In my life, I have had the privilege to be afforded with athletic ability. I like to think I have used this ability to my fullest potential, but there is always a lingering doubt about "what could have been" had I not been injured, or had my mentality regarding competition been stronger. These days, I suppose I continue to use that gift, albeit in far less serious and, consequently, far more enjoyable circumstances. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy fine-tuning my body into a veritable mileage monster. I truly loved to run, and, deep down, I still do. The sacrifices I made in my life physically are both a point of pride and a point of consternation to this day...and I would not change were I offered the chance to do it again. Now all I have are the memories and the residual pain of many years wear-and-tear on my body...which tends to keep the memories pretty sharp! So, I figured I might as well attempt to convey what it felt like...to be a runner.
Cross country was, and is, my favorite running discipline. I love to run off the road. I find it mentally easier to break up a long run into a series of segments, and concentrate on where I'm stepping and where the next turn or hill is rather than how fast I am going. Of course, in college, I was pretty much made to be concerned about ALL of these things...speed being the obvious goal. Racing cross country at the Division I level wasn't a big deal in and of itself, but that's as far as I ever got in terms of exclusivity in the running world, so I remain proud of that accomplishment. I figure at one time, I was knocking out miles in greater quantity and higher speed than a good portion of the general public, so there's my justification for this blogular iteration.
Getting to the Starting Line
Miles. Miles by the thousands. Miles of pavement, miles of gravel, miles of dirt. That's what it took to get to the starting line. In high school, I had somehow parlayed workouts totalling approximately 25 miles per week into an extremely successful career, culminating with a victory and course record at the Amateur Athletic Union Junior Olympics. In college, it became immediately clear that there was NO WAY that was going to happen. My freshman year, weekly mileage immediately averaged 75 and above per week. And that meant running 7 days per week. Sure, NCAA regulations maintain that an athlete may only practice 6 days in a week...but the caveat lay in the wording...only six days of SUPERVISED practice were allowed. If you wanted to be successful, you ran the "suggested" 14 miles on Sunday, without the coach...and usually with a hangover.
At any rate, with my mileage tripled, and even quadrupled by the end of the season, it was quite an adjustment to my body. Eventually, the miles won, leaving me to end the season with a stress fracture in my femur. Yes, it hurt. No, I did not stop running. I had worked hard, and wanted badly to compete in the biggest races of the season. Plus, the doctors gave me a 90% chance that the leg would not break completely during the race. There's a sneak-peek into my mentality...and the reason I wanted to write this out...
I ran through multiple twisted ankles, countless bouts with shin splints, patellar tendinitis, pulled hamstrings, pulled calf muscles, pulled hip flexors, the aforementioned cracked femur, a bunion that, according to my podiatrist, could have been from an 80-year-old, and, the bane of my career, a stress-fractured 4th lumbar vertebrae. Looking back, its a wonder I had any healthy days in those four years.
Workouts
Our program was rigorously structured, and, in some cases, even individualized, with each athlete shooting for goals ascribed by our meglomanical and ever-present coach, Christopher Buhler. The man was an AMAZING athlete who ran nearly every work out with us, and despite spotting us 15+ years in the age category, he consistently beat about half the team in some workouts. I could go on for days about this man, but, for the purpose of this story, a small vignette is all I will need to get the idea of what it was like to run for Coach Buhler. Prior to a track meet at Purdue University, he handed each of us a slip of paper in our individual scheduled meetings with events and times written on it. He handed me a paper that said "800 meters - 1:59 1600 meter - 4:00." Keeping in mind I was a DISTANCE athlete (5000m and 10,000m were my track events), this would not exactly be a cakewalk. He looked at me in the eye, and said "You WILL run these times." I ran exactly 4:00 for the 1500, puked my guts out, and came back with a 2:00 for the 800...both were the fastest I had ever, and would ever, run in those events. Myself and my teammates, would do just about anything we could physically to meet the expectations of this man. That is the sign of a great coach. The title of this post is a phrase Coach Buhler liked to use with impunity...I never quite understood why...
My all-time favorite workout in college was on Mondays in mid-cross country season. We would get in a van and drive 12 miles off-campus, out into the farm fields surrounding lovely Muncie, Indiana. After a cursory stretch, we would jog out another mile and then back as a warmup, and then begin our 12 mile return trip. The goal would be to increase our pace every mile. We started at a leisurely 7:30 pace, and by the time we hit campus, we were knocking on the door of 4:30 miles. We would be FLYING through campus, dodging vehicles and pedestrians...it was exhilarating.
College cross country races are 8000 meters (8 kilometers) during the regular season, and 10,000 for NCAA Regionals, so the kilometer was a vital instrument in training. A 3:05 minute kilometer was equivalent to a 5:00 mile....we would regularly knock out 1k intervals in 2:45 with minimal rest between. On a good day, it was an amazingly effortless endeavor...on a bad day, it was a death march. We ran a 10k loop regularly in the low 30 minute range...as a TEAM. It was really fun ripping off 4:50 miles with a group of your best friends...and your coach.
The Start Box
Race day was usually accompanied with a bundle of nerves. We had a strict regimen prepared by Coach Buhler, replete with uniform specifications. Black Nike running pants and a grey t-shirt with a sublimated "Ball State Distance" on the front...all go, no show. The idea was to hit the line with a layer of sweat...that way you knew you were warm. We stretched, did a few pull-outs to simulate the start, and, eventually, warmups came off and we were ready to toe the line. Cross country meets start in a HUGE line perpendicular to the course, with each team contained in a "Start Box." You could usually fit four guys across the front of your box, and the final three on the team just behind. Sometimes, you'd be looking down a line of guys 200 strong. Starting fast was imperative.
I always hated the start. There was always an instant red-line...going as fast as you can and putting yourself in oxygen debt isn't very appealing when you have 5 or 6 hilly miles to go. The most important thing was the ability to come out of that gutted feeling and find your rhythm. The absolute key to all distance running is finding rhythm...if you are out of rhythm, say, due to injury or just lack of mental focus, you are pretty much toast. You will find yourself in pain, and the pain will eventually consume you. I have always been a fast starter in spite of myself. Prior to every race, I would tell myself to take it easy off the line, settle in, and make my move later in the race. Inevitably, I would find myself at the front of the race, sometimes that was a good thing, but many times it simply meant I would be getting passed for the remainder of the race! I came out of the gate at a race my freshman year and found myself in the top five after the first kilometer. I looked at those in front of me, and was horrified to see that Bob Kennedy (a future Olympian running for Indiana University) was not there, even though I knew he was at the race. I was palpably relieved when somebody else asked "Where's Bob?," and another Indiana runner assured us that he would be by...he was simply using this race as a training exercise. Sure enough, before we hit the second kilometer, he passed us like we were going backwards. I was happy to finish in the top twenty.
Cross country can be a lot more brutal than it would appear from an outside perspective. There are flying elbows at the start looking to connect with a chest or a face, sharp metal spikes on the bottom of shoes that shred shins readily (I still have a TON of scars), and there's the infamous turn-flag grab and rebound. I was the victim of the latter by one of my own teammates in a race...the flag sprang back and nailed me between the eyes. All of this, plus the battle against what could occasionally be some seriously difficult terrain. I tended to prefer the more difficult courses....lots of hills and turns were advantageous to a short guy like me. Most races were held on golf courses, which could range from desktop flat at University of Illinois, to extremely "rolling" like Southern Indiana University. Indiana University had its own dedicated cross country course, which was really nice, and quite challenging. Oh...and then there was the weather. We trained in all conditions (my personal record extremes are a head index of 114 and a wind chill of -63), so we would be prepared to race in all conditions. From blistering heat and choking dust to freezing rain and sloppy mud, we did it all. And somehow, we did it with speed.
Pain
At some point in the race, ALMOST without exception, you would begin to feel pain. Sure, there are a couple races I can remember when it all felt so easy...like I was floating...but the vast majority were spent in a constant mental battle against physical limits. I had been trained to embrace the pain and use it to gauge my performance. I knew the pain level that was actually GOOD to be at, and I knew all to well when that pain began to be debilitating. I could tell what my pace was usually within 5 seconds per mile, just by how I was feeling. The delicate balance between pushing yourself and pacing yourself was a constant game of chess contested between body and mind. From the outside, running doesn't seem very cerebral. Inside the mind of a distance athlete is a constant brain battle. Checking breathing. Checking stride. Adjusting for terrain. Looking for teammates. Pass this guy or draft off him for a while? Power up a hill. Stride out on a downhill. Attack a turn. And that nagging thought that never, ever goes away...will I have enough left in the tank to finish strong?
When I was physically well, I was a strong mental runner. I found it easy to convince my legs and lungs to perform at a high level. I was always breaking down a race flag by flag...running from corner to corner and attacking turns like I would have in my days as a soccer player. I made it fun. I talked to my competitors, both to relax myself, and as a psychological weapon against them (How can that guy be talking when I can't even breathe?) I waved to my parents if they were at a race, I looked forward to hills, and when the finish came, although I didn't have the strongest kick in the world, I would generally push myself WELL into the red zone...feeling the pain burning my lungs and crushing my legs...and making the eventual stop at the finish line feel so very good. At those times, pain was my friend.
Then there were the bad times. The times when the pain literally overwhelmed me. My particular cross to bear was my fractured vertebrae. The pain in my lower back would literally leave me crumpled on the ground. It would be as if someone had stuck a corkscrew in my back and was just winding it tighter and tighter...it would prevent me from even breathing normally. It was as if all of energy would be sucked into the spasming muscles around my sacroiliac joint, and eventually, I could not even stand upright, much less push myself to run sub-5 minute pace. The physical pain would bring about a rapid and unforgiving flood of mental pain, and that would generally spell the end for me. It was too much. I met my limits time and time again...like an engine hitting a rev limiter, and it left me as a ragged husk of myself repeatedly. Perseverance faded to struggle. Struggle gave way to frustration. Frustration rapidly ate away at confidence. I was left with nothing. Pain had won.
The Finish Line
By the time I had finished my senior year cross country season, I was mentally burned out. Constantly dealing with my back issues (which remain with me to this day) had broken me down to questioning what had previously been unassailable....my love for the sport. I needed to take a step away from the competitive drive that had left me raw and bloody for want of my prior physical state. I was hurt, and after well over a year of trying everything, I knew my career as a competitive athlete was over. This realization, painful though it was, also happened to contribute to an epiphany of sorts: I didn't HAVE to do this. Call it maturation, call it coming to my senses, call it a sudden onset of sanity...but I made peace with the finish line and came away from years of pain (both good and bad) with an indefatigable source of pride in what I had accomplished.
Running has helped me grow as a person in innumerable and immeasurable ways, and putting the thoughts of that process down has been somewhat cathartic. Of late, I have strayed from putting one foot in front of the other in favor of cranking out miles on two wheels, but always the drive and purity of athleticism that is running flows through my veins....probably why I enjoy the singlespeed mountain bike so much.
So...I started to run again. I'm not fast, nor do I portend to be fast. I run to enjoy myself. I run to BE myself.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Snapshot
I don't want to say I have a photographic memory, but I tend to have the ability to pull random specificity from poignant moments in my life. Sometimes it acts on a trigger...usually a song that was playing at the time. It happened to me today, thanks to the 1980s Alternative playlist on Pandora. Here's the story:
It was the fall of 1992, and I was fully enveloped in the chaos and utter unpredictability of life away from home, on my own, on a college campus. Trauma is usually used with a negative connotation, but any situation, be it differently good or differently bad, can certainly cause mental trauma. I was really trying to get my feet under me after being presented with the traumatic situation that pretty much involved creating a persona that would be, ostensibly, the New me. It happens to everyone that either goes away to school, moves to a new neighborhood, changes jobs, starts a relationship, etc...you find that you suddenly have an opportunity to be something slightly different than you were in the past. I am sure some people who undergo a complete reinvention that is far away from who they really are tend to have some difficulty, but I'd like to think I stuck close to the tenets that had defined myself for my 18 years. But I digress.
The single most negatively traumatic situation I was dealing with was the separation from my girlfriend. Even though my rational mind would intervene with the proverbial "cold water" interpretation of my feelings as mere youthful infatuation, I was fairly convinced that I was in love with her. Even though that did in fact happen to be the case (considering over 20 years later I'm still in this situation), I was not in a position to really call it love...not at that age. One of the things that defined me was the aching pain of separation from the girl I had dated for a year and three months. I found that the telephone was not only an inadequate source of relief from this pain...but it created even more pain...in the wallet. I blew through my allotted $100 in phone bill in the first two weeks...learning the cruelty that was the toll call. We were in the same area code, so a long distance plan would not work...it was not until after we graduated that this would change, most likely a change that was conceived and propagated by someone whose paycheck was greatly supplemented by a love-sick teenaged me. I wanted/needed to see her.
Three weeks of school went by...and the day came that she was coming to visit. She had hooked a ride from a friend at Purdue that was visiting Ball State for the weekend. It was a Friday night. I was literally a nervous wreck all day. I had given her directions to my dorm, and she had told me she was to arrive around 6 pm. After eating dinner, I could do nothing but wait. After secluding myself in my dorm room for as long as I could stand, I emerged into the common area of the dorm. A group of my friends were hanging around there, and, as I recall, all of them asked me when my girlfriend was coming. I most likely responded with a countdown to the very minute. 6 came and went, and I began to worry. I began to pace at 6:15. I could no longer converse by 6:30...I felt ready to explode. I needed to get away from everyone that seemed to be staring at me...wondering where my girlfriend was. It was a case of anticipation like I've rarely experienced, hence the reason its so burned into my memory.
7 pm found me sitting in front of the dorm on a bench, fervently searching every car door that opened for the sign of her head. I was comforted at one point by a girl I'd met the week before...I guess my anguish was pretty apparent? When 7:30 came, I was beside myself. I remember no longer being able to sit still. I alternated between scanning the road in front of the dorm and the ground between my feet. There was nothing else.
Then, the door to the dorm opened behind me. I turned to see who it was...and it was her. She was accompanied by one of my friends, having accidentally used the back door of the building, and that friend knew exactly who she was and where I was. I levitated off the bench. Here's where the memory part comes in. Her long brown/blonde tresses fell in waves over her shoulders. She was wearing a black and white striped top and a pair of black jean shorts. Past that point, everything is pretty blurry. I introduced her to a bunch of my new friends, there were smiles all around, and I took her back to my room. Then, clarity. And the reason behind this diatribe.
We were together, and my heart felt like it would burst. We hugged. We kissed. And then I (as I had previously planned), I asked her to dance. The song was Close To Me by The Cure. I held her tight, and when I looked into her eyes, she was crying. I didn't know it was possible for a person to miss another more than I had missed her, but, apparently she had missed me as well.
Hearing the song again today made me think how well I have done in keeping her Close To Me ever since.
It was the fall of 1992, and I was fully enveloped in the chaos and utter unpredictability of life away from home, on my own, on a college campus. Trauma is usually used with a negative connotation, but any situation, be it differently good or differently bad, can certainly cause mental trauma. I was really trying to get my feet under me after being presented with the traumatic situation that pretty much involved creating a persona that would be, ostensibly, the New me. It happens to everyone that either goes away to school, moves to a new neighborhood, changes jobs, starts a relationship, etc...you find that you suddenly have an opportunity to be something slightly different than you were in the past. I am sure some people who undergo a complete reinvention that is far away from who they really are tend to have some difficulty, but I'd like to think I stuck close to the tenets that had defined myself for my 18 years. But I digress.
The single most negatively traumatic situation I was dealing with was the separation from my girlfriend. Even though my rational mind would intervene with the proverbial "cold water" interpretation of my feelings as mere youthful infatuation, I was fairly convinced that I was in love with her. Even though that did in fact happen to be the case (considering over 20 years later I'm still in this situation), I was not in a position to really call it love...not at that age. One of the things that defined me was the aching pain of separation from the girl I had dated for a year and three months. I found that the telephone was not only an inadequate source of relief from this pain...but it created even more pain...in the wallet. I blew through my allotted $100 in phone bill in the first two weeks...learning the cruelty that was the toll call. We were in the same area code, so a long distance plan would not work...it was not until after we graduated that this would change, most likely a change that was conceived and propagated by someone whose paycheck was greatly supplemented by a love-sick teenaged me. I wanted/needed to see her.
Three weeks of school went by...and the day came that she was coming to visit. She had hooked a ride from a friend at Purdue that was visiting Ball State for the weekend. It was a Friday night. I was literally a nervous wreck all day. I had given her directions to my dorm, and she had told me she was to arrive around 6 pm. After eating dinner, I could do nothing but wait. After secluding myself in my dorm room for as long as I could stand, I emerged into the common area of the dorm. A group of my friends were hanging around there, and, as I recall, all of them asked me when my girlfriend was coming. I most likely responded with a countdown to the very minute. 6 came and went, and I began to worry. I began to pace at 6:15. I could no longer converse by 6:30...I felt ready to explode. I needed to get away from everyone that seemed to be staring at me...wondering where my girlfriend was. It was a case of anticipation like I've rarely experienced, hence the reason its so burned into my memory.
7 pm found me sitting in front of the dorm on a bench, fervently searching every car door that opened for the sign of her head. I was comforted at one point by a girl I'd met the week before...I guess my anguish was pretty apparent? When 7:30 came, I was beside myself. I remember no longer being able to sit still. I alternated between scanning the road in front of the dorm and the ground between my feet. There was nothing else.
Then, the door to the dorm opened behind me. I turned to see who it was...and it was her. She was accompanied by one of my friends, having accidentally used the back door of the building, and that friend knew exactly who she was and where I was. I levitated off the bench. Here's where the memory part comes in. Her long brown/blonde tresses fell in waves over her shoulders. She was wearing a black and white striped top and a pair of black jean shorts. Past that point, everything is pretty blurry. I introduced her to a bunch of my new friends, there were smiles all around, and I took her back to my room. Then, clarity. And the reason behind this diatribe.
We were together, and my heart felt like it would burst. We hugged. We kissed. And then I (as I had previously planned), I asked her to dance. The song was Close To Me by The Cure. I held her tight, and when I looked into her eyes, she was crying. I didn't know it was possible for a person to miss another more than I had missed her, but, apparently she had missed me as well.
Hearing the song again today made me think how well I have done in keeping her Close To Me ever since.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Sommer Winter trip...
When you have the last name Sommer, it can be difficult to define or explain exactly why my love for most things winter is so pervasive. It wasn't always that way...there were a few years between my last snowmobiling experience with my dad and his friends and my first trip downhill on a snowboard when I literally had NOTHING to do during the winter. It really screwed with me mentally....so much so that Michelle used to refer to it as Winter Depression. As previously referenced, snowboarding changed all of that, and became all-consuming for a long while, until Michelle decided she wanted to try snowmobiling. Her enthusiasm for that particular endeavor has led to the rekindling of my own desire to ride, and in the 5 or so years since we started sledding, we have owned seven snowmobiles.
We Sommers have a problem with winter...we tend to enjoy it a lot. Mother Nature was very kind to us in our initial years as snowmobilers...plenty of white stuff to go around even before Christmas, and plenty of options as to where to ride each weekend. That has NOT been the case recently, when we have been forced to chase the snow and alter our schedules to take advantage of the white gold between meltdowns. This year, we were chomping at the bit to get our annual Christmas - New Year's trip planned and carried out without dealing with a fickle Ma Nature....so early December found us planning a trip to Baraga, Michigan to meet with our friends Bill and Lisa from Pennsylvania for a couple days, then finishing off the week on Lake Gogebic, MI with our boating friends for an awesome New Year celebration. Unfortunately, Old Man Winter is apparently asleep at the wheel once again, and da Yoop had NO snow for us to play on...we were left with a dilemma similar to that of the previous year (one which had a similar scenario). Last year, we packed up the truck and headed west to Colorado...but this year, the snow situation out there wasn't looking very good either. Our Pennsylvania friends made the definitive move to cancel on Michigan and head to their old stomping grounds, St. Zenon, Quebec, Canada. In a move calculated largely upon desperation, and fueled in a lesser capacity by desire to try something new....I took the plunge and decided we would commit to going with them. Instead of driving 16 hours west, we would be driving 15 hours east. No problem.
After a hectic couple of days leading up to Christmas filled with the usual familial holiday cheer, we were ready to roll. The truck was packed and in the driveway as we departed to our final family functions on Christmas day. Our desire to get rolling early was stoked by the approaching winter storm that was going to be following us to the north and east. One thing about travelling to winter activities....you always want the winter to be there WHEN you arrive, and to leave you alone in the TO and FROM stages of the trip! Well, we got home at about 10:30 Christmas night, and I set my alarm for 3:15am. I was not wanting to roll into a foreign country in a blizzard for multiple hours, and getting up that early was an easy sacrifice to make. We were rolling by 4am, and by shortly after 8, we had made it to Detroit. The border crossing was not difficult, although the female officer was less than friendly. I will admit to telling her I had one case of beer when in actuality, it was two cases of beer, a gallon of rum, two bottles of wine, a bottle of Rum Chata, and some Baileys. We were taking NO chances with our thirst after a day of hard riding.
We continued to the east, an ominous line of dark clouds to our south, and a telephonic data blackout due to the lack of an international package meaning we had to rely on the merits of the AM radio dial to tell us what we were in for weather wise. We made Toronto in about seven hours, and the radio was telling us that the Winter Storm Warning would kick in at about 4 pm ( 4pm eastern, we left at 5am eastern). That gave us about a 3 hour cushion...a bit too close for comfort yet. While passing through Toronto, we came upon the Canadian National Holiday of Boxing Day. Apparently, it is a day of shopping, much like the day after our Thanksgiving, and there was LITERALLY a 5 mile backup in both directions of the off-ramp for a major local mall. It was CRAZY. Fortunately, it didn't affect the fast lane, and we kept going.
A stiff 30 mph headwind kept our gas mileage at around 11, so stops for fuel were a bit more frequent than I would have liked. Still, we were ahead of the weather and things were looking good, so we pushed our second tank of fuel all the way into Quebec, where we suddenly found ourselves in the lingual minority...big time. I had known that Quebec was a French-speaking area of Canada with a serious bent towards independence, but I guess I didn't really figure on English being almost entirely absent. Yet...here we were, looking at a menu in a fast food restaurant at a truck stop...deciding what to eat by looking at pictures and feeling very thankful that the girl behind the counter spoke decent English...our knowledge of French being exactly NIL. Also...I found out that Capital One will cut you off if your card starts reeling up charges in another country...a quick phone call from my parents established that fact and the card was usable again shortly afterwards. Merci.
The third large city we encountered was Montreal, and we successfully navigated the French road signs until we found ourselves headed north for the final leg of the trip. It was right around then, 10+ hours into the drive, that we first encountered what would be considered ridable snow. That amount rapidly increased as we continued north, and by the time we were off the highway and into the area around St. Zenon, the snow was COPIOUS. As in...there were FEET of it. The roads were mercifully clear as we climbed and twisted into the low mountains of the area, and the picturesque cottages along the route looked like they had been plucked out of a snow globe. It was surreal.
FINALLY, 15 hours after the inception of the drive, we pulled into our destination. Le Auberge de Cabanon is a rustic lodge and restaurant that is only arrived at with a 5 mile drive down what I am sure is a dirt road in the summer, and was dressed as a icy washboard for the winter. We checked in, met our PA friends, and they helped Michelle unload the truck and bring our stuff to the room as I unloaded the sleds and got them into the locked corral where they would spend each evening. Theft was a concern in the past, so La Cabanon not only locks the sleds away in the evening, but also the parking lot where the trailers and tow rigs were situated. Very smart. I had to park about 4 rows back, the lot being almost entirely full of two and four-place sled trailers. Clearly, we had come to the right place.
The next day dawned with a grey menace in the sky, but with a fiery hot desire to RIDE in our bellies. Our group consisted of 10 people, our friend's Bill and Lisa, Michelle and I, two newlywed couples Josh and Maree and Will and Amy, and hardcore sledders Justin and Steve. Snow was already falling as we hit the trail (this was the storm I had been outrunning, it was a bit slower than forecast), and it continued all day long. Visibility was an issue, as the falling snow and snow dust kicked up by the riders in front kept one searching for a clear line of sight, but that didn't slow the group down by much. We were running 60-70 mph on the straights and having a GREAT time. The trails were spectacular...rolling, twisting, smooth ribbons cutting a path through an endless array of pine and birch trees. Everything I saw flashing past my goggles was amazing...we had hit snowmobile paydirt. Right away, I knew it was worth the drive.
The subsequent days were much the same, with the temps getting gradually colder and the snow tapering off after adding another 6 to 8 inches of white fluffiness to the area. Day two saw the roughest trails of the trip, most likely as the result of the fresh snow and the large amount of traffic...which was entirely relative...a large amount of traffic in Quebec is still empty trails compared to what we are used to. We rode across a hydroelectric dam, alongside a beautiful river, up and down scores of mountains, through picturesque villages, over a one-lane suspension bridge, and across a somewhat questionably frozen lake (we were assured it was solid...the slushy parts said otherwise!). The towns of St. Donay and St. Michelle felt like they were transplanted from the French Alps. Justin and Steve took turns getting stuck in the powder of an abandoned ski hill. We raced through a national park, and had fun doing husband v. wife grudge match drag races on the lake back at La Cabanon. We ate at La Glaciere, Le Pub, Repos and Hector's...the latter being named after the owners 2 year old son who was present for our meal and waved goodbye to us as we rode away. The people we encounterd were VERY friendly, and very patient with a bunch of non-French speakers...repetition was the key to our understanding! We only got lost once, and that was due to poorly marked trails, but it did result in a bit of consternation, as being lost in an area where you don't speak the native tongue at night in the freezing cold with less than 1/2 tank of gas can be...well...bothersome. The hot tub and some cocktails welcomed us back each night, and by the end of the five days, my body was actually feeling pretty good.
We racked up just shy of 850 miles, with about 75 of them in the "bumpy" category. The rest was borderline heavenly. Our sleds all ran flawlessly, and, as a group, we moved very well together...nobody lagged behind, and, more importantly, nobody got lost! Our skill in speaking French did not progress nearly as well, especially with regard to Michelle saying goodbye. She could not get her mouth to properly say "Au revoir," which was a source of much hilarity. "Adieu" seemed to suit her much better.
Our final night was New Year's Eve, but after a 160 mile day, we gave ourselves a pass an had our own countdown at like 10 pm...another contributing factor being that the PA folks were rolling for home at 5am, with us following by 7 (6 our time). We bade our friends "adieu," packed for our early morning departure, and went to sleep. The next morning we chased the sun across the sky heading west for 15 more hours of driving, awake, but dreaming of the wonders we had just experienced.
We Sommers have a problem with winter...we tend to enjoy it a lot. Mother Nature was very kind to us in our initial years as snowmobilers...plenty of white stuff to go around even before Christmas, and plenty of options as to where to ride each weekend. That has NOT been the case recently, when we have been forced to chase the snow and alter our schedules to take advantage of the white gold between meltdowns. This year, we were chomping at the bit to get our annual Christmas - New Year's trip planned and carried out without dealing with a fickle Ma Nature....so early December found us planning a trip to Baraga, Michigan to meet with our friends Bill and Lisa from Pennsylvania for a couple days, then finishing off the week on Lake Gogebic, MI with our boating friends for an awesome New Year celebration. Unfortunately, Old Man Winter is apparently asleep at the wheel once again, and da Yoop had NO snow for us to play on...we were left with a dilemma similar to that of the previous year (one which had a similar scenario). Last year, we packed up the truck and headed west to Colorado...but this year, the snow situation out there wasn't looking very good either. Our Pennsylvania friends made the definitive move to cancel on Michigan and head to their old stomping grounds, St. Zenon, Quebec, Canada. In a move calculated largely upon desperation, and fueled in a lesser capacity by desire to try something new....I took the plunge and decided we would commit to going with them. Instead of driving 16 hours west, we would be driving 15 hours east. No problem.
After a hectic couple of days leading up to Christmas filled with the usual familial holiday cheer, we were ready to roll. The truck was packed and in the driveway as we departed to our final family functions on Christmas day. Our desire to get rolling early was stoked by the approaching winter storm that was going to be following us to the north and east. One thing about travelling to winter activities....you always want the winter to be there WHEN you arrive, and to leave you alone in the TO and FROM stages of the trip! Well, we got home at about 10:30 Christmas night, and I set my alarm for 3:15am. I was not wanting to roll into a foreign country in a blizzard for multiple hours, and getting up that early was an easy sacrifice to make. We were rolling by 4am, and by shortly after 8, we had made it to Detroit. The border crossing was not difficult, although the female officer was less than friendly. I will admit to telling her I had one case of beer when in actuality, it was two cases of beer, a gallon of rum, two bottles of wine, a bottle of Rum Chata, and some Baileys. We were taking NO chances with our thirst after a day of hard riding.
We continued to the east, an ominous line of dark clouds to our south, and a telephonic data blackout due to the lack of an international package meaning we had to rely on the merits of the AM radio dial to tell us what we were in for weather wise. We made Toronto in about seven hours, and the radio was telling us that the Winter Storm Warning would kick in at about 4 pm ( 4pm eastern, we left at 5am eastern). That gave us about a 3 hour cushion...a bit too close for comfort yet. While passing through Toronto, we came upon the Canadian National Holiday of Boxing Day. Apparently, it is a day of shopping, much like the day after our Thanksgiving, and there was LITERALLY a 5 mile backup in both directions of the off-ramp for a major local mall. It was CRAZY. Fortunately, it didn't affect the fast lane, and we kept going.
A stiff 30 mph headwind kept our gas mileage at around 11, so stops for fuel were a bit more frequent than I would have liked. Still, we were ahead of the weather and things were looking good, so we pushed our second tank of fuel all the way into Quebec, where we suddenly found ourselves in the lingual minority...big time. I had known that Quebec was a French-speaking area of Canada with a serious bent towards independence, but I guess I didn't really figure on English being almost entirely absent. Yet...here we were, looking at a menu in a fast food restaurant at a truck stop...deciding what to eat by looking at pictures and feeling very thankful that the girl behind the counter spoke decent English...our knowledge of French being exactly NIL. Also...I found out that Capital One will cut you off if your card starts reeling up charges in another country...a quick phone call from my parents established that fact and the card was usable again shortly afterwards. Merci.
The third large city we encountered was Montreal, and we successfully navigated the French road signs until we found ourselves headed north for the final leg of the trip. It was right around then, 10+ hours into the drive, that we first encountered what would be considered ridable snow. That amount rapidly increased as we continued north, and by the time we were off the highway and into the area around St. Zenon, the snow was COPIOUS. As in...there were FEET of it. The roads were mercifully clear as we climbed and twisted into the low mountains of the area, and the picturesque cottages along the route looked like they had been plucked out of a snow globe. It was surreal.
FINALLY, 15 hours after the inception of the drive, we pulled into our destination. Le Auberge de Cabanon is a rustic lodge and restaurant that is only arrived at with a 5 mile drive down what I am sure is a dirt road in the summer, and was dressed as a icy washboard for the winter. We checked in, met our PA friends, and they helped Michelle unload the truck and bring our stuff to the room as I unloaded the sleds and got them into the locked corral where they would spend each evening. Theft was a concern in the past, so La Cabanon not only locks the sleds away in the evening, but also the parking lot where the trailers and tow rigs were situated. Very smart. I had to park about 4 rows back, the lot being almost entirely full of two and four-place sled trailers. Clearly, we had come to the right place.
The next day dawned with a grey menace in the sky, but with a fiery hot desire to RIDE in our bellies. Our group consisted of 10 people, our friend's Bill and Lisa, Michelle and I, two newlywed couples Josh and Maree and Will and Amy, and hardcore sledders Justin and Steve. Snow was already falling as we hit the trail (this was the storm I had been outrunning, it was a bit slower than forecast), and it continued all day long. Visibility was an issue, as the falling snow and snow dust kicked up by the riders in front kept one searching for a clear line of sight, but that didn't slow the group down by much. We were running 60-70 mph on the straights and having a GREAT time. The trails were spectacular...rolling, twisting, smooth ribbons cutting a path through an endless array of pine and birch trees. Everything I saw flashing past my goggles was amazing...we had hit snowmobile paydirt. Right away, I knew it was worth the drive.
The subsequent days were much the same, with the temps getting gradually colder and the snow tapering off after adding another 6 to 8 inches of white fluffiness to the area. Day two saw the roughest trails of the trip, most likely as the result of the fresh snow and the large amount of traffic...which was entirely relative...a large amount of traffic in Quebec is still empty trails compared to what we are used to. We rode across a hydroelectric dam, alongside a beautiful river, up and down scores of mountains, through picturesque villages, over a one-lane suspension bridge, and across a somewhat questionably frozen lake (we were assured it was solid...the slushy parts said otherwise!). The towns of St. Donay and St. Michelle felt like they were transplanted from the French Alps. Justin and Steve took turns getting stuck in the powder of an abandoned ski hill. We raced through a national park, and had fun doing husband v. wife grudge match drag races on the lake back at La Cabanon. We ate at La Glaciere, Le Pub, Repos and Hector's...the latter being named after the owners 2 year old son who was present for our meal and waved goodbye to us as we rode away. The people we encounterd were VERY friendly, and very patient with a bunch of non-French speakers...repetition was the key to our understanding! We only got lost once, and that was due to poorly marked trails, but it did result in a bit of consternation, as being lost in an area where you don't speak the native tongue at night in the freezing cold with less than 1/2 tank of gas can be...well...bothersome. The hot tub and some cocktails welcomed us back each night, and by the end of the five days, my body was actually feeling pretty good.
We racked up just shy of 850 miles, with about 75 of them in the "bumpy" category. The rest was borderline heavenly. Our sleds all ran flawlessly, and, as a group, we moved very well together...nobody lagged behind, and, more importantly, nobody got lost! Our skill in speaking French did not progress nearly as well, especially with regard to Michelle saying goodbye. She could not get her mouth to properly say "Au revoir," which was a source of much hilarity. "Adieu" seemed to suit her much better.
Our final night was New Year's Eve, but after a 160 mile day, we gave ourselves a pass an had our own countdown at like 10 pm...another contributing factor being that the PA folks were rolling for home at 5am, with us following by 7 (6 our time). We bade our friends "adieu," packed for our early morning departure, and went to sleep. The next morning we chased the sun across the sky heading west for 15 more hours of driving, awake, but dreaming of the wonders we had just experienced.
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