Licking Lincoln and Swallowing Shrimp
An exclusive xcskiworld.com column by Levi Hensel. Find the complete index of columns by this author here
There are so many hypotheses as to what happens to your body while ski racing that it is very hard to discern much of anything from any of them. Sure, you’ve got tons of in-depth physiological explanations of thresholds, and maximal levels, and exertion rates and all sorts of other measurements. But what do they really mean?
Honestly, to the vast majority of us, these things don’t tell us much of anything at all, other than giving us a number on a scale (something akin to one equaling a nap in a feather bed and five, ten, or twenty -- depending on the chart -- equating to “Holy crap! Was that my spleen I just barfed?”). I wonder if it wouldn’t just make more sense to replace these, quite confusing, numbered scales with representative pictures. You then have your lower end (of the exertion scale) Mr. (or Mrs.) Stick Figure enjoying a deliciously frosty doughnut and glass of chocolate milk in a Lazy-Boy, and, conversely, your upper end Stick Dude/Dude-ette clutching said spleen in their little stick hands and grimacing in horror. Now, you may be raising your voices in protest, wondering if (and how) stick figures grimace? Or, unfairly questioning just where the spleen is located on a stick figure? As intriguing as these queries are, I don’t have time to dissect them (Or re-draw the figurines as necessary to meet your unfair and harsh demands!).
At any rate, the question persists. What does it actually feel like to race? For you, it is probably different than for myself, yet no less difficult, I’m sure (and hopefully not as horrific, for either one of us, as it seems to be for Mr. Stick or Mrs. Stickina at the end of their last massive hill repeat). Thus, I ask you a slightly different question. What are the sights (usually blurred), sounds (“Did I just explode something vital in my chest? What was that horrible noise I heard?”), and tastes (somewhere between ghastly and unpalatably nasty) of ski racing? What, more directly, is the taste of your race? For me, it goes something like this. As long as I’m not being a huge wuss on a given race day, and I am actually aiming, quite seriously, to have a decent performance, for whatever, umm, reason (“Yes, I see you over there on the other side of the stadium Miss Cute Butt In The Blue Race Suit. Why don’t you check me out on lap two, oh, say, around 7.5K. I’ll be the one with the huge snot icicle and the frost bitten right cheek, double poling like I’ve just been branded…Maybe we can get coffee later?”) I experience something quite odd. I do not believe I am alone in this phenomenon either, although I’ve not compared notes with many other racers.
What happens to me? I get seafood saliva.
More accurately, I get an incredibly acrid taste in my mouth. It usually occurs somewhere between a third and two thirds into the race and lasts until at, or near, the finish line. I say seafood, because when I first tasted it, the thought that popped into my mind was that it was reminiscent of raw shrimp (you know, the little cocktail ones).
At times, its not just shrimp either, but other pelagic creatures as well. Sometimes it tastes ike that first slippery (yes, the snot theme continues) oyster that my uncle made me swallow at that ocean side restaurant when I was ten. (As my father always likes to say, “T’was a brave man what first ate an oyster!”)
It is also highly metallic in taste. Like putting an old penny in your mouth. (Not to be confused with the one you stuck in your nose, like I did at age six. God Bless you Dr. Smith. You and the modern medical miracle that is “long forceps.”) This metallic taste may or may not be related to the relatively high levels of zinc and iron in the aforementioned, as well as many other, fruits de mer. I’m honestly not sure.
Although I’ve heard of people coughing up blood after races, the taste isn’t quite blood-like either (No, no, I’m not given to bouts of vampirism. I simply bleed a lot. My condition falls somewhere between low-level undiagnosed hemophilia and high-level easily diagnosed clumsiness), and no actual blood ever comes out of my mouth, thank goodness.
All this considered, I would certainly believe that much of this was completely off base, were it not also for a literary account of the taste, and thus, grounds for comparison. I believe that Hemingway wrote of something similar, although in a slightly different arena. In his descriptions and writings of soldiers in WWI, Hemingway likened the flavor that the soldiers tasted, in prolonged episodes of battle, to that of a copper penny. He observed that it was likely due to the great stress that they were under, and noted that it was the taste of certain impending death.
Now, I’m not sure whether or not to take solace in this description, given that I “taste death” on a weekly basis throughout much of the year. However, it does lend credo to the fact that something is actually occurring physiologically (and if you don’t believe that your body is being placed under a hell of a lot of stress when you are racing, you’ve probably never raced).
Also, before you ask, it’s not a “vurp” either. (This, of course, being the unpleasant confluence of “vomit” and “burp”…don’t lie, you’ve had one.) I know this because I’m too stinking poor to afford shrimp, or oysters, or any other sort of ocean delicacies, or even any food at all for that matter, which might then result in a vurp. Plus, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure my lower intestine does not have the metallurgical wherewithal, or digestion capabilities, to render the spare change in my car’s ashtray into anything usable or of nutritional value. So the taste has got to be something else.
So the research continues. In consultation with eminent exercise physiologist Julie Downing, Ph.D., it seems that no study has ever been conducted in order to analyze this phenomena. Dr. Downing hypothesizes that the taste (and she claims to have tasted it too) is due to the actual rupturing of the alveoli (those tiny air sacs) in your lungs because of the high rate and volume of ventilation that race level exertion propagates. From personal experience, I would have to agree, as the event always seems corollary to my spending prolonged amounts of time at, or near, my maximal ventilation exchange. This, however, is, as previously mentioned, hard to grasp physio-babble, so, in lay terms, it occurs because of your body’s indignation at what you’re putting it through, resulting in crustacean inhalation.
Now, maybe you’re lucky and have never had to get closer to old Honest Abe than is really comfortable. Maybe you race hard, and are blessed with flavors like peaches and cream, rosewater, vanilla, and milk chocolate. If so, good for you, I’m quite envious.
No such luck pour moi. Nope, I get squid.
The pre-race “piece of Trident” ritual does nothing to stave off the inevitable either, so I guess I’ll just have to live with the crabbiness that results.
Thus, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the sensations (not to be confused with sensitivities, where I would rate myself as more of the (unfortunately) “emotionally distant” type of guy are par for the course. They are just part of ski racing hard and something I have to accept (much like the fact that it turned out Miss Cute Butt wasn’t so hot on snot). I’m hopeful that the sensations that you experience when you are racing are a bit more pleasantly flavored, and that nothing fishy comes your way. However, if you are like me, and you do happen to know just exactly what I’m talking about, now you can always be comforted by the fact that when you race hard, not only are you working your proverbial ass off, but you’re actually working your lungs off too.
Ski on my friends, and until next time, keep your wits sharp, and your breath mints nearby.
Levi Hensel lives in the skier paradise of Bend, OR where he races for XC Oregon/Therapeutic Associates Inc. He is proud to represent Fischer USA in his racing endeavors, and when not training vigorously, or writing absurdly, finds time to help coach, and drink a lot of coffee.
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