Pre-race anxiety and excitement hang in the air like Fourth of July fireworks and mix with the puffs of frozen breath stove piping from the field of competitors. The vibe is electric but it’s dark and glacial. The sun won’t rise for hours—even then the temperature won’t break the low ‘teens. Racers make their last second equipment checks, toothpick-light randonee skis, boots that look like basketball sneakers, grub that looks like baby food, a little water and head-to-toe lycra uniforms. Cow bells and hoops-n-hollers explode from spectators as the start buzzer trills.
For the ski mountaineers competing in Aspen, Colorado’s Power of Four race, the next five to nine hours will be a slog up and down the resort’s four mountains (Snowmass, Buttermilk, Aspen Highland and Aspen Mountain) 24 miles and 10,000 vertical feet of sweaty, leg- and lung- burning suffering. But I pull my comforter up to my chin and roll over in my bed, because it’s six in the effing morning on a Saturday.
“You should tell everyone we were out here bun huntin’,” my friend Meag says as the third team of racers wearing spandex tighter than the casing on a Sheboygan bratwurst passes us. Teams of two started hours before we began the Power of One, an unofficial “race”—we were the only ones participating—up the Midnight Mine road, the 6-mile final uphill section of the Power of Four course. Meag and I began at 9 a.m. The frontrunners and eventual winners of the Power of Four, Brian Smith and Billy Laird, caught us at 11 a.m. They completed the race in a blazing five and a half hours… The second place team of Eric Sullivan and Mike Closer, who also passed us on the uphill (along with the third place team, but who’s counting, right?), finished just over eight minutes behind the leaders.
“You realize these dudes are faster at climbing four mountains than we are at climbing one, right?” I asked Meag. She nodded her head and shrugged her shoulders in an I’m OK with that fashion and passed me the bag of beef jerky. I gave her my thermos of coffee.
The ultra-famous ultra-runner Anton Krupicka, who looked like a skimo-ing frozen Jesus, passed us just before we topped out behind the gondola on Aspen’s Ajax Mountain. Meag and I high-fived to seal our own victory. It’s not easy beating out a field of no one, taking snack breaks and dancing to ‘80s pop music while skinning—Whitney Houston’s 1986 booty shaking anthem “How Will I Know” was the final song on our Power of One soundtrack—but winners find ways. The scene at Power of Four finish area in Gondola Plaza at the base of Ajax was much different.
Racers skidded to smiling stops through the finish line and into the awaiting embraces of family and friends before being given beer, hot apple cider and as many steaming meatballs as they could carry. Exhausted? Sure. Hungry? You betcha. Psyched? Absolutely.
“It’s not our fastest time, but we’re really happy,” says half of the winning women’s team Sari Anderson. Lyndsey Meyer, the other half, explains that because formidable challengers are at the World Championships in Italy, the race was really about having fun. “The skiing in the Highlands bowl was awesome. We spend a lot of time downhill training on these little things,” she says pointing at the three finger-wide skimo skis. “It’s stupid but we love it.”
“I think this race is awesome. It’s not for me, though. A little too much work,” explains finish area emcee and pro skier Colter Hinchliffe. “It’s rad and the lycra outfits are ultra-stylish. You know, it’s always good to showcase what you’re working with. More skiers need to embrace it.”
Meag and I laugh and make our way to Schlomo’s Deli and Grill for our victory meal of pigs in a blanket and a latte. We saunter up the steps where one exhausted, sinewy racer is sitting with his family. “I need to get these boots off and then I need a lot of water and all of the food,” he jokingly orders.
While our day was much more mellow than the Power of Four racers, Meag and I still feel accomplished. We went for an easygoing walk in the woods and cheered for insanely-talented, wiry athletes that flashed past us in a spandex clad blur. They were frosted, suffering in the mental-physical pain cave and grimacing. But, somehow, they seemed to be having fun while we smiled and snacked our way to the top of our own podium—chatting and grooving to ‘80s synth. Meag summed it up best: “Rice crispy treats and lady pop can make anyone a champion.” Yup—sure can.
