Andrew Mock Reports On His Cross Country Skiing Relapse

Into The Wombat - Part 4

As alluded to in part 3, Team Wombat had big plans for the König Ludwig Lauf weekend. With the weekend now over, my feelings can be perfectly described with one just word - totallyutterlyonehundredpercentshagged. Things got off to a pretty rough start. The 42km freestyle event on Saturday morning was meant to be a flat, hard and fast affair. Unfortunately, only one of these three outcomes eventuated. The abnormally warm weather that had dogged us throughout the second half of January had evidently made a reservation for Oberammergau. Fresh snow on the night before the race, combined with the dirty slop making up the majority of the race course, conspired to create the kind of soup that can make a grown skier weep. So much for my cunning plan of drafting the lead pack to the finish straight before pulling out with 50m to go, sprinting to the win and winning the affections of all the local girls (ok, I concede the bit about sprinting to the win may not be realistic). The reality was much more painful. I skied my guts out for the first 25km to hang on to the lead pack, only to watch through tear-filled eyes as they dropped my arse up the major climb of the second lap. I skied the last 15km alone, exhausted and deeply unhappy. Callum Watson, competing in the 21km event, was equally traumatised, recounting horrific tales of off-setting the downhills while being overtaken by septuagenarians on touring skis. Ronan claims it wasn't all bad - apparently they had some really good sandwiches at the finish. Race over, we spent Saturday afternoon eating cheap lollies and wishing we hadn't volunteered for the invitational night sprint to be held that evening. We perked up somewhat when we heard that the field consisted mainly of a bunch of washed-up Swedish and Norwegians also-rans (Lind, Aukland, Tynell - seriously, has anyone heard of these chumps?). I won't go into the details but basically, we were robbed. The Scandi mafia may not get the recognition of their Russian counterparts, but I can attest that they're just as real...

The following day arrived cold and cloudless. We dragged our sorry cadavers out of bed to watch the start of the 42km classic race (the 'big one'). Now, no-one likes to see carnage at the start of an enormous mass-start race...actually that's a lie. To be candid, I'm actually partial to a bit of carnage. Not serious-injury carnage, but the kind where clearly out-of-control Loppet hackers lose their purchase on icy tracks and careen through clumps of alarmed spectators. I wasn't disappointed. Finn was, largely by my squeals of childish delight. In all probability, I will go to hell.

 

Just like Perisher - but without the rain, gale force winds and exposed rocks

With our 21km classic race not until 1pm on the Sunday, we turned our attention to waxing...and lunch. Actually, mainly just lunch. Alarmed at the amount of work that lay ahead in the preparation of my classic skis, I hatched upon a plan so stupid that it made Hitler's invasion of Russia look like a really sound idea. Why mess around with sticky klister, when it's perfectly legal to double pole the whole race on the very same skating skis you raced on yesterday? Can you see the problem? It is an unfortunate fact that I have the upper-body strength of a small wallaby. Scientists have determined that, even when double-poling at top speed, the majority of my forward motion is due to the gravitational pull of the moon. When the lead pack proceeded to double-pole away from me out of the start on klister-covered skis, I had the horrible feeling that things weren't going to plan. When my arms were on the verge of collapse before the start of the first major climb, I knew I was in more trouble than the French military in [INSERT NAME OF ANY POST-NAPOLEONIC WAR]. Somewhat counter-intuitively, Ronan - a far stronger human being than myself - went with the wax option, unfortunately with no more success. To commiserate, we sought out the most authentically Bavarian restaurant that we could find and consumed enough mixed-grill and wheat-beer to give any self-respecting nutritionist a panic attack.

With Team Wombat now on suicide-watch, drastic morale boosting measures were called for. Unfortunately, comfort food was no longer providing the dopamine-hit that we so desperately needed and I was all out of sleeping tablets, so we went to the next level. We arrived in St. Anton on Monday afternoon and by 9am Tuesday morning we were emerging from a gondola station at 2,800m with a pair of tele-skis strapped to our feet. The view was ok.

 

The light, fluffy powder kept getting in my boots making skiing almost unbearable.

By the end of the second day of telemarking we were mentally recharged and physically shattered. When Ronan could no longer support his body weight on either leg, we knew it was time to stop. Unfortunately for Ronan (but amusingly for me), we still had 1500 vertical meters to descend to the bus stop.

Ronan, being a smart chap, wisely decided that this would be an appropriate juncture to head home and catch some of summer's last rays. Myself, being the opposite of smart, decided that this would be an appropriate juncture to drive 450km to the French border and race the Transjurassiene on the following Sunday. I take great pride in my inability to learn from previous mistakes.

After a brief stop-over at KT and Pascal's place near Zurich, I arrived in the small Franco-Swiss town of Le Sentier on Friday evening. The exterior of my hotel could best be described as communist chic, while the red satin sheets on my bed could best be described as brothel chic. The hotel staff spoke exclusively French and the chefs had a passion for fondue that I don't, regrettably, share. Yet somehow, it was charming. The next morning, on the advice of the Transjurassiene organisers, I went for a ski at an adjacent ski area by the name of La Thomassette. Talk about hidden gems in unexpected places. Although the area was light on snow, the trails were easily the best that I had skied for the entire trip. All of the tracks wound in and out of the forest and were punctuated by numerous small cabins and spectacular clearings. Emerging into an treeless plain at one point, I came across an ancient rock wall stretching as far as the eye could see and clearly erected many hundreds of years ago - around the time Finn was still competing as a junior. Unfortunately, I wasn't in town to clock up the miles - so I was forced to cut my very enjoyable ski short. The afternoon was spent collecting bibs, organising transport logistics (always a royal pain at big point-to-point Loppet races) and waxing my skis (never easy without an iron - hair dryers just blow the powder everywhere...).

Race day started at 5am and before long I was sitting on a bus with 50 gnarled French Loppeteers being ferried to the start in the dark. Having wangled an elite start I was spared the chaos that is often present in the first few km's of any Loppet, and I actually got out fairly well. About 3km in I looked around and realised I had somehow got in with the wrong crowd. Frederiksson, Poiree, Rezac, Jonnier, Hasler, Cattaneo, Ahrlin - I got the feeling that things were about to turn ugly. I didn't have to wait long - between the 5km and 10km mark the course climbs 250 vertical meters, and to spell out the obvious, by the time I hit 10km the faces around me had changed. With the snow very fast and the course shortened from 76km to 50km, it was always going to be an intense race - and I wasn't disappointed. I suffered like a dog for long periods and finished at the tail of a fast-moving chase pack in 35th place - 6:50 down on the winner, Cattaneo. It's not every day that you ski 50km in 1hr 56mins and get soundly beaten...

I spend a good portion of every Loppet race dreaming about this sight

It's now the evening after the Transjurassiene and I'm late for an appointment with a large beer. So on that note - I'll say good bye, and hope to see you next time for Into the Wombat - Part 5 (the finale!).

Into The Wombat - Part 1
Into The Wombat - Part 2
Into The Wombat - Part 3

[Note - here you can find the earlier Mock reports from 2002, 2003, 2005, 2006, Sapporo 2006, and Sapporo 2007]