Birkebeinerrennet Race Recap
The day before I broke my thumbs in mid-February, I booked a non-refundable trip to Lillehammer and committed to racing in the Birkebeinerrennet with two friends, Francesca and Annelie. (The Birkebeinerrennet—the Birken, for short—is a 54-kilometer race that traverses the mountains and bare tundra between Rena and Lillehammer in Norway. Every racer must carry a backpack weighing 3.5 kg throughout the race to imitate the weight of baby prince Håkon. You can read more about the race’s origin story here )That was a little over a month ago, and a lot has happened since then. Ari and I moved to Sweden a week after my accident, spent a good chunk of time exploring/putzing around Stockholm, went up north to Jämtland for a week to ski, and hosted Ian. I decided that I would go to Lillehammer as if I were going to race despite my broken thumbs, and see what I felt like.
We arrived in Lillehammer on Friday afternoon after shuffling around Oslo’s icy Grünerløkka neighborhood that morning. Lillehammer is exceptionally hard to get around without a car, so we spent many hours of our day walking to-and-from Håkon’s Hall to pick up my race package, our Airbnb to drop off bags and sleep, and a restaurant to fuel. The bus was barely more efficient—our friends at one point were stranded in the woods at the ski rental place for an hour and a half while awaiting the second daily bus. We didn’t mind the walking too much, though, because Lillehammer was bathed in blazing sunshine strong enough to banish any chill away. I felt readier to race the next day than I had in years.
Separation Anxiety
In the indigo light of late winter dawn, Francesca, Annelie, Ari and I clickety-clacked our way through the ice-riddled streets of Lillehammer with skis and poles in hand. A two-hour bus ride away from Håkan’s Hall, -24° Celcius weather conditions awaited us at the start line in Rena. We wouldn’t be racing for three hours yet, but we bundled to the effect of looking like Craft-sponsored Michelin men.
Ari asked me for the 17th time, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”
“Yes, I am sure,” I responded again. I said goodbye, suddenly feeling a creeping anxiety in acknowledging that this would be our longest time apart in four weeks—since I broke my thumbs.
Start Line in Rena
Nerves aside, we were here! A steady stream of racers went from bus to bag drop off to porta-a-potty to start line. The sun had warmed the world to a balmy -12°. A new wave of 450 racers started every five minutes. A mad scrabble, I saw, as 9 tracks dwindled into 3-4 at the bottleneck. Good thing I’d be starting dead last, in wave 23, two waves behind Francesca and Annelie. I munched on some Swedish ballerina cookies in the starting corral, desperately trying to pretend—for the sake of my fluttering heartbeat, expectations, and lack of poles—that this was a casual ski.
Skramstadsetra Aid Station, 9 Kilometers in
This was not a casual ski. The entire course so far had been an undulating, 1000-foot vertical uphill slog through thick forest. The sun and 10,000ish skiers ahead of me had baked the track into the semblance of mashed potatoes, and I passed, slightly horrified, multiple racers sobbing in the snowbanks on the sidelines. I felt awful, but not that awful (yet). I had hurriedly stopped once already to wiggle out of two layers of clothing and was looking forward to stopping again at the aid station to scarf down some lefse (a norwegian pastry) and gulp warmed water.
There was no lefse left. The bleary-eyed aid station volunteers looked like they had been handing out food rations during multiple world wars. I turned down a shot of vodka from an overeager spectator, poles from the Swix support tent, and continued shuffling forward.
Somewhere Between Skramstadsetra and Dambua Aid Stations
The track sliced like a freeway through a desert expanse. Stunted trees peppered the blanched tundra, promising life in a place that was otherwise desolate. I looked nearer around me, pulling myself out of my reverie.
Of course, I wasn’t alone on a barren tundra, but the silence (except for the rhythmic squeak of poles in snow and the muffled shuffle of skis) of the dozens of people eternally by my side during this race made me think that I wasn’t the only one whose legs felt leaden. We were all struggling, poles or none.
Post-Dambua Aid Station
Still no lefse to be found, but after nearly 20 kilometers of misery, we were finally skiing on a significant downhill! I squatted into my speediest tuck, only to almost trip and smash my face into the snow as my ski caught on a half-eaten, carelessly abandoned, fully frozen Snickers bar lurking in the track. The irony—I had passed a “no littering!” sign thirty seconds before—was not lost on me.
Kvarstad Aid Station, 28 kilometers in
Perhaps my favorite aid station I passed, I finally(!) found lefse, as well as Coca-Cola, salami, and grilled hotdogs. There was even live music; it was almost a party! My hanger abated, shuffling uphill again didn’t seem so bad. A collective sigh of relief among my skiing compatriots was palpable. It is mentally much easier to imagine yourself skiing 26 kilometers instead of 54.
Midtfjellet, 34 kilometers in
I swigged what I thought would be an incredibly refreshing drink, only to choke it down with about as much grace as a penguin chick swallowing regurgitated fish bits. Whatever passes for “non-alcoholic beer” in Norway does not taste like beer.
Annelie, Francesca, and I simultaneously converged as we were all leaving the aid station. A much-needed boost of camaraderie struck all of us, and we left with renewed energy to pound the last 20 kilometers out, but with the bitter taste of non-alcoholic beer on our tongues.
Sjusjøen, 40 kilometers in
The end was in sight! As was nightfall. The faded colors of daytime started to saturate into melancholy blues and tangerines along the surface of the snow and sky.
The spectators here were the rowdiest and most enthusiastic (drunk) by far, screaming at us to send it at full speed ahead since the end was so near; which is exactly what I did. I folded into my pole-less tuck, arms criss-crossed on my chest, and disappeared down into the pine trees and toward the finish line.
Lillehammer Ski Stadium, Finish Line
Ari told me he had just turned away to return to the bus that would take him into Lillehammer proper when he glanced back and saw me coming from afar. He had been waiting at the finish line for 4.5 hours, by now fully convinced that a.) I had dropped out or b.) he had completely missed me. Not helping his situation, I had ignored his numerous calls and texts during the race because, as I assured him, “I was skiing.”
I finished at 6 p.m. exactly without much pomp and celebration beyond the two of us (and Francesca and Annelie when they trickled in soon after). As the food tent at the finish line was all but taken down (they handed us cold, limp hot dogs), we gathered together at Annelie’s and Francesca’s cabin later that evening to nibble on takeout pizza, sip chocolate milk like it was fine champagne, and stretch our taut hip flexors in various states of repose.
It was the most fun I'd had at any race, and I'd gladly suffer through it again. With or without poles. Preferably with.