldn’t quit, and if I quit and she didn’t I’d never hear the end of it.

You don’t quit.

You carry on.

You do your best.

And you make it to the end.

She’s always managed to do the Birkie. When our dad left and it fell to her to hold the household together all by herself, she still found time to do the Birkie.

I remember skiing with her, training on that magnificent course that goes from Hayward to Cable. I’ve been on it so many times that I know every hill and every turn.

I’ve been out there in happiness and depression just as she has. You breathe in the cold air, you test yourself against the terrain, and you know that you’re going to be okay.

Exercise is the greatest cure for all that ails us.

Nature too.

And mom.

Last year, because of the pandemic, the Birkie went virtual. My mom and I skiied it together. We had 5 GPS devices to prove we’d completed the distance. At the end of the day, two had frozen, one had run out of battery, but two still worked.

Pretty good ratio.

At 46, for the first time, I’m finding the Wisconsin winter too much to manage.

My toes are cold.

The skin on my knuckles cracks and bleeds in the dry air.

I don’t know how many more Birkies I’ll do.

I doubt I’ll do 33, or 34, or however many my mom will finish eventually.

But I have no doubt she’ll keep going, even though it makes her nervous, even though she sometimes complains about how hard it is.

“I gotta do my Birkie!”

She’ll keep climbing that mountain.

Because that’s what you do in life.

You climb the mountains.

You carry on.

You finish.

You rejoice.

You are celebrated.

That’s the lesson my mom taught me.

She taught it not with words, but with actions.

It’s a lesson that has helped me navigate the various hardships I’ve encountered along the way.

You keep going.

You finish.

Things will get better.

My mom has proven that again and again.

I’m eternally grateful for her example.