American Birkebeiner

Hanging among the nineteen Birkebeiner bibs in my parents’ spare room are memories of trips to Hayward when my sister and I were “just kids”. Memories of building snow tunnels through the piles of snow from plowing the parking lots at the rental cabins, walking through Telemark Lodge in its days of full-fledged glory, picking our way through the endless shops in the lodge to find the year’s gnome inspired souvenir, skiing the Barnebirkie with the local school children cheering near the schoolyard fences, and, of course, waiting for and cheering my dad on at various points along the Birkie course and finish. Therefore, twenty-four years after my dad skied his first Birkie, the significance of the blue and red trim on his bibs has been burned into my memory as well.

His first wave starts, interspersed with a few second waves as well, are the result of hard work, determination, and passion. They are the year’s culmination of early mornings, a careful diet, hours spent on his bike followed by hours spent on the snow, the desire to reach a personal best, and a yearning love that can only be quenched by crossing the finish line in downtown Hayward. My dad is not a professional athlete, he is not an elite skier, he is not the winner of his age group, and he is not the fastest skier among his friends. He is, however, much more than any of that. My dad is a loving husband, an unbelievable grandfather, an incredible father, and a great friend. On top of all this, he not only runs his own business, he also works to keep everything running smoothly for his family, my sister’s carpentry projects, and my home. He is the maintenance man and landscaper for my parents’ seven acre farm, to help me reach my own personal goals in horseback riding. He does, after all, understand and support the love of sport. If my dad never completed another Birkie, it would be okay with us, as there is much more that truly defines him. As a family, we understand that would not be okay for him and we all work to help him get to the starting line year after year, proudly wearing a blue-trimmed bib.

With an annual logging of 2500 plus miles on his road bike, no one in my family was surprised to hear he was heading out on his bike after work for an evening ride on a beautiful June day in 2008. He always lets us know how far he is going, where he is going and when to expect him home again. Knowing we had a couple of hours before he would be home again, we all went about our normal activities. The surprise came when I grabbed my cell phone after riding my horse to find nine missed calls from my mom. Not a good sign. I promptly returned my mom’s calls, only to get her voicemail. None of this was making sense; until my fiancé called to tell me he was on his way to pick me up, my dad was in the hospital, he had been hit by a car while out on his bike.

I arrived at the hospital to find my dad in the emergency room, covered from head to toe in a blanket. From where I stood, he looked okay. Until my mom pulled back the blanket and revealed a knee that was torn apart. She told me he had to push his knee cap back inside the skin at the accident site. That is when the tears started pouring down my face. How could someone so carelessly take away so much from a man who works so hard? This was not just a man someone hurt physically, this pain reached a deep emotional place not only felt within our family but beyond, to friends, competitors, and other lovers of biking and skiing whom we did not even know before the accident. As my dad lay motionless, his eyes filled with tears, the reality of skiing his twentieth Birkie in 2009 was, in a word, shattered.

As it turned out, over the next three days, shattered would be used to describe more than just his dream. Each passing day, the doctors found something else that had been broken. In total, the breaks included: his left leg below the knee, three ribs, his left collarbone (which ended up in three pieces, needing a metal plate to stabilize), and his right kneecap (the worst of his injuries, it shattered in four pieces, with additional pieces being left at the accident site because it was an “open” fracture, meaning the skin was torn allowing small fragments of bone to essentially fall right out). Somehow his right arm was spared, leaving one “good” limb to work with. Most miraculous of all, he had no head, neck, spinal cord, or soft tissue damage. All in all, he faired significantly better than his beloved Colnago, which came out of it without a single salvageable part. I have never seen the likes of the mangled metal which was once his bike. Upon seeing the bike, the local bike shop owner, Sammy (who is also a friend and became an instrumental “spirit”ual healer for my dad), stood in horror, not sure whether my dad made it out of the accident at all. When he heard my dad was alive, he expressed his relief that the bike did its job, the carbon components absorbed what part of the impact they could, shattering and splintering and taking a bit of the force off of my dad’s body. Sammy, stating in his characteristically uplifting voice, looked at me and said, “Lisa, we will get your dad back on a bike again.”

This was a sharp contrast to the news my dad was receiving in the hospital. Surgeries had to wait while the doctors made sure he did not develop a systemic infection from the open fracture, the likelihood of his kneecap healing to an athletically usable state was nearly nonexistent, he was told he would not bike again due to the degree of knee bend and the repetitive motion, and he could, at most, hope to return to “recreational” skiing. Since taking up the sport in 1981, my dad had never been a “recreational” skier. Each hour spent lying helplessly in the hospital bed was, in my dad’s mind, an hour of his body wasting away, losing fitness, and slipping further from his yearly goal. Those first few days were definitely the hardest. We all spent time in the hospital, working in shifts to keep my dad company. We moved our ritual “So You Think You Can Dance” watching to his hospital bed, bringing in dinner and what we hoped was a dose of “fresh air”. Ella, my dad’s then 2 ½ year old granddaughter, would carefully crawl into bed with him, curl up under his arm, and remind the nurses to “be careful with YaYa’s big boo-boos”. Unfailingly, my sister and I left the hospital in tears, nothing felt right about leaving my dad there, hurt and alone for the night.

In the end, we had to leave my dad many times. He spent ten days in the hospital, enduring three surgeries, followed by ten days in a rehab facility. During his stay in rehab, we wired his lap top with Slingbox so he could watch the Tour de France, we prepared the house for his return, and we readied ourselves for what was surely going to be a long road to recovery. My dad returned home in a wheelchair, with both legs stuck straight out in front of him for an eight week stint of feeling rather helpless, while the rest of us, imaginably, did everything. He could slowly roll himself around on the hardwood floors using his right arm and transfer himself from the wheelchair to the couch, commode, bed, or shower chair. And, this was considered incredible by the staff at the rehab facility who reluctantly let him go home once he proved he could accomplish these tasks (and after much urging by my mom). None of us could stand him not being home any longer.

During his home “rehab”, we found out what a loving community athletes really are. We received phone calls and condolences from neighborhood bikers who had heard about the accident. Friends came over to visit and watch sports, keep my dad updated on the outside world, and offer their expertise in areas of home entertainment (we are still enjoying Bill’s efforts with the home stereo system). Sammy built my dad a bright, new Colnago, with all the bells and whistles, to have us deliver as a surprise. As Sammy tightened the last part on what is truly a piece of artwork, he was totally unaware of the healing it was going to provide. That bike spent four months sitting on a bike rack in the family room, waiting for my dad to clip into the petals. My dad tinkered with it, changed a few parts, played with the gear shifts, and turned the pedals by hand. He was determined to ride it someday. If he could ride, he could ski. If he could ski, he could do the Birkie. If he could do the Birkie, he could start with all his fellow Birkie skiers calling and saying they would be waiting for him at the start. But in order to do any of it, he first had to walk.

Two full months of physical therapy had him standing for the first time in September. Slowly standing progressed to walking, walking progressed to tackling stairs. We all held our breath every time he attempted something new, waiting for the pain to be unbearable or for the repairs to give way. But, that never came. He remained pain free and everything the doctors had done kept working. The right knee, with its three screws and wire wrapping, took longer to accept the bending, but before we realized what was happening, my dad was on a stationary bike. When he took to the open road on his bike in November, we were all overwhelmed with emotion. Somehow, the doctors worked miracles on his body and everyone else he knows and loves worked miracles on his soul. As November came to a close, my dad strapped on his roller skis and skated smoothly across the Minocqua asphalt with tears in his eyes. Before the first December snow, we filled in the Birkie on our calendars. He may not beat his time from 2008, but he would, without a doubt be at the starting line in 2009.

Nearing the end of February, for the first time in over ten years, I packed the car and drove to Hayward. My fiancé and I arrived late Friday night, sneaking in to allow my dad the best night’s sleep possible. We missed the fun of picking up his packet, but anxiously awaited the next morning, a race we would all remember. As we climbed into the car at 6 a.m., I filled my pocket with tissues. At the start line, among all the other first wave starters, my dad removed his warm-up coat to reveal a bib color I did not know. Purple and gold. Somewhere along the journey to this moment, I lost track of the significance of the race, my dad was going to complete his twentieth Birkie.

Crossing the finish line, without pain, without a hitch in his stride, I could see my dad’s soul smiling. This is what he loves. This was the culmination of the year’s efforts. As they attached his twentieth pin to his bib, I did some mental math. Between driving from point to point to offer water, gels, and poles, I had lost track of the time. My dad finished in three hours and twelve minutes. While this accomplishment was enough to make us proud, to make us cry, and to make us all go home fulfilled, nothing compared to what we were completely unprepared for the next morning.

We were able to attend the Birchleggers breakfast, because my dad was now a member. To our astonishment, Bjorn Daehlie was the guest speaker and eating at the table next to us. An amazing athlete and gracious guest, Bjorn’s speech finished with a standing ovation. Announcing each new Birchlegger one by one, I awaited my dad’s turn to receive his plaque. As he accepted it with pride in front of the crowed room, his great friend and fellow Birchlegger, Bill, took a moment to explain my dad’s year’s journey to his twentieth Birkie. As my dad returned to his seat, he received standing applause from everyone in the room. There were tears, there were hugs, and there were words on congratulations. But, mostly there was understanding. He belongs to a community of athletes who understand hard work, dedication, persistence, and passion. Everyone in that room was there for the same reason, just as my dad was, they ski the Birkie because they love to ski the Birkie. That went without saying.

When we returned home, my dad added another bib to his wall hanging. This one, a color that was not previously up there. Now, I know the significance of purple and gold. It is not about a number and it is not about wave positioning. It is about love. It is about hard work. It is about support and understanding. Next year my dad will be starting in the first wave once more, which his 2008 finish qualified him for. And, you better believe he will be fighting for a time to qualify him for the first wave again. Regardless of his finish, he will keep showing up, proudly wearing purple and gold. But first, as the snow has now disappeared in Illinois, it is time for him to get back on his bike again.