It was one hell of a day in Östersund, and the wind was howling through the range. I was standing in the start area, where a staff member is assigned the mind-numbing task of safeguarding your rifle while you're warming up. They also shove your warmups into a plastic bag for you so it can be taken to the finish line, because this is the World Cup, and we can't be expected to walk twenty meters. As one of the late starters, I had the privilege of witnessing what can best be described as absolute chaos- the top seed was missing wildly. Kaisa came through and took a minute and a half to hit only one shot, Susan came through and found herself with four minutes of penalties in prone, Doro, Gabi..... it was madness.
So this is the plan that appeared in my head. I'm fantastic at shooting slow, I've been doing it since the beginning (i.e., last year). In fact, there's nobody on the World Cup who can shoot as dang slow as I can. If everyone on the entire World Cup was shooting just as slow as I normally did, then if I took my time, I might be okay.
I journeyed into the starting zone, where I shoved my electric orange jacket backwards onto my front, awkwardly trying to lift it up so rifle check and the transponder installation team could check my bib number. Why they can't just look at the leg numbers, God only knows. You would think a girl who manages to cram two base layers under her race suit, top and bottom, wouldn't need to have her jacket on until a minute before the start, but you clearly thought wrong. My hood was blowing up into my face and making me entirely blind, and suddenly reduced to a bright orange world, I was basically the height of prepared.
At about 45 seconds to start I disentangled myself from my jacket and hurled it at the US rifle and warmup guardian, in a pathetic attempt at throwing that only an endurance athlete can really manage. At thirty seconds to start I was ushered into the start box, a most ridiculous feature of the World Cup that ensures you stand in front of the sponsor logo while the camera films your start. (Well, they film the starts of people who wear VASTLY more makeup and/or ski much faster than me). The sponsor, and I am not making this up, was called Hörmann. Awkward.
I charged out of the start like a slug. Into a massive headwind, and given the knowledge that if I redlined in a 15km where shooting had become even more critical than before, I wasn't exactly flying. You know how sometimes Walter sets the course so you have to go up that enormous hill of doom from the Nordic center and then go STRAIGHT up into the range? Then the only way you can hit a single target is to basically go so slow you're going backwards, since we're above 9,000 feet and our club president is a sadist. That's the race strategy I was channeling. Okay... I didn't go THAT slow. That speed is reserved completely for the SMR range approach.
The ice was staring to show under the deep sugar of the snow. The day before, the ice was so thick and fast it became dangerous, so the race organizers ground up the top layer, only it had also begun to snow. With an hour to start, they were still frantically trying to remove some of the foot deep layer that had appeared, composed of rugged ice chunks that didn't stick to each other. The turns then, had become extremely skied out, the sugar shoved to one side, and the sheet ice beneath became the footing for the turns. Conservatively, patiently, and without losing my footing, I wound my way through the course.
I came into the range for the first prone, drifting into the lane I zeroed on, and checked the wind flag. It was up (surprise), and it was up far. I clicked, three right, and slowly started shooting. Five down, and off I went. Again, patiently, it had become a race of shooting and very little of skiing, the leaderboard was showing crazy numbers of misses. Back into the range I came, trying to remember the shooting order, the wind flags, the zeroing lane. Slowly, onto the standing mat I went, only missing one, and off again. The turns getting even icier, and the course getting ruggedly difficult through the deep, sugary snow. Back down the S turns into the range.
The wind flag was up, but the other way, so six clicks I went left. I took my magazine out. The wind flag dropped. Back three right I went, and dropped my elbow down. I looked down at my rifle- saw right through my rifle to the mat- I had forgotten to load the magazine. Back up I went, loaded, back down on the mat, the wind flag fluttering. And slowly, shot by shot, through some odd miracle, five for five. Off I went again.
I came in for standing with agonizing slowness. I knew good and well I had unusually good shooting for the day. The wind was still swirling through the range, tugging on my barrel, my new barrel weight helping to steady it. Two misses, and I leapt right off the mat, charging forward, only seconds later I realized one of my poles was no longer in my hand. Was I supposed to go back for that? Do they give me a new one if I leave it behind? Am I allowed to leave things in the range? I turned around. Back down into the snow, I lifted the pole up, slid my Leki strap home, and disappeared out of the range.
Back around the course, the icy turns, the deep snow, back up the hill and down the S turns into the finish.
And that, my friends, is how I scored my first World Cup points. By channeling my inner slug and dropping my pole.
Here's some quick World Cup updates:
Our team doctor at the Olympic Training Center is so bad he misdiagnosed a broken toe and didn't send it to X-Ray. I'm saying it on the internet, because that's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard. Leif's toe is, in fact, broken- it's also swollen to twice the regular size- and he flew back to the States. He squished it in a treadmill when it got lowered back down to the starting position from an incline- OUCH.
That brings our team down to six people and not enough for a full men's OR women's relay (Sean is still recovering from mono). I came up with the most brilliant idea that Susan should start in the men's relay- she'd be awesome and fired up and ferocious racing in the men's field. Our chief of sport wasn't thrilled by the idea, but she was.
We stayed in this hotel that had a freaking spa in it. Two saunas, ice bath, contrast foot bath, steam room, and outdoor hot tub. Way cool.
Apparently you can just call the race organizers and get a shuttle to wherever you dang well please. It's a BMW- SURPRISE. I found this out when Laura Dahlmeier called a shuttle to take her to the Snus (Definition) shop from the venue. What a character.
Susan and I went to see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them in Östersund. We learned exactly no Swedish from reading the subtitles, but the movie remained in English, thankfully.
Germany, Finland, and Kazakhstan were all staying in our hotel. That means I ate lunch and dinner with some of the most epic names in biathlon. Too bad I haven't learned their names yet ;).
Great read!
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