A Big Bunch of B.A.B.Y(s)
An exclusive xcskiworld.com column by Levi Hensel. Find the complete index of columns by this author here
Each year, around this time, there takes place an event so important, so weighty, and so incredibly telling, that it is nearly impossible to do it justice in words. One must actually witness the event firsthand to fully comprehend its vast meaning. Only then can the considerable bearing, for better or worse, that it has on the bodies, minds, souls, and psyches, of all of the event participants…save one…be understood.
It is a small event, usually only drawing between twelve and twenty participants, sometimes as few as four or five, but it is momentous in scope, and can result in either absolute elation, or inconsolable despair.
It is the Century Drive Rollerski Time Trial Number 2.
I realize that this is a race you’ve never heard of. That will soon change. You too will soon want to show up and get your butt kicked.
The time trial is an approximately 8K, all uphill, skate rollerski time trial (up the aforementioned Century Drive here in Bend, OR). If you’re lucky, you finish it in the 22-24 minute range. If you aren’t so lucky, it can be a serious battle of attrition, often approaching the 30 minute barrier.
If fate really has it in for you, you don’t finish at all.
However this may be, and however your race ends up, time is really quite inconsequential. In reality, your finishing time does not matter at all. It does not matter from the first trial (run in July) to the second, nor does it matter from year to year.
The race simply (and I say "simply" quite facetiously) comes down to a matter of beating one individual. This is an individual exempt from the emotional duress of the rest of the participants. This individual will, quite likely, make you look like a total and utter rollerskiing idiot.
Impressively, that individual is a woman…and she is the bane of my existence.
The elite cross-country ski racing men (myself included) of Central Oregon thus train with a singular goal, an all-encompassing focus, a totally and utterly time consuming obsession of clearly unhealthy proportions.
It is the quest to not get “Beckied”.
Now, getting “girled”, as it’s known among guys, is nothing new, every guy worth his salt, in pretty much every sport out there, has likely been bested in competition by a member of the fairer sex at one time or another. Despite some ribbing from his buddies, most guys (at least the intelligent ones), are able to congratulate said woman, respect her for her performance, and move on. It happens. No one really cares.
Getting “girled” does not usually result in clinical depression. The worst case I’ve ever witnessed, prior to moving to Oregon, was a dear friend of mine, who, after a tough day on the race course, looked at the results sheet and came to the realization that he had been “Momed” by the female parent of fellow college teammate. Certainly he received some grief for this, and was unhappy for a few days, but even he was able to move on.
This is much different.
This is racing against a three-time Olympic medal winner (ok, so, actually, just the Gold medal in the end, but you know the story), and a woman who is the best in the world at races in this range. Beckie Scott dominates people on skis, both men and women, and she has a history of totally killing people on Century Drive.
You think you are fast? You have no idea. Many a man has fallen to her rollerskiing prowess, numerous times, including myself. In fact, many of us have never beaten her. This dominance, and the many failed attempts to curtail it, has placed such a load of stress on the fragile minds of the local male racers that it has become impossible for us to focus on anything else.
Our individual relative states of mental health have come under such strain from this fact, that other events completely pale in comparison. Forget the Vasa or the Birkie, whole seasons rest on the finishing order of Century Drive.
One teammate of mine, who, for the past three years has wallowed in a pit of self pity and loathing, based on his Century performances (read here – getting his ass handed to him on a platter every twelve months by the Beckinator) claimed that, no matter what else happened this season, he could call the year a success and die a happy man…if only he could just beat Beckie. (Mind you, this is a former NCAA All-American, and elite domestic marathoner.)
Somehow we’ve come to the conclusion that, in order to combat this dominant force, and in an effort to boost, our bruised, battered, and painfully suffering mental wellbeing we must do something other than just train. Over the past year, a male cross-country support group has been chartered here in Bend. I am, unfortunately, on the board of directors.
B.A.B.Y. (Beckie Always Beats You) exists to console the many broken souls of the local male ski-racing community. We try to service the tattered emotions that weigh so heavily on us after Beckie leaves us in her wake. B.A.B.Y. is a forum of expression for the lonely, the fatigued, the huddled masses, the scarred remnants of once proud and fast men to talk, to share hugs, and to pray for better days.
Often, the men of B.A.B.Y try and rationalize our losses.
Here’s the typical rationalization- “Rollerski races are unfair from the starting line, and in their very nature, because rollerskis (even the same model, within the same brand) will vary drastically in speed differential.” – usually followed by the statement, “But I’m still SO SLOW!
Why me Lord?! Why ME?!”
It certainly doesn’t help the rest of us that her badass skier/mechanic husband follows her during the race in a Tour de France style support vehicle. He then has the ability to change her wheels out with NASCAR-like speed and precision at the slightest sign that anything might be going awry (like one of us actually beating her!!)…but I digress.
Everyone has a sob story to tell. Last year, I was within a second of not just beating, but passing Beckie when, low and behold, my aluminum rollerski shaft snapped in half. Game over. I weep as I write this. Another group member was within sight of the finish line, only to break a pole tip, and fall short by two seconds. The stories are endless…and many more tears are shed.
Revenge is a common theme during our meetings.
Now that we have both a plumbing apprentice, and coffee roaster in our ranks, a subversive, and quite serious attempt at sabotage was undertaken by the members of B.A.B.Y. prior to this year’s race. In a swift, late night raid that would make any self-respecting ninja proud, we tapped into her house plumbing and caffeinated her water supply in order to disrupt her sleep cycle
It didn’t work. She still made it to the start on time.
We tried all sorts of tactics. We dulled her pole tips, “greased” her wheels with klister, and reset her alarm clock…all to no avail. We put sand in her oatmeal, and chalk in her orange juice…nothing.
The woman is unstoppable.
Past failed diversions (and there are many) include the B.A.B.Y. member who, due to injury, was going to be unable to race, but who, in support of his group members, tried to slow down Beckie’s progress on the road anyhow. He decided that the best course of action would be to jump out of the woods and run naked onto the road in front of Beckie around kilometer four.
Her subsequent fit of uncontrollable laughter (we shall not speculate on laughing at what, exactly), ridiculous pace increase, and utter dominance over the field (once again) did nothing to help the poor chap’s ego. He was on Prozac for six months afterwards (and he didn’t even race!).
Her pealing laughter still haunts his dreams to this day. This year was no different. She crushed most of us, and, as usual, the list of post-race excuses and statements was lengthy.
“Her skis are too fast!”
“She false started!”
“I didn’t have time to warm up!”
“I stink at ski racing!”
“I think I peed myself!”
Now, per the recent amendment to Article 4 of the B.A.B.Y. constitution, all of this year’s losers, and, yes, that’s what we are…big, fat, losers…must now wear BCM (Beckie Crushed Me) patches throughout the rest of the race season (not that any of the rest of those stupid races matter anyhow). We must do this to signify our total and utter worthlessness as ski racers.
However, fear not my fellow B.A.B.Y.’s. One year…although it may be in the far, far, far future…maybe when Beckie is retired, with five or six kids, and maybe when we are driving cars up the road instead of riding rollerskis…have heart, for we will prevail.
Finally, to you “Becks”, we say, GOOD LUCK in all those little unimportant World Cup and World Championship races this season. We B.A.B.Y.’s wish you the best. But, a word to the wise…you better be getting ready for the real test, because a year from now, baby, we’re bringing the rollerski ruckus.
You had better be ready.
Rollerski on my friends, and until next time, keep your poles sharp, and your wits sharper.
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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