We Are The Spectators // A Birkebeiner Tribute

My dad was my first cheerleader, standing on the sidelines of cross country races, choir performances, and academic tests with the same voice “You got this.” He is about to ski his 15th Birkebeiner, a 55 km cross country ski race in Northern Wisconsin. Over the years my sister, brother in law, uncle, husband, nephew, and soon to be middle child (cry face emoji), inspired by my dad’s tenacity, have all completed their own Birkies. We call this “Birkie Fever,” and its not just contagious to the racers; the spectators suffer the same infection. I wrote this piece, which originally published in the Birch Scroll 2019-2020 Annual Issue, in dedication to my dad, the original nordic skier in my life, but also to celebrate my fellow spectators. It is an honor to stand on the sidelines, cow bells in hand, and watch these athletes shine.

The 46th Annual Birkebeiner Ski Race commences this coming weekend. A day before his fifth birthday, my Elliott will cross his first Birkie finish line and my dad will be by his side the whole way. I know what he will say: You got this.

To all the racers, and most importantly spectators, I leave you with the same wish.

You got this.

We Are the Spectators as previously published in the Birch Scroll 2019-2020 Annual Issue

We awake to the sound of brewing coffee, the rummaging of backpacks, the stirring of oatmeal. We sense those familiar nerves. Another year has arrived.

It is Birkie race day. 

Time to rise and begin the preparations. Check the fuel, the gear, the weather. With all the necessary paraphernalia collected, the skiers disperse in their vehicles on the trek to the starting line.

But we are not with them. For we are the spectators.

Over months we have trained for this day. We are the partners who shove reluctant skiers out of a warm bed on those negative temperature mornings, with love and encouragement. We are the parents who manage the bedtime chaos so the co-parent can fit in a post work exercise. We are the coordinators of the schedule, checking pace of our skiers, plotting a course that maximizes proper ratio of children’s energy levels with minimization of whining.

And after months of training, we put the plan into action. The sound of the skiers driving away is our starting line gun. Our race begins now.

For our particular family, one grandma, one aunt, one mom, and five cousins from baby to seven years, this means breakfast feeding and clothes layering. Managing sibling arguments in between checking the skiers’ progress. Keeping one eye on the time and another on the chaos. It means bundling of hats and mittens and snow pants and boots on multiple wiggly bodies. Are these your boots? What happened to your hat? You have to go the bathroom NOW?

When children are clothed, fed, and buckled into carseats, this is our first check point. On the quiet drive from condo to Main Street, we mentally high five, take a deep breath, and begin the next leg of the race. With the promise of snacks to fuel the afternoon, our team of eight descends upon the crowd. We gather with other heroes, just like us, the spectating kind. We are weary from the morning, weak from the children on our backs, at our side. But with the encouragement of the crowd, we push on. We sense the adrenaline that comes from scanning the skiers as they descend the International Bridge. 

Is that him we see with the icy beard? Is she the one in the blue hat? We crane our necks, squint our eyes. This is our moment. We won’t let them down. 

And alas, it arrives. Our skier is coming! We ring those cow bells with all of our might. We join the chorus of cheers, our lungs aching from the screams. And then we are met with the deepest satisfaction as our skier recognizes their fans, smiles with all the energy they have left, and with the push of our cheers, crosses the final finish. 

We did it. We completed the race. There are no medals around our necks. It is only pride we wear today.

For we are Birkebeiner heroes of a different kind. We are the spectators.