Author: Tom

Jill and I have been in Vermont for over two months. I have been training hard, searching for cross country ski races that aren’t cancelled due to Covid, and crossing my fingers that the spring Everest climbing season happens. On a number of dimensions, things are starting to resolve themselves.

Cross country skiing

Vermont has had a snowy winter and the skiing has been amazing. Pretty much every day, I head into beautiful countryside: cruising for hours over ridgelines and down valleys, or hammering repeat hill climbs that leave me gasping over my poles. Here is a photo taken during a recent outing.

Beyond the routine aspects of training and racing, cross country skiing has always been a form of meditating. While it is fun to head out with friends, I enjoy gliding along by myself: settling into a rhythm, embracing my surroundings, and being alone with my thoughts. It is a zone I cherish, one that I have been blessed to inhabit on a daily basis this winter.

With all of the big races cancelled, including the World Masters Championships that I had been targeting, this year’s season has assumed a different form. Last month, I drove to Jackson NH to compete in a “virtual” race. People timed themselves on a specified course over a week, and results were then posted on line. The drive alone, through northern Vermont and New Hampshire on a bluebird day, was worth the whole trip. Here is the view of the Presidential Range and Mount Washington Hotel, taken out my car window.

I treated the virtual race just like a normal race; slaving over my wax prep the night before, pulling on my racing uniform, and skiing the 20 kilometers solo as hard as I was capable of. Friend Gillian Kellog, who along with her husband Charlie coached me on the Eastern Junior National Team over 40 years ago, came out to cheer. As Gillian and I skied together afterwards, I was struck by how much the satisfaction derived from a virtual race is similar to a “real” race. Additional satisfaction came a week later when the cumulative results were posted. Only four people skied the course faster than me: three current college racers, and someone who was one of the top college racers in the country 10 years ago.

A couple of weeks later, together with friends Colin and Bob, I competed in a real race: the Walter Chapman 50 Kilometer ski marathon on the sparsely populated Tug Hill plateau in upstate New York. Getting there served up another gorgeous drive, this time through a remote corner of the Adirondaks.

The race course, rolling through dense forest, was made additionally challenging by steady snow that started falling at the start. Again, I skied as hard as I am capable of and felt really good the whole way. This time I didn’t need to wait a week for the results. To my surprise and delight, I won. Not only my age group, but the entire race! Just like Jackson, the post race feeling of satisfaction was gold. Here is a photo of Bob and me after the race, getting ready to hop in our cars and head home, as the snow continued to fall.

This year’s ski racing season hasn’t ended up looking like I thought it would. I have basically trained like a madman in order to ski one virtual race and one marathon. But it has been deeply rewarding. It has also stripped racing down to an existential core: motivation to train hard on a daily basis, a reason to push one’s body to the limit and see how it delivers, and the personal satisfaction that comes from doing both.

I have found one more race to enter, in Maine on March 7. I will give that race all I’ve got and then call it a season, thereafter focusing 100% of my energy on Everest.

Speaking of Everest

The big news is that Everest is looking like it will happen. While China is keeping the north side closed to foreigners, Nepal is tracking to open the south side. Prospective climbers will need to navigate a maze of Covid testing, quarantines, and unique insurance requirements. More importantly, they will have to manage disease risk traveling to Kathmandu, on the 10 day approach trek to base camp, and in base camp itself. Covid is not something you want to experience at the base camp elevation of 17,600 feet, to say nothing of higher on the mountain.

These factors have caused a number of expeditions to cancel their climbs. Judging from climbing permits issued, it appears that roughly half the number of people will be on Everest this year relative to the recent past. This could end up being good news for those that decide to go for it. While overcrowding on the mountain is less of an issue than the press coverage would suggest, it remains a concern, especially in years like 2019 when the weather pattern allowed very few days that the summit could be attempted. (More on this in a future blog post).

The Alpine Ascents expedition I am a part of is going for it. The team consists of seven of the original nine of us who were planning to climb Everest last year. It started to feel real when we gathered on a Zoom call recently with our guides and expedition organizers. In a sign of the times, much of the discussion focused on how we will manage Covid risk. A comment by Todd Burleson, the legendary founder of Alpine Ascents, hit home: “This year, whether you have been able to get vaccinated may be a primary determinant of whether you get a chance to summit.”

Since that Zoom call, I worked every angle imaginable to volunteer at a vaccination center, as I didn’t otherwise qualify and volunteers are given the vaccine. But it turns out that in order to volunteer you need medical experience, which I completely lack. Having exhausted all avenues, I resigned myself to heading to Everest anyway and rolling the Covid dice.

Then lightening struck. Massachusetts modified its rules to allow adults of any age to get vaccinated if they accompany someone over the age of 75. Last weekend, Jill’s 86 year old mother Carolyn and I headed to the vaccination center at Fenway Park, where we both got our shots.

The operation ran like clockwork. Friendly volunteers checked us in, everyone wore masks and maintained respectful distance, and you could sense a collective feeling of relief and gratitude among those in line. It all felt a bit like a dream. When I rolled up my sleeve and a volunteer gave me the shot, a surprise wave of emotion welled up and I said the one thing that came to mind: “thank you so much”. She replied : “Glad to be a part of it. I am a nurse. We like helping people”.

Here is a photo of us in the observation area afterwards. I should note that Carolyn, a loyal reader of this blog, is a very spry 86 year old and typically gets around more than fine without a wheelchair. In this instance, she accepted one when offered.

Driving home, I commented to Carolyn that the whole experience made one feel proud of our government and social institutions. It was a great feeling. However, I am mindful that most people in my age cohort, including Jill, have yet to get the vaccine. I post about my personal good fortune with hesitancy.

Being vaccinated is a game changer for Everest, removing a major variable and worry. Perhaps more importantly, (if the emerging vaccine findings hold up), it reduces the chance I am an agent for spreading the virus in a country with limited health infrastructure.

I am scheduled to fly to Nepal on March 28. Last year, the climb got cancelled two weeks before departure. I am cautiously optimistic that this year is different. Things are coming together.

Just over a year ago, I retired from McKinsey and launched my gap year. Having subsequently restructured it to a “gap year and a half”, I have six additional months ahead of me. While the initial year didn’t play out as planned, it has been a great experience and I have learned a lot.

One thing is clear: my elaborate plan to travel the world pursuing a mix of mountain climbing, cross country ski racing, and sailing coincided almost perfectly with the period that world travel was shut down by the corona virus. Timing is everything.

Like the vignettes at the start of a Netflix show, here is a reminder of Tom’s gap year so far:

January 2020: Climb Aconcagua in Argentina, the highest mountain outside of the Himalayas. (This was when I was still on the original gap year plan. It was wonderful. I am so glad I got it in before Covid struck.)

February and March: return home and continue training hard. Race in two ski marathons. (Also wonderful.)

In mid March, two weeks before getting on a plane to climb Everest, learn that Nepal has shut down the 2020 climbing season due to Covid

The next day, in mid-flight to British Columbia, learn that the lodge we are headed to for a week of backcountry skiing is now closed due to Covid

Three days later, return to Boston as the Canadian border closes. Settle into months of sequestering at home. Restructure and extend gap year: target Everest in spring 2021, and the World Masters Nordic Ski Championships in March 2021. Cancel long distance sailing plans.

Train hard for my new goals, while Covid continues to explode and the US political scene continues to implode.

In September, learn that the 2021 World Masters Nordic Championships have been cancelled due to Covid. Re-focus ski goals on local races. Continue hoping that Everest 2021 happens.

Through the end of the year, continue to enjoy the daily rhythm of working out, time with family, and some great local sailing and hiking.

Speaking of local activities, here is a photo of Jill early one October morning on our last sailing trip of the season, and a photo of me making the most of an evening close to home- still dreaming of gap year goals.

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So that is the plot summary so far. Those who have tuned in to each episode are familiar with all of this, and know that I have occasionally swerved off piste to reflect on other topics; like being injured, the death of a beloved pet, and the national political scene. Your patience is appreciated.

Looking forward

The plan for the remaining six months is to ski as many cross country ski races as possible and then head to Nepal in late March, where I will spend a couple of months taking another shot at climbing Everest. Everest of course depends on both Nepal and the mountain being open.

As 2020 drew to a close, Jill and I decided to move to Vermont for the winter. Part of this was driven by me trying to guess where the best ski racing would be, and by wanting to be close to the mountains and ski trails where optimal training happens. Also, through years of weekends and vacations in northern New England, we always wondered what it would feel like to not have to get in the car and head home. Now we have a chance to find out.

I can report that not having to head home is absolutely wonderful. We came up to Stowe the day after Christmas, with Holly and Will joining us for the initial couple of weeks. (Given the Covid situation, John stayed put in San Francisco). Every day, I wake up with the primary responsibility of deciding which mix of cross country skiing, backcountry skiing, hiking, and climbing I will pursue. Then I happily ponder the same decision the next day, and the next. The combination of beloved activities and beautiful surroundings brings constant joy.

One of my favorite ways to start the day is to backcountry ski up Mount Mansfield before the lifts open. Here is a photo I took of Will a few days ago, as the sun’s first rays broke through the clouds.

And here is one of me on a New Year’s hike.

I am doing a lot of cross country skiing and am feeling really good about the shape I am in. Unfortunately, the more I ski and the faster I get, the less races there are to enter. The list of Covid cancellations is growing on a weekly basis. Regardless, I will keep training hard and race in whatever ends up being available.

On the good news front, Everest is looking like it may happen. Things can change any minute, but the current plan is to fly to Kathmandu on March 28. Nepal is currently experiencing a major Covid surge, so – assuming we go- the trick will be to navigate the trek to base camp and get up onto the mountain without catching the virus. More on all of this as it gets closer to reality.

Looking back

Meanwhile, a year into my gap year and a half, I find myself reflecting on the experience so far. Five things have come into focus:

1. I don’t need a full time job to be happy and fulfilled.
   
   I remember my mother entering her sixties and commenting: “I am as happy as I have ever been in my life”. At the time, I found her words simultaneously surprising and comforting. Now, entering my sixties as well, I feel the same way. Like Mom, this comes on top of six decades that set the happiness bar high. I am mindful that a gap year, with its temporal structure and freedom to indulge in personal interests, is a luxury that may have a half life, but I think my happiness and fulfillment will continue. I feel very blessed.
   
   
2. I really, really like outdoor sports.
   
   In high school and college, running and cross country ski racing were core sources of fulfillment, and throughout my life mountain climbing and the outdoors have provided moments that verge on the spiritual. In my adult years, serious pursuit of these interests took a back seat as I focused on family, a business career, and non profit volunteer work; where I also found – and continue to find – deep meaning.
   
   Now, I am returning to skiing and climbing in a big way and finding that they still make my soul sing. Really sing. But the question of appropriate balance endures. When I walked away from cross county ski racing in my early twenties, it was partly because single minded dedication to the sport was starting to lose its magic. I sought new horizons and a broader scope of engagement with the world around me.
   
   I originally thought of my gap year as a focused timeframe in which I would ski, climb, and sail “to excess”, and that I would then return to a “normal” mix of business, nonprofits, sports, and other interests. This is still the plan, but I increasingly wonder what normal should look like for the remainder of my sixties. Part of me doesn’t want the gap year to end.
   
   
3. A year goes by incredibly quickly.
   
   I have long known this. We all know this. And the pace keeps accelerating. Still, it blows my mind that my gap year as originally scheduled is already over. It was more than a year ago that I turned sixty and headed off to Aconcagua. My seventieth birthday will be here before I know it, and then my eightieth. Physical pursuits which are currently providing such pleasure will be notably tougher as I age. I have to be deeply thoughtful about how I spend the precious resource of time, and I need to stay invested in interests I can pursue when my body starts to fade.
   
   
4. The encouragement of others is golden.
   
   When I started this blog as an adjunct to my gap year, I didn’t know where it would take me. What stands out is how meaningful it has been when people actually read it and provide encouragement. More meaningful than I would have guessed, or than you can ever know. This has turned out to be the sleeper gift of my gap year. I am grateful, and am determined to pay the gift forward. The note to self reads: “make more time to tune in to the interests of others and to cheer them on – even if just with a short email or text.”
   
   
5. I must never take the status quo for granted.
   
   This learning is actually not a product of my gap year, but more of its timing. I conceptually understood that a major pandemic was only a matter of time, but the extent to which our daily lives have been upended by Covid still feels surreal. Likewise, I have long believed that various social and political forces are weakening our nation, but – despite being told so by some very thoughtful people- I never grasped how fragile our social fabric and democracy really are. I now realize how much I took “normalcy” for granted. More than ever, I know I have an obligation to pitch in and try to help strengthen the common good.
   
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   There you have it. I head into the final stretch of my “gap year and a half” with continued excitement and gratitude, and hopefully a bit more wisdom. Future posts will ideally be long on descriptions of mountain ridgelines, and short on philosophizing.
   
   Happy New Year to all!

The family says my recent blog posts have been “dark”, and they have a point. Those of you expecting updates on mountaineering, ski racing, and sailing have been hearing about aging, injuries, the death of our dog, and the loss of my mother. This is partly because the pandemic has gotten in the way of much of the fun stuff. It is also because I am using this blog as a personal diary; recording both the substance of my gap year as well as what is going on in my head as I experience it.

The year has certainly taken on a different shape. Courtesy of the pandemic, it has been extended to a “gap year and a half”, and most of my plans are in limbo. Meanwhile, a combination of political and social forces disrupt our daily lives. Darkness is definitely in the mix. However, as has been the case my entire life, occasional darkness brings accompanying light into sharper relief. Like the dramatic frontal systems we sometimes encounter on our sailboat: where dark clouds low on the water make the rays of sun above more beautiful and cherished.

A few weeks ago, Jill and I headed off for several days of sailing. We timed it perfectly, with the forecast promising a string of those September days where the light on the bay is scream-out-loud clear and the mornings and evenings have a magical hue. Except that this time they didn’t. Smoke from wildfires on the west coast had blown across the country, darkening the skies and making it feel like we were in the middle of a solar eclipse. Here is a photo taken early one morning from our anchorage; the sun fighting to break through the haze. It was eerie.

Eerie, yes, but nothing compared to the darkness and haze drifting across our nation more broadly.

As a rule, I refrain from sharing political views on social media, and I intend the same for this blog. But I feel the need to record how I am feeling, as the political landscape is effecting me profoundly. I do this not with the goal of imposing my views on anyone, but just to record them for my own benefit.

I don’t like living in a pandemic, but I can deal with it. I don’t like having a long-planned year of mountain climbing, ski racing, and long distance sailing blown up, but I can deal with that as well. What is increasingly challenging is reconciling myself to the current political reality. It depresses me deeply that our President is a man who, in the words of a friend, “is everything I raised my children not to be”. It depresses me deeply that our country is polarized into two parallel universes, each fed by media eco-systems promoting dramatically different versions of reality. It depresses me deeply that the long term environmental health of our planet is being sacrificed to short term economic gain. It depresses me deeply that the rule of law which feeds our country’s strength is under attack. And it depresses me deeply that the concept of objective truth has been so quickly weakened. My head is spinning, and I feel un-anchored.

I used to look at political media junkies, wed to television and social media’s endless stream of “breaking news”, and be glad I wasn’t one of them. I delighted in heading into the mountains, returning weeks later, and confirming how little of the daily media circus mattered. But now I am deeply enmeshed in it. I check the “News” app on my iPhone multiple times a day. The trajectory of the election looms large in my thoughts. It’s outcome, including the period through to Inauguration Day, worries me greatly. When I look back on my “gap year and a half”, the political and societal challenges we are now enduring will be a dominant aspect of it. At least it feels that way.

One way my gap year had been impacting my family was causing worry about my safety while climbing high mountains. Now, a new impact has emerged: they have to endure my political “rants”. After one recent monologue, which involved a semi-serious interest in exploring Canadien citizenship, I calmed down and reflected on how difficult this must be for our adult children. Easy for me to bemoan how far our country has fallen, but they are the ones who need to build their futures in it. While it frustrates me to see our country crack and decay, it must be really frightening to those who are earlier in their life journey.

Recently, I returned from a sail and sat on the porch with a glass of wine and bowl of goldfish crackers. It was one of those October days you live for, gin clear with no smoke anywhere. The light was exquisite as the sun dropped toward the ocean.

Sitting there, I resolved to write a letter to John, Holly, and Will. I need to tell them that, when I rant about darkness in our country, much of that is born out of me processing my own insecurities. At my core, I believe deeply in the fundamental decency of our fellow Americans, that there is more uniting us than dividing us, and that our country will successfully navigate its current challenges as it has done so often in the past. The values and strengths embodied in John, Holly, and Will’s generation will help our country find its bearings and become an even better place for all to live. Of this I am sure.

I may have just written the letter.

There is that moment in the musical Hamilton, after Philip dies and the “Hamiltons move uptown”, that Jefferson and Madison plead: “can we get back to politics?” For those of you wondering “can we get back to mountain climbing?”, the answer is yes. This blog is done with politics. Thanks for listening.

After closing Everest this past spring, Nepal is struggling with a Covid surge. The country and its mountains remained closed this fall, although there are efforts underway to partially re-open at the end of October. I am still hoping to be on the mountain this coming spring. My gut says it is 50-50. Meanwhile, the 2021 World Masters Cross Country Ski Championships in British Columbia just got postponed to 2022, and other ski marathons are cancelling. I will need to find other races.

I continue to train hard, and the journey remains at least as meaningful as the destination.

Again, thanks for following along.

• 

In late June, we said goodbye to our beloved yellow lab Maggie. We said it again today when we buried her ashes in a field overlooking the ocean. I am struck by how deep the feelings of loss continue to be, and by how much we still feel her presence. Also, with the passage of time, aspects of what her death means to me are becoming clearer.

I did not expect to be writing about this. People lose pets all the time. It is hard to think I can add to the collective dialogue. The topic is also a departure from my usual preoccupation with climbing, sailing, and cross country skiing. But thoughts about Maggie are strongly with me.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I remember several years ago when friends shared details of their dog’s final visit to a summer home down the coast. What struck me most was the combination of ritual, elegy, and love. A last shared act, a final gift as they prepared for farewell. And I was struck again when another friend, who spends his days leading one of the world’s largest financial institutions, texted a photo of his family’s departed pet with moving comments on his feelings of loss. Both of these were life events that made enduring marks, and the goodbyes mattered.

For the same reasons that I didn’t think I would write about Maggie in this blog, I didn’t think I would mention her passing on social media. But then I did, and I was glad I did. Amazing how sharing one’s feelings and receiving words of sympathy can bring such comfort. In my Facebook post back in June, I felt I managed to convey her spirit.

After 15 years of tail wagging, morning walks, swims, chasing (but never catching) rabbits, and gracing the word with gentleness and kindness, our beloved Maggie has departed this life for the next. She gave us so much, and we miss her terribly.

Like everyone with dogs in their lives, I have been tuned into “dog years”. In Maggie’s case, the multiple was seven. When she was nine, she was roughly at my current life stage. As she approached her fifteenth birthday, she had lived the human equivalent of a century. She aged gracefully; maintaining vibrancy, good humor, and an ability right up to the end to enjoy being outdoors with sun and wind on her face. I pray that I fare as well.

But life, as it does, began catching up to her. Moving was increasingly difficult, she could no longer go on morning walks, and she had to bark gently to be carried in and out of the house. She would lie next to my chair and make contented sounds as I massaged her aching muscles through her thick yellow fur. Increasingly, those massages were what I could most do for her. Finally, it got to the point that her quality of life wasn’t there. She deserved to depart with the same dignity and grace with which she had lived.

Having not been through it before, Jill and I were unclear on how it worked. Lots of practical details. We wanted her to be in her home, with her family, and for her final moments to be as relaxed and normal as possible. We wanted her to be near the fields, ocean, rabbits, deer, and birds amid whom she had spent fifteen summers.

The morning of June 24 was as good as it could be for her. She barked to be carried outside, barked to be carried back in, and slept happily in her bed with the sliding doors open to the ocean breeze. The vet arrived and explained to us what would happen. Jill and I knelt on the floor next to Maggie’s bed and talked to her. She woke up from her nap and wagged her tail. I gave her a last, long massage. She barely noticed the vet.

The first shot was to make sure she was relaxed and comfortable. She felt a prick and was reassured when we told her everything was fine. She kept looking trustingly into our eyes. I kept massaging her. I will never forget how her fur felt. The second shot did what it was intended to. Maggie departed. One moment, there was life and a spirit in that yellow fur; the next moment there wasn’t. We had done all we could for her. Again, I hope I am as fortunate.

When my Mom died 19 years ago, from an out-of-nowhere heart attack, she had been the picture of vibrancy for 68 years. While the feelings of loss endure, the fact that Mom was spared something she dreaded- decline in old age- remains a blessing. She was actively loving life right up to the moment that it ended. The night we got the horrible call, I remember the doctors in the emergency room asking if I wanted to go in and say a final goodbye. I wasn’t sure, but was glad I did. It was Mom’s body lying there, but not Mom. I hugged her anyway, and that last farewell helped. The vet offered us the same opportunity with Maggie. Again, I wasn’t sure. And again, I am glad I did. Goodbyes matter.

For years, one of my favorite summer rituals was morning walks with Maggie. I would wake up, grab a cup of coffee, and she and I would head off on narrow paths, watching the sun light up the ocean. This was very similar to my mother’s morning ritual with our dog growing up, and in these walks with Maggie I often felt Mom’s comforting presence.

Shortly after Maggie’s passing, Jill and I sailed into our harbor. A seal popped its head out of the water and watched us approach. Seals are uncommon in this area in summer. I said: “there is Maggie, here with us”.

My family tells me I am not that spiritual, but make of it what you will.

In the mid 1980’s, I shared an apartment in San Francisco with an aging hippie named Nelson. One day, Nelson asked if I would give his friend Robert a ride to to the airport. Robert’s main activity at the time was growing pot in Marin County. He was also a dreamer, mystic, and philosopher. For the duration of our ride, he enlightened me on the existence of the gyro of the universe.

The universe, Robert explained, is powered by a massive gyro. When it is spinning in your favor, you have momentum on your side. But sometimes it spins against you. When it does, bad things start happening. It is tempting to try and fight it but you need to understand that it is out of your control. The gyro generates immutable force. You have to wait until the gyro switches back to spinning in your favor.

I dropped Robert at the airport and never saw him again, but our conversation stuck with me. Over the years, largely jokingly, I have educated friends and family on the power of the gyro. I have also used it as a helpful reminder when things don’t break my way. Years of experience have taught me that Robert knew what he was talking about.

Earlier this week, I woke up in a wistfully bad mood for no good reason. My mood didn’t improve when, over morning coffee, I read an interview with a Canadian expert predicting that – with rising Covid counts in the U.S.- the border with the U.S. may remain closed for another year. If that happens, my goal to compete in the 2021 World Masters Cross County Ski Championships in Alberta will go “poof”, just like my plans to climb Everest this spring did. I continue to hope that Everest is open to U.S. climbers next spring. We’ll see.

I wanted to be on my own for a few hours, so I headed out to our boat with the idea of sailing across the bay. After carefully going through my checklist to assure I was ready to depart solo, I cranked the engine. Silence. I cranked it again. More silence. The starter battery for the new engine had inexplicably drained. There would be no sailing.

I decided to channel my frustration into a long roller ski workout. For those of you unfamiliar with roller skis, they are a way that cross country skiers train in the off season. Here is a photo of my skis so you can see what they look like, and also a photo of friend “Uncle Bob” and me after a roller ski workout this spring, (on a day when the gyro was spinning my way).

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I filled a belt pack with Powerade, as I would be working hard for several hours, clipped into the skis, and rolled off. A couple of kilometers in, the physical exertion, steady rhythm, and beautiful ocean-side fields began to improve my mood. I looked forward to the kilometers and hours ahead. As I climbed a gradual hill, I swerved right to avoid a truck parked on the side of the road. At exactly that moment, a car approached from the rear and I moved further right. What I failed to see was a small rock on the side of the road, which jammed in my roller ski, launching me head first onto the pavement.

Everything went into slow motion in mid air, as it often does in these situations. I expected to lose some skin and blood, was rooting for no broken bones, and was pleasantly surprised when skin and blood loss turned out to be minimal. What I wasn’t prepared for was the searing pain in my left hamstring after I hit the ground, caused by the injury which now has me grounded. I dragged myself home, swearing loudly as slight body movements kept causing my leg to convulse.

In the scheme of things, my injury is minor. The doctors have confirmed that the hamstring is strained, not torn. With rest, ice, physical therapy, and patience, I should be back in action within a month. But at the moment, I can do essentially no training. Same for so many of the other things I like to do; like walking, swimming, golf, tennis, and active sailing. And this is impacting my mood. A small injury is dragging me down to a surprising extent, and also foreshadowing some challenges I may have to deal with down life’s road.

I like to think of myself as the kind of person who will be stoic and upbeat in the face of health challenges, but this experience suggests the contrary. Ever since pulling myself up from the pavement, I have been grouchy and frustrated; focused way more on my own situation than on others. Also, using ski racing and climbing as a means to provide broader life structure and meaning is revealing its limitations. Building a life around outdoor sports is great, as long as you are capable of doing those sports. What will I turn to as my body weakens in the decades to come? I like the plan for my 60’s, but what about my 80’s and 90’s?

For now, I hobble around the house, ice my leg, read books, gaze out the window, and look forward to meals as a highlight of my day. It reminds me of the nursing home kind of existence I hope never to have to experience. I know how minor this setback is, especially compared to what so many people face, and I am a bit embarrassed by how I am reacting to it. On the positive side, my gap year was designed for introspection and learning, and this is prompting exactly that.

No use fighting the gyro. It will soon be spinning my way again.

I conceived of my gap year as an opportunity for “climbing, sailing, exploring, and reflecting”. It is time for some reflecting.

When I stepped away from work and community commitments, and then found myself quarantined at home instead of traveling the world, I ended up with time on my hands to do things like rummage through old files. I recently stumbled upon an essay I wrote in 1984 when applying to business school. In it, I quoted the 8th century Chinese poet Tu Fu:

It is not that I lack the desire to live beside rivers and among hills,
Hearing the wind scatter leaves, watching the rain breed fish;
But the thought of disproportion in public affairs
Offends my sense of rhythm, and disposes me
To expend the passion that normally takes form in song and painting
On matters of administrative interest.

At the time, I was trying to explain why a former English major and cross country ski racer, who was currently traveling the world as an expedition tour leader, had decided he wanted to leave that life behind to attend business school. That decision propelled me toward a career and life direction that I have been following for almost forty years.

While I am happy with the path I chose, my current gap year has been a U-turn in the reverse direction. At the end of last year, I retired from management consulting, took a sabbatical from several non profit boards, declined some interesting business opportunities, and set my sights on re-connecting with mountaineering, ski racing, and long distance sailing; at least for a defined period of time.

Covid has interrupted my plans, forcing me to postpone Everest for a year and to defer indefinitely long distance sailing with Jill. But the basic contours of my gap year remain in place, albeit extended to a year and a half. I am turning inward, away from active involvement in “matters of administrative interest”, toward my version of “song and painting”. And I am doing so at a time when the pandemic is forcing many of us to turn somewhat inward: working from home, cancelling travel plans, focusing on our immediate families. As I suspect is the case for all, this has prompted some reflection.

My days currently unfold in a relaxed yet structured cadence. The responsibilities are roughly as follows: wake up, read the newspapers while sipping Sumatran coffee, decide on and execute a morning workout, shower, eat a cheddar cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch, do an afternoon workout, shower again, engage with email and social media, have a glass of wine, have dinner with Jill and those of our children working from home, read a book, go to bed, get up and do it again. When time permits, I sneak in a sail or a round of golf. It sounds a bit like the “Florida retiree” lifestyle I have long sworn I would never adopt. And so far I am loving it.

My overarching goals for the year ahead are revised but clear: perform as well as I am capable of in the World Masters Cross Country Ski Championships next March, climb to the summit of Mount Everest next April/May, and along the way see what it feels like to reconnect with things that mattered a lot to me in my twenties. Daughter Holly, who is home from New York working remotely, asks me frequently: “Dad, are you bored yet?” This is a reasonable question, especially for someone confronting the dual discontinuities of retirement and Covid quarantine. Six months into my gap year, I can report that I am never bored.

The core of every day are the workouts: mostly outdoors, often in beautiful spots, pushing my aging body to get stronger. There is the satisfaction of moving quickly, covering lots of ground, interacting with the natural world, and testing limits while endorphins course through my bloodstream. There is also the drudgery of having to get out there every day and get it done, overcoming tiredness in the legs, and enduring especially painful interval sessions.

I am struck by how many benefits are derived from just the core structure and commitment involved. Covid may again derail my plans, but the preparation will have been rewarding in its own right. I am reminded of stories of prisoners of war in solitary confinement, their conditions unimaginable and futures intensely uncertain, using daily exercise regimes to create purpose and maintain their bearings. Or of round-the-world solo sailors, for whom a concerted inward focus on every micro action enables a safe journey through threatening oceans.

Age adjusted, I am in the best physical condition I have been in since my twenties. This is turning out to be highly satisfying. I am also fundamentally relaxed and happy. It is tempting to keep doing this for more than just another year, but I expect it would lose its luster. Like Tu Fu, I feel an obligation to focus outward. Particularly now, with Covid threatening the lives and livelihoods of so many , and recent events highlighting profound racial disparities in life experience, the self indulgence involved in my inward path is clear.

At age 60, I am confronting the same questions of balance and purpose I wrestled with at age 24. I don’t have many decades left on this earth, and I want to invest the precious gift of life wisely. How exactly I spend my time feels like it matters more than ever.

Last week, on one of those perfect June days that cry out for being on the ocean, I sailed alone on Buzzards Bay. This was my view from the helm:

Our boat is large enough that soloing demands concentration and thoughtfully orchestrated steps. It also requires a careful eye on the weather, as picking up the mooring in the anchorage can be challenging when the wind blows hard out of the south. I planned every move and executed with precision. The conditions were what pilots refer to as “severe clear”, with intensely blue water and sky. Sunlight danced on the wave tops. Outward, the horizon beckoned. It was great to be alive, and for the moment I was right where I wanted to be.

It has been a month since Nepal shut down the Everest climbing season, Will and I carved our last backcountry ski turns in the Canadien Rockies, and we rushed back to Boston ahead of the U.S./Canada border closing. Since then, I have been sheltering at home with Jill, Holly, Will, and our beloved 14 year old yellow lab Maggie. (John is toughing it out by himself in San Francisco.) In addition to dealing with the daily challenges that confront us all, I have been trying to figure out what to do about my blown up gap year. I am happy to report that I have settled on Plan B.

My gap year is now a “gap year and a half”. I am going to target Everest in the spring of 2021, save the long distance sailing for later, and commit to another season of cross country ski racing. The World Masters Nordic Championships, held in Canmore, Alberta in March 2021, will serve as an overarching ski goal and rallying point for daily workouts. As during the past year, there will be a high degree of overlap between the training that gets me ready for ski racing and the training I need to do for Everest.

Like virtually all things in life, there are pros and cons. The primary cons are missing out on some extended sailing that I have long wanted to do, not getting to be on Everest right now, and attempting the mountain a year later at an age where every passing year matters physically. The primary pros are that my lifelong dream of climbing Everest remains alive, and I get to experience another year of dedicated training and cross country ski racing. As described in previous posts, returning to ski racing after a thirty year hiatus has proven to be deeply meaningful.

Plan B is of course dependent on how the COVID situation shakes out. It is not clear that climbing Everest a year from now will be advisable, or that the 2021 World Masters Nordic Championships will even be held. My Plan B may well get blown up just as Plan A did. I’ll deal with those possibilities down the road. In the meantime, simply having a plan and committing to it is helpful. The journey is in many ways as meaningful as the destination, perhaps more so. To that point:

The poster on my wall

Growing up, this poster was on my bedroom wall. I looked at it every day and it made an enduring impression. It’s title was “Everest, The West Ridge”.

The small figures at the bottom of the photo are Tom Hornbein and Willi Unsoeld, two American climbers who made history in 1963 with their epic first ascent of Everest’s west ridge. That is the west ridge towering above them: 9,000 vertical feet of technically challenging terrain, at extreme altitude, that no one had ever set foot on. Hornbein and Unsoeld ascended the ridge, traversed the summit, miraculously survived a night bivouacked high on the mountain, and descended the southeast ridge safely the following morning, (ultimately with a few less toes).

As striking to me as the photo was the quote at the bottom of the poster, a paraphrase of Goethe attributed to Scottish mountaineer W.H. Murray :

“WHATEVER YOU CAN DO, OR DREAM YOU CAN, BEGIN IT. BOLDNESS HAS GENIUS, POWER, AND MAGIC IN IT”

The combination of that photo and quote stuck with me; one of those childhood impressions that shape how you approach the adult world. It still does. Some back stories:

Willi Unsoeld , one of the climbers in the photo, was larger than life. He found in climbing an intense blend of physical and spiritual satisfaction, and eloquently articulated what this meant to him. A couple of great biographies have been written about him. He was also a friend of my father’s. The first time I went rock climbing, in the early 1970’s at Den Rock in Andover MA, Willi was at the top of the rope.

In 1948 at the age of 21, Willi hiked to the base of India’s second highest mountain, Nanda Devi. It was the most beautiful mountain he had ever seen and he vowed that, if he ever had a daughter, he would name her after the mountain. He did just that, and “Devi”Unsoeld was our family’s baby sitter in the early 1970’s. In 1976, Willi and Devi organized an expedition to climb the mountain for which Devi was named. Tragically, Devi died of altitude complications high on a ridgeline. Three years later, in yet more tragedy, Willi died in an avalanche while leading a group of college students on a winter ascent of Mount Ranier.

Those are some of the emotional connections I have with that poster. There is a lot going on there, not all of it supporting an uplifting argument for “why the risk inherent in mountaineering is worth it”. But that image of Willi and Tom Hornbein approaching the West Ridge, together with that quote, are as powerful for me today as they were fifty years ago. Together, they speak to the majesty, awe, and spiritual connection I find in the mountains, and the importance of dream fulfillment that has long been at the core of my desire to climb Mount Everest.

Present course and speed

So I have a plan that I am excited about, and following the plan is already paying dividends. In a world with much uncertainty and worry, daily workouts provide invaluable structure. Getting outdoors for a run or hike is, as usual, immensely nourishing. Knowing that my dreams are alive is reassuring.

And a topic for perhaps a future blog post: amid the dark clouds of COVID-19 are some rays of grace and beauty. Among the many dislocations that come with physical distancing, we find emotional connections and new sources of meaning. Amid devastating hardship and loss experienced by so many, we realize how lucky we are and count our blessings. I know we are all experiencing personal versions of this.

Yesterday it was pouring rain and super windy. The structure of “Plan B” dictated that I get out for a workout regardless of the weather. The woods were soaking wet, so I ran on the roads, which is abnormally pleasant these days given the lack of traffic. Three quarters of the way through the run, I was drenched to the skin but feeling great; proud of myself for being out there on such a nasty day. Through the rain torrents, I caught sight of another runner ahead of me, moving with unusually awkward motions. As I got closer, I tried to see what was going on. Then I realized. The runner had two artificial legs, starting at the hips. He had difficulty navigating around the deep puddles in the road so just plowed through them, moving purposefully. I was amazed by how powerfully he could generate forward momentum using just his hip muscles. I pulled alongside and he gave me a big smile. We exchanged commiseration and encouragement as the rain poured down.

As I ran the final mile home, my gap year situation was put in clear context, and the quote on that poster continued to echo.

You are all in my thoughts in these challenging times. Godspeed. We will get through this.

Like everyone, my life in the coming weeks is going to be very different from what I was picturing. The new reality snapped in abruptly last week.

I was up on Pegan Hill behind our house, doing my least favorite but most helpful Everest workout – repeated speed hiking intervals with a 60 pound pack. It is beautiful up there, with open fields and views out to Mount Wachusett and Monadnock. As I crested the hill on each interval, I thought about how happy I was with my situation: leaving the next day for a family backcountry ski trip in the Canadian Rockies, then off to Nepal at the end of the month. After a year and a half of hard training, my body was right where I wanted it to be; strong and ready to roll. A great feeling.

I headed down to our house. Before hopping into the shower, I checked email. There was one from the Everest climb organizers: “The Nepal Government just closed the 2020 climbing season. All Everest permits are cancelled.” This is the moment it all started changing for me.

A gut punch. While mindful that many are being impacted far more substantially, this really hurt. Fifty years of dreaming, a year and a half of training, and weeks of effort arranging to be away from home. Poof! I spent the afternoon mentally regrouping. I had a week in British Columbia to look forward to: high in a remote mountain lodge with Jill, John, and Will, surrounded by alpine beauty, far from the headlines and relentless cable tv coverage. It was unfortunate that Holly couldn’t come due to work, but was going to be cherished family time nonetheless.

When Jill later that afternoon said that she couldn’t bring herself to get on a plane, I was saddened but understood fully. The boys and I got on the phone and discussed what to do. We weighed how it would feel to go without Jill, the potential of being unwitting virus transmitters, and the practical risk of getting stuck in Canada. In the end, we decided to go for it. Our flights and lodging were already paid for, and we had a great trip ahead of us at a place I have long wanted to visit: Assiniboine Lodge.

The next morning, Jill dropped Will and me at Logan airport. The flight to Toronto went smoothly. The plane was less than a quarter full, and we dutifully wiped down our seat belts and tray tables with the disinfectant wipes Jill had given us. The Toronto airport was deserted. As we were boarding our connecting flight to Calgary, another email I won’t forget appeared on my phone: “Assiniboine Lodge is cancelling the remainder of the winter 2020 season”.

Oh man. Now what? Hard to get off the plane. Bags already headed to Calgary. Low appetite for spending the night in Toronto airport. We texted John, who was planning to fly up from San Francisco the next day, and he cancelled his flights. Our plane taxied down the runway and took off. On the four hour flight to Calgary, I deferred figuring out what to do about our aborted family ski trip and instead pondered what to do with my blown up gap year.

Will and I landed in Calgary, drove through a snowstorm to Canmore, checked into our hotel around midnight, and collapsed into bed. The next morning, over strong cups of coffee, we went to work on “Plan B”. It is amazing how quickly the mind re-sets around new realities. We are all now experiencing this on a daily basis

We decided to stay in Canmore as long as possible, do day trips, and keep an eye on the travel situation to make sure we didn’t get stuck in Canada. We ended up getting in three great ski days. On the first, we cross country skied at Canmore Nordic Center; site of the 1988 Olympic races and – coincidentally – site of the upcoming 2021 World Masters Championships. It is a really amazing place.

Day two, we drove an hour and half north into Banff National Park, past Lake Louise, and ascended a mountain called “Observation Sub Peak”. We were guided by Pat Delaney, who is immensely competent, a pleasure to spend time with, and knows the backcountry terrain intimately.

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I was blown away by the vastness and beauty. Here is a photo of me just below the summit.

On day three, we headed into the Crowfoot Glacier drainage. Here is a photo of Will crossing frozen Bow Lake, looking up at our destination.

And here is a photo taken up in the bowl. Those are our tracks on the right, and that is Will on the left headed up for more turns.

This was one of the best days of skiing I have experienced in my life. It was also surreal. We were high up in pristine mountain beauty, miles from any virus, doing what we love to do, feeling vibrantly alive. Meanwhile down below, ski areas and restaurants were closing, Covid counts were rising, flights to the U.S. were cancelling, and Canada was moving to close the border. Pat mentioned that his employer was revoking all salaries. He was trying to figure out how to survive on zero income going forward.

We skied down to the car, drove back to Canmore, and were fortunate to get out on a flight the next morning. We got home last night.

What is the new course, Captain?

I have spent a lot of time over the past few days trying to figure out the best way forward. Like all of us, I am focused foremost on the physical and financial health of my family, and on how our country and world navigate this crisis. Less importantly, I also need to resolve what this means for the gap year I spent so long planning. Everest was to some extent the cornerstone, but climbing Aconcagua, cross country ski racing, and – still ahead- long distance sailing were also major elements. The organizing principle was to do things I have long dreamed of, that can only be done with substantial amounts of discretionary time. Everest is now closed to climbing, and the coming months are uncertain on many dimensions.

My current thinking is to take another shot at Everest. Dreams die hard. Much of the financial investment, (e.g. expedition costs, gear, flights), can be rolled forward to 2021. If I decide to do that, I will need to spend the next 12 months continuing to train intensively- something incompatible with long distance sailing. I will also need to figure out how to extend my gap year, which has been made possible by nonprofit boards and other organizations graciously accommodating my time off. I need to consult with my family, who have patiently supported my self-centered adventuring and dealt with the shadow of mountaineering risk.

While it remains to be finalized, I see a re-set emerging; a “gap year and a half”. Target Everest in Spring 2021. Save the long distance sailing for later, (maybe my seventies?). Ski more cross country races next season, perhaps with the World Masters Championships in early March as an end goal. Train hard between now and then, building on the base I have established. The more I think about it, the more I like it. Goals are powerful things, and – particularly in times like these- having an organizing construct for one’s life pays multiple dividends. I’ll sort it all out in the coming days.

This morning I received a text message from our guide Pat: “Things are getting a little out of hand around Canmore and I’ve decided to pack the camper van and head north until things settle down. Thank you both for sharing what turns out to be the very last days of my guiding season. I love what I do and it is devastating to have it all end so suddenly.”

I hope each of you reading this, together with your loved ones, stay well and are ok with your own course corrections. We will all get through this together. In times of adversity, it is encouraging to see the best of humanity rise to the fore.

This weekend I competed in the second of two ski marathons: the 41 kilometer “Bretton Woods Nordic Marathon”. While smaller than the Gatineau Loppet, it is a neat race in a gorgeous setting. The race starts in front of the venerable Mount Washington Hotel and winds its way up into the foothills between the hotel and its namesake mountain. You ski two laps of a 20+ kilometer loop.

As with the Gatineau Loppet, this was also an opportunity to road trip with friends, hang out in a fun hotel, and enjoy being in a beautiful place. Colin and Bob, (who past readers of this blog are familiar with), were there with their better halves, and my cousin Susan Fine joined Jill and Anne to form an all star support crew.

The race

The day of the race was sunny and clear, with snow covered Mount Washington towering over everything. Roughly a third of the field was collegiate racers, (a smattering of the ones not at the NCAA Championships currently being held in Montana), which injected palpable energy and talent into the event. Here is a photo of the start.

Those of you with the inclination to zoom in will find me roughly a third of the way in from the right, wearing a blue uniform and bib number 53. If you zoom even more purposefully, you will note two Dartmouth ski team members just ahead to my left, in green uniforms. I was chasing visions of my former self. That was as close as I ever got, and the last I saw of them.

From the vantage point of this retiree, the race went well. I managed to hang with a few of the collegiate racers, (okay, they may have been female racers, but still…), skied much of it with Bob and Colin, and felt strong the whole way. Out of 100+ racers, I ended up 33d overall and second in my age category. Here is a photo of Bob and me with one kilometer to go.

One of the great feelings in life is finishing a long distance endurance event, pulling dry clothes over tired muscles, and kicking back with friends and fellow competitors. Especially if it is a sunny March day with snow covered mountains all around. Bob, Colin, and I skied back to the start and retrieved various pieces of clothing and gear. Jill, Anne, and Susan met us in the finish area, where I was chatting with skiers I last saw forty years ago on the collegiate and national circuits. In another fun intersection of worlds, we caught up with Jimmy Pingeon, who we know from our summer community but rarely see outside of it.

Jill and I remained at Bretton Woods Sunday night after the race, (another clear benefit of being on a gap year), and had a nice dinner in the hotel with Susan. My pre-dinner martini tasted especially good.

Existential questions

Monday morning, I shook off the tiredness in my legs and did an easy ski around the race loop. It was sunny and warm- classic spring skiing- and I had the trails to myself. Thoroughly beautiful and a great time to meditate on some existential questions associated with my return to ski racing. As I glided through the birch and pine forest, I pondered a number of things.

You stand at the start line waiting for the gun to go off, prepare to endure intense pain for several hours, feel a mild sense of dread in your stomach, yet are intensely glad you are there. When you were competing on the collegiate level, there was a fundamental logic to it. Going faster than others helped your team win and improved your personal national ranking. It was what you were devoting your life to being good at, so being good mattered. At my current life stage, it is less clear why pushing one’s 60 year old body to go as fast as possible matters. Yet somehow it does, and it is deeply satisfying.

As described in previous posts, my objective in skiing some races this year was to see how it feels to re-connect with a sport that meant so much to me in my youth. As I needed to train hard for mountain climbing, and there is a high degree of overlap between how you train for mountain climbing and cross country ski racing, this was relatively easy to do. I am really glad I did it.

Now I’ve done it. As the rest of my gap year calls for Everest followed by a lot of sailing, ski racing is now suddenly in the rear view mirror. I am already starting to miss it. I look forward to the sailing, but I’ve now gotten myself back into decent physical shape and I hate to lose that. There is a very low degree of overlap between extended sailing and training for cross country skiing.

I’ve really enjoyed my brief return to ski racing; both the racing itself and all that comes with it. Perhaps most of all the discipline of daily training, and the time spent running and skiing through beautiful woods and fields. I can easily picture devoting an additional year or two to taking a shot at the world masters ski circuit. But I also really want to do the sailing. Would masters skiing be as satisfying if I were devoting that much of my life to it? Wouldn’t there be something mildly ridiculous about a 60 year old retired management consultant quasi-mimicking the life of a 25 year old World Cup racer? What about the non profit and business interests that I look forward to returning to after my gap year?

My ski loop finished before I resolved these questions. As I skied out of the woods and across the sun splashed fields to the hotel, I focused on what I knew for sure. This morning, in this place, I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing, and I was beyond lucky to be doing it.

Moving forward

I fly to British Columbia at the end of this week for a family back country ski trip. Then, in less than three weeks, it’s off to Nepal. Fingers heavily crossed that the Coronavirus doesn’t mess things up. I will post more on all of that, and on Everest in general, when I return from Canada.

Getting ready

As described in my last post, this weekend was my first cross country ski race in thirty years: the “Gatineau Loppet”, a 50 kilometer (31 mile) ski marathon outside of Ottawa. I skied it with my old friend and college roommate “Y.M.”, otherwise known as Colin. Jill and Colin’s wife Anne graciously stepped up to be support crew.

The Gatineau is one of a global series of ski marathons called the “World Loppet”. As such, it attracts a surprisingly international field of skiers and – despite being one of the smaller World Loppet events – has a neat “big race” feel. In addition to lots of Canadiens and fellow Americans, we were up against Norwegians, Estonians, Italians, Czechs, Finns, and die hard skiers from a host of other nations, all of whom spend a disproportionate amount of time training for and competing in World Loppet and other ski marathons. Having not raced for three or four decades, Colin and I were like new kids on the first day of school; soaking it all in and trying to figure out where the playground, cafeteria, and Principal’s office were.

One thing we new kids understood was that having well-waxed skis is important, and that the art and science of cross country ski waxing has evolved substantially since the days when we were last racing. So, on the drive up we detoured through Putney, Vermont for a visit to Caldwell Sport: the center of the well-waxed ski universe. In addition to serving as wax technicians for many of the top racers in the U.S., Zach and Amy Caldwell have built a neat business around procuring and preparing top-of-the-line skis for serious cross country skiers. While Colin and I do not fall into the category of Zach and Amy’s usual clientele, they graciously agreed to prepare our skis for the Gatineau.

Zach applied both the glide wax, the wax on the tips and tails of the skis that makes them go fast, and the kick wax that goes under the foot to give them traction. In each case, he carefully mixed, ironed in, and buffed multiple coats. It says something about the complexity of the alchemy that this process – just for our skis- took Zach several hours. As he was waxing two days before the actual event, Zach had to make a bunch of educated guesses. He supplemented his instinct with multiple weather forecasts, computer models, and a helpful phone call to a contact on the race committee up in Gatineau. It was fun to watch the master at work, and to catch up on a number of the latest waxing trends. Here is a photo of Zach in his workshop prepping our skis.

We broke up the drive to Ottawa with a night at Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe, where we were able to sneak in a nice ski before dinner. The next day we rolled into Ottawa and established base camp at Chateau Laurier, one of those neat old Canadian National Railway hotels. We picked up our racing bibs, had a nice dinner in the hotel, went to bed, and were up early to catch the shuttle bus to the start line.

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At the start, skiers were trying to stay warm in the sub zero temperatures and jockeying for position in their various starting waves. If you are one of those experienced World Loppet racers I described earlier, you have almost certainly been placed in the first of multiple start waves based on your prior qualifying results. Worst case you are in Wave 2. If you are two former collegiate skiers who haven’t raced in thirty years, you have begged and pleaded your way into Wave 3, which means you start the race four minutes behind all the people you wish you were skiing with, and have a couple of hundred people to catch up to. Colin and I wormed our way to the front of Wave 3, (thankful that at least we weren’t in Waves 4, 5, or 6), waited for the starting gun, and hoped for the best.

The race

The initial few kilometers were a breeze, as there was a gap between us and the waves ahead of us. Then we caught up to Wave 2 and spent several kilometers passing skier after skier after skier. When we started passing skiers with “Wave 1” on their bibs, we knew we were having a strong race.

A cross country ski marathon is a lot like a running marathon. The trick is to go as fast as you can while leaving gas in the tank for late in the race, and – most of all- to avoid “hitting the wall”, or “bonking” as it is also affectionately known. If you bonk, you can forget about placing well, and even finishing is an open question. We had agreed at the outset that our goal was to ski the entire race together, but that if one of us bonked the other would keep on going.

The race played out magically. The first thirty kilometers roll through beautiful fields, woods, and along the edge of lakes. The tracks were perfect, and after passing a good chunk of Wave 2 and some of the Wave 1 skiers, we were able to ski side by side. Between the thirty and forty kilometer marks, the course climbs steadily uphill. This is where the race is made or broken. We skied that section as well as we could have hoped for, continuing to pick off Wave 1 skiers, and we crested the top of the hills with just enough energy left to navigate the final ten kilometers to the finish. With five kilometers to go, our support crew was on the trail shouting encouragement and Jill took this photo:

As we approached the finish line, the announcer mentioned our names and hometowns. We crossed the finish line side by side, raised our arms up together, and the announcer added “nice teamwork!”. Out of a field of 550 skiers, we ended up placing 59th overall and 6th in our age group. We hobbled away from the finish area feeling really good about our effort.

Reflections

At one level, this experience was no different than that of the tens of thousands of people who regularly run marathons, ride long distance bike events, or enter ski marathons, triathlons, and other similar events. Preparing for and participating in anything like that provides meaning and satisfaction on multiple powerful dimensions. No surprise there.

For me, the kicker was returning to something that so defined and was a huge part of my life forty years ago, and “dropping back in” on it. A bit like one of those dreams when I’m back in school and haven’t studied for the exam- in the sense of it feeling simultaneously intensely familiar and like something that happened a long long time ago. Except that this was all positive energy, and it was real and happening now rather than a dream.

Forty years ago, I would have been competing to win the Gatineau Loppet. My exact finishing place would have mattered to me, and whether I skied well or poorly would have impacted my mood and sense of self worth for days afterward. Not in ways that I look back on and am entirely proud of.

Yesterday, I placed 59th. If it had been 49th or 89th, the lives of no one – including myself – would have been any different. And it was WONDERFUL! The sense of joy and satisfaction were equally powerful. All the fundamental elements of the experience were the same. Sharing the experience with an old friend, side by side for 50 kilometers, made it even more meaningful. Having our life partners there to cheer us on even more so. What a blessing to be able to experience this at age 60, and to be able to look forward to more.

Speaking of looking forward, the Bretton Woods Ski Marathon is in three weeks. I leave for Nepal and Everest in six weeks. The fact that, amid all the joy and satisfaction yesterday I also managed to strain a calf muscle, says that I need to back off the training for a few days. I will try to be smart about that.