Steve Gardiner

            I dropped to my hands and knees, gasping for air. My head pounded. My legs burned. Several minutes passed before I could stand. When I could, I shook hands with another racer and finally bent over to take off the snowshoes. I tucked them under my arm and walked to my car. I fell into the back seat to rest, breathe, drink water, and recover. Fire filled my lungs.

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            Twenty or twenty-five racers had lined up next to the banner that served as the starting line for the snowshoe race at the 1997 Northern Rocky Mountain Winter Games at the Nordic ski center in Red Lodge, Montana. That was fewer racers than I was used to in running races, but the cold air and extra challenge of racing on snowshoes likely discouraged many potential participants. I had run dozens of 5K and 10K road races, so I was used to the excitement, the nervous energy that comes before a race. I knew about pacing myself. I knew about race strategy, when to push, when to hold back. However, this was my first snowshoe race.

            I wondered about racing with snowshoes attached to my boots. I expected it would be harder than running, both because of balance and because of the extra weight on my feet. I also knew I needed to keep the snowshoes from clashing into each other, a sure path to falling facedown.

            Using ski poles during the race was optional. I had used poles when I went hiking on snowshoes, but before the race, I had tried running on snowshoes with the poles and without them. Without poles, I could move my arms more easily, more quickly, and I believed that the extra work of pulling against the poles, while it might make me faster over a short distance, would be exhausting over the 5K (3.1 mile) distance of the race. I chose to go without poles. Others at the start strapped poles to their wrists.

            The day shone clear, the air crisp. We breathed fog into the air. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Nervous. I looked at the trail heading into the trees. I wanted to race well, to push myself. I felt focused.

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            When the starting gun fired, snowshoes clapped the packed snow of the ski trail. Two guys moved into the lead. I settled right behind them. The cross-country ski trail was just wide enough for the two men ahead of me. The one on the left, in a red jacket, looked comfortable. He kept a smooth pace and used poles. His stride stayed steady and solid. The man on the right, wearing a dark blue coat, stood taller and slightly heavier. He did not use poles, and I noticed that each time we went up a hill, he surged ahead, gaining five or ten yards, but as soon as we topped the hill and went flat, the racer on the left and I caught up with him.

            The three of us, in our little triangle, moved ahead of the other racers. I couldn't hear anyone behind, and when I looked back at a couple of the turns, I couldn't see anyone either. When we reached the one-mile marker, I settled into a good rhythm and wondered how long I could maintain the pace.

              We had commented on the beauty of the day and the excitement of the race, but with Red Lodge situated at 5,588 feet elevation, little oxygen remained for conversation. Our snowshoes crunched on the snow and our breathing grew harder and louder.

            Just past the two-mile marker, the racer on the left in the red jacket tightened up. At the beginning, I assumed he was the best person in the race, but he slowed down. I moved to the right, passed him, and worked my way up until I was even with the racer in the blue coat.

            With one-half mile to go, I strained with the effort. My legs ached, feeling stressed and fatigued. My lungs sucked in the cold air and blew it out. Hurting, I wondered how the guy next to me was doing. He appeared strong, but no one shows the truth in a race.

            We ran one short hill, and again he gained. Down the other side, I caught up. Ahead of us, I saw a longer hill. I wondered if that would be the hill where he would get away from me.

            As the slope increased, I stayed with him, determined to keep him close. I had felt focused at the start and worked hard to hold it. I wanted to do my best. I didn't have any friends racing or watching. I had showed up by myself. Just me. The deepest reason to do well.

            On the long hill, the racer in the blue coat surprised me. He gained two or three strides, no more. At the crest, I saw the hill drop for one hundred yards, then the trail turned left for two hundred yards to the finish line.

            Just as we started down the hill, I surged, quickly passing him on the left and moving ahead.

            “That's too good for me,” he said.

            I pushed harder. My world narrowed to a few feet of packed snow trail.

            With each stride, the snowshoes flicked snow into the air behind me. I sprinted down the hill, then held the same pace on the flat all the way to the finish line.

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            I collapsed in the backseat of my car. I couldn't remember having my lungs burn that badly after any other race. I felt dizzy. My stomach churned. My legs quivered. Minutes passed before I could breathe normally.

            With the race complete, everyone gathered at the finish line. I was weak, drained of energy and emotion, but when the race director placed a gold medal around my neck, a warm glow of pride replaced the fire in my chest.