I’m all graduated!

senior nordie girls! well, most of us. l-r: co-captains Courtney Robinson and Hannah Dreissigacker, me, Audrey Weber. Photo: Judy Geer.

senior nordie girls! well, most of us. l-r: co-captains Courtney Robinson and Hannah Dreissigacker, me, Audrey Weber. Photo: Judy Geer.

Sunday morning, I woke up to the rain. I also woke up to decisions: I hadn’t yet picked out what to wear under my graduation robes.

I had, however, decided to wear my cowboy boots, a well-worn tan and black pair with intricate stitching that I had found for four dollars at a thrift store in Gunnison, Colorado. As they would cover almost all of the visible part of my leg, the rest of my outfit didn’t matter much. I chose a skirt and a polypropylene t-shirt to ward off the rainy cold, because one of the mottos of any endurance athlete is this: cotton kills! I’d leave a dress in our locker room in Robinson Hall for later, when I’d want to look nice for pictures.

It was eerie to be so alone on this morning, when later in the day I would be flooded and overwhelmed by friends and family. I quickly ate two pieces of toast in my room, and then gathered my things and left. I wasn’t late yet, but I faced a stream of robed seniors walking to Leede Arena to line up. It seemed like I was the only one walking towards campus, pushing upstream, the wrong way.

When I opened the locker room door, the light was on. Hannah Dreissigacker was rummaging through our “costume locker” and had just pulled out the purple and blue one-piece spandex suit to wear under her gown. I can’t express how relieved I was to see her: finally, I was not alone heading into this thing called commencement.

Less than thirty minutes later, I was walking up East Wheelock Street, only twenty people behind the bagpipers. I listened to the music, breathed in the wet air, and looked around at the leafy green trees and white buildings that I knew so well. This was the only moment in the whole ceremony when I thought I might cry. The bagpipes lent an incredible air of solemnity to the proceedings. They might have been my favorite part of the whole thing.

When we reached the green and the tone changed. The bagpipers finished, and a brass band took over. As the faculty processed by us, the trumpets sounded like they could be providing music for a circus. Which, in a way, is what the ceremony was. An extremely meaningful circus. When we finally resumed the march towards our seats, I spotted my parents and grandparents and waved.

While the rest of the ceremony was not forgettable, it was predictable. Names of graduate students were read for minutes upon minutes. We gave President and Susan Wright a well-deserved standing ovation when they were awarded honorary degrees. We listened to speeches, which had high points and low points.

When it came time for the undergraduates to march up to the platform, I watched for people I knew. In a way, it made me realize exactly how many of my classmates I had never met, never talked with, and, in some cases, never even seen before. But on the other hand, it reminded me how many friends I had, and how great they were. Courtney Robinson, wearing her sparkly ski team headband over her cap just like Hannah and I were, and wearing cowboy boots like me, pumped her fist before she shook President Wright’s hand. I couldn’t help but smile. Yes, Courtney would make a scene.

When I went up on stage, Dean Carol Folt wished me the best of luck and complimented my headband. I thanked President Wright and as I walked down the steps back towards my seat, I wondered how many people in the vast audience even knew who I was. For those who did, I thought: thank you. I did it!

After singing the alma mater (I wondered if I would ever do so again), we processed out. When we reached the back of the green, that was it. It was over. We milled around, a little confused until we could find a familiar face to latch onto. This moment in time was perfectly emblematic of graduation: all of a sudden, the structure we had been following was gone.

I eventually saw my teammate Brett Palm, and we stood together until we ran into Hannah and her family, then our friend Clara Chew, then Courtney’s brother (but not Courtney). Our support systems re-emerged.

Hannah and I hurried to Robinson Hall to put on our nicer clothes. Because of the rain, we had not been handed diplomas at the ceremony, and instead they were being handed out inside “Robo”. To get to our familiar locker room, we had to wade through people, who kept telling us that we were cutting the line. We tried to assure them that all we wanted was to get to our oasis of a locker room.

Back outside, we nibbled crackers and cheese and slices of watermelon that were provided by the Outing Club. We hugged our friends and posed for picture after picture. It was difficult to assemble all twelve of the senior skiers, so we kept taking photos with slightly different groups as people came and left. I caught up with Cami Thompson and Ruff Patterson, our coaches, but in a way I didn’t even know what to say. Short phrases like “Well,” “Yeah,” and “Thank you” seemed to be all that left my mouth.

Three of my freshmen teammates had come to watch, and had made a gift for each of us: a photo from some women’s team gathering, framed in white with messages written all over. We took a picture with them, and with junior Ida Sargent, who had also come down to watch. It was great to have so many teammates around.

There were so many people I wanted to see, to hug and say goodbye to, but too soon I had to leave and return to my house in Lyme for a gathering with my family.

Because, even though graduation is about ending this stage of my life and saying goodbye to all the different parts of it, as so many people told me, it is not really about me. It’s about thanking the people that helped me through, and it’s about what they want graduation to be. I was luckiest when those two things overlapped, and what I wanted was also what my family wanted.

But it wasn’t, always. So to all the people I didn’t get to say goodbye to, goodbye. The fact that I didn’t see you doesn’t mean that I don’t care, and it doesn’t mean I won’t miss you. I hope we’ll meet again.

And to my wonderful readers, goodbye. Thanks for giving me a place in this community over the last year. I never would have guessed that so many people would actually follow my column; it has meant an incredible amount to me. Thank you. With some luck, maybe you’ll read something else of mine in the future.

Long overdue post: The average athlete

The average athlete enjoys getting food as prizes. left to right: Julie Carson, me, Courtney Robinson, and Katie Bono at the Wonalancet Wander.

The average athlete enjoys getting food as prizes. left to right: Julie Carson, me, Courtney Robinson, and Katie Bono at the Wonalancet Wander.

When I began writing these columns, my idea was to show readers in the Upper Valley what life was really like for a college athlete.

The Valley News does a great job reporting scores and describing games. They even have fantastic human interest stories about athletes of all ages. But the purpose of these stories is to show something exceptional: the athletes who are chosen as subjects are noticed because they are outstanding or unusual in some way. What about the average athlete? Doesn’t anyone want to know what our life is like?

In general, I’m not sure they would. College is four years long. It’s a discrete phase of our lives, to be lived and enjoyed before we go and accomplish something in the real world. A lot of people aren’t even interested in sports; of those who are, many aren’t interested in skiing. And athletics are by definition frivolous, especially in times like these.

But as I’ve written these columns, reflecting every week on what has been going on with the team, I have realized that skiing has been by far one of the most important parts of my college experience, on par only with the research opportunities I took advantage of with my advisor at a first-class field station in Colorado.

I often grimace at the ridiculous salaries of famous baseball players – how could their skills possibly be so important that they deserve such compensation? – and occasionally laugh at friends who are rabid fans of their hometown football teams. So it has been an interesting revelation: athletics are far more than something I do. Skiing is part of who I am.

In a way, although I hadn’t said it so plainly before, I guess I must have known that when I set out to write the columns.

In showing the daily life of a college athlete, I wanted to dispel some of the stereotypes that people have about us.

For example, there’s the dumb athlete stereotype. People ask me if I got recruited (then they ask me if I’m a legacy). When I say no, they often act surprised. Until people get to know us, a lot of them assume that we can’t compete with the intellects of our non-athlete friends, and wouldn’t have gotten into Dartmouth without a push from our coaches.

While I’ve only written about schoolwork in one column, that’s because I don’t think it’s a big issue. Yes: we do work. No: we’re not dumb, As I mentioned in that column, 60% of the Dartmouth women who raced at Eastern Championships were named Academic All East. Of the senior men and women, more than a third wrote theses. The notion that we take easier classes than the rest of the campus is false.

Another stereotype that I wanted to dispel was that we’re all rich and spoiled. We’re spoiled because we get to go to a beautiful school with incredible academics, and we’re spoiled because we get to spend a lot of time doing a sport that we really love. Are a few of my teammates spoiled by their parents? Yes (sorry, guys). But for the most part, we have to work for what we have.

Skiing is expensive, that’s not something I’m going to deny. And for the majority of the team, racing is not something Dartmouth bankrolls: if you’re not one of the top six on a given weekend, you have to pay your own entry into college races – a system that we’d all like to see changed, but it probably never will be. What other sport takes only six athletes to each varsity competition?

A lot us are on financial aid, so skiing expenses aren’t exactly something that our parents can afford to help us with. My roommate and I both hold steady jobs to pay for race entries, equipment, and travel expenses (not to mention regular college expenses such as rent).

Finally, I had wanted to show that athletes aren’t boring or one-dimensional. Just because we spend a lot of time training, and a lot of the rest of our time studying, doesn’t mean that we never do anything else.

We have lots of adventures: I’ve written about hikes, bike races, potluck breakfasts and dinners, and a trip to Tuckerman Ravine. I’ve written about how much we joke around on the bus, and about watching fireworks outside when the thermometer drops below zero and we’re trapped in a hotel.

I guess I haven’t written about is how my teammates drive up to Thetford Elementary School every week to mentor younger students, or how they are involved in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, or any of the other community activities they’re involved in. But that’s because, like doing homework, it seems unexceptional to me. This is my team. It is filled with good people. Why is it surprising that they do good things?

Back to my original point, because you must have been wondering how “I just realized that skiing is who I am” and “athletes are not dumb, rich, and boring” are related. This is the link: I am an athlete, and I am not dumb, rich and boring. I wanted to show how great our team was, and how it was filled with wonderful people.

I wanted to show how even when the going got tough – whether in long rollerski workouts on bad pavement in the rain, or when I had a really bad race and needed someone to console me – our team was there for each other.

I wanted to show how when we had problems, with boys, or schoolwork, or family, or just life, we’d all go for a really long ski until we’d run out of emotions for a little while, and then make dinner together.

I wanted to show how when we have ideas of fun things we want to do, we almost always turn to each other: “Hey, you know what I want to do? You should come!”

I wanted to show how much we laugh.

And I wanted to show how, even though we are each other’s best friends, we’re also each other’s competition, and that’s okay. For us, competition is a part of life. In every race, there can only be one winner: you’ll almost always be better than someone and less strong than someone else. We know each other so well that we can be happy when our friends have breakout races.

I had realized that this was an essential part of my makeup, being an athlete. And I didn’t feel like I fit any of the stereotypes that people have of athletes. When I looked around at my friends and teammates, I didn’t think that they did, either. This is what I wanted to show.

We’re people, too. Just like all of you.

Keep that in mind next time you read the scores.

In defense of hanging out

At the farm earlier this spring: (l-r) me, Audrey Weber, Julie Carson, Katie Bono, Courtney Robinson, and Hannah Dreissigacker. from Julie's camera.

At the farm earlier this spring: (l-r) me, Audrey Weber, Julie Carson, Katie Bono, Courtney Robinson, and Hannah Dreissigacker. from Julie's camera.

I celebrated the beginning of Memorial Day with a few friends, eating brunch on the porch of their apartment. Audrey Weber introduced us to homemade pannekoeken, the Dutch pancakes which resemble overgrown popovers but are even more delicious than that description might suggest, especially when doused in maple syrup.

We accompanied this treat with fresh orange slices and grapes, which Laura Spector said she had been wishing for all weekend during her long workouts in the hot weather. Well, mission accomplished.

I was in the midst of planning a bike ride up to the Moosilauke Ravine Lodge for dinner later in the week. Audrey offered to drive up and give me a ride back, since she recently had shoulder surgery and is mostly stuck biking on rollers for her workouts. But, she said, “I’ll be busy, it’s my last week of hard work…”

…. in college. Ever. We looked at each other, each thinking about what that meant. Then we shrieked. Two men walking past on West Wheelock Street looked around, wondering where the noise had come from.

It’s predictable, I suppose: we have known for moths that all this was ending. But only now, when it is really, really ending, are we beginning to realize what it means, how our lives will change, what we will miss.

Because how many more brunches can we have like this? We talk all the time about how often we will visit each other, how we will race the Alley Loop in Crested Butte together in two years, how we will sit on a porch in rocking chairs when we’re seventy, and all have short haircuts and gray rat-tails.

Maybe these dreams will pan out. Maybe, two years from now, Courtney Robinson will skip a few days of dental school, and I’ll leave my Vermont home and my new ski team to fly out to meet her in Colorado for the Alley Loop. Maybe our friends, to whom we’ve suggested the idea, will jump on board and use some vacation time. Maybe Courtney will strap on her Rossignols and me my Atomics, and we’ll chase each other in loops around the snowy streets. Maybe we’ll win, but probably not (after all, there’s usually a few Olympians in attendance). Afterwards, we will enjoy the beer tent provided by New Belgium Brewery, and the free pizza from the Brick Oven. I can already taste it….

In a way, this particular dream is perfectly emblematic of my state of mind: in this vision of the future, I bring the people I think I will miss most to the place I think I will miss most.

Because that’s what the future is, an opportunity. Right?

We swear it will be. We promise that we’ll see each other all the time, that the fact that Audrey, Hannah and I are going to keep racing next year means that maybe we’ll all swing through the Front Range to see Courtney.

But at the same time, we know that we don’t know the meaning of that word, “opportunity.” The future is different from the present, and while it will be populated by the same friends, it will also be populated by new friends, new responsibilities, and new possibilities we can’t even imagine. Next year, our teammate Sarah Van Dyke will be in China. How does that fit into our imagined concept of “opportunity”?

And so, in the meantime, we try to do absolutely everything in the last few weeks of school. There’s a push and pull between the sense of urgency to do as many fun things as possible, and the recognition that we have to sit back, relax, and finally just enjoy being here without worrying about how many things we can fit into a day.

Driving back from a ski race in March, Courtney and I made a list of things we were going to do in the spring: spend a weekend in the Second College Grant, drive up to Quebec City, traverse the Presidential Ridge. We haven’t accomplished many of them, but there’s still time. That’s why I’m riding to the Lodge. It will be one box checked off the list, but more importantly, one afternoon I spend with my friends doing what we love.

Between adventures, we’ll keep cooking brunch and grilling bratwurst and corn on warm evenings.

And we’ll still harbor the dream that in fifty years, we’ll all be safe and healthy and wealthy enough to retire and sit in those rocking chairs, looking out at some mountains, and shudder about how we thought it would be funny to have rat-tails, back when we were in college.

First OD of the year!

As you may have noticed from my last few columns, I love road biking. It’s an ideal activity for early spring: easy, fun, and we get to ride far and fast and see different corners of the Upper Valley.

It’s ideal, too, because in the summer and fall we will focus on ski-specific training: running, but also lots of rollerskiing and bounding with poles. It’s good to avoid those activities early on so we’re not too sick of them by the time September rolls around.

However, in the middle of the spring, training begins to become less carefree. Yes, I’ll still ride my bike. But face it: you can ride a bike for 3 hours as many times as you want. While you’ll be tired at the end, it’s still a lot easier to ride a bike for three hours than it is to run for three hours.

On the other hand, doing intervals on a bike is pretty tough. Because your upper body is stable, your legs have to be working hard to raise your heart rate. Imagine riding a bike at threshold for 25 minutes. To get your heart rate to threshold – for me, 170 beats per minute – you have to be riding aggressively up a steep hill. Now find such a hill that lasts for 25 minutes. You begin to see where (part of) the problem lies.

So there is a moment every spring when real workouts become a necessity. We start adding: first, maybe one threshold session a week, and one really long session that isn’t on a bike. Then we start adding the max interval sessions we’ll include in our training for the next eight or nine months.

Usually it’s a bit of a shock. I am so used to training all year, training 15 or 20 or more hours per week, that I expect that I can do anything. I won’t really be that tired after intervals, will I? Why would I bonk on a long run? We do this all the time! But being accustomed to one-hour runs and easy long bike rides does not prepare you for harder training days.

And so it was with some trepidation that I set off running on Saturday. My teammate Katie Bono and I had decided to do our first long run. We were joined by our teammate Julie Carson and her boyfriend, Mark Davenport, who may not have realized what we were up to: he didn’t bring water, unlike us girls who modeled our stylish hip-belts.

We slowly jogged across the bridge into Norwich, and by the time we started up the hill on the other side, Julie and Mark were out in front. I smiled to myself: I was in for the long haul, mentally alternating between purposely going easy and refusing to think about how long we would be out.

We ran up the Ballard Trail from the Norwich pool. It was beautiful and quiet in the woods, with the ferns still unfurling and the trees just sending out bright new leaves. In places we had to jump along the side of the trail to avoid submerging our sneakers in mud, and in others we had to climb over and through broken tree tops which had fallen across the trail.

By the time we got to the end of the trail, on Beaver Meadow Road, we had already been out for the time of my longest previous run all spring.

As we started up Tucker Hill Road and Julie and Mark once again took off. Katie and I shuffled along, chatting about how this was one of our favorite roads to run on. The views were beautiful as always, and I daydreamed about how much I’d like to live in any house we passed. Or, as I told Katie, in any of the barns. Imaginary house-hunting is a great way to occupy time on long runs.

We girls said goodbye to Mark when we turned onto the Burton Woods trail. None of us had run it before, and we soon realized that the first mile of trail was entirely uphill. I picked my way around the spring stream that ran down the trail, leaving the surroundings mucky and wet, and hiked a few steep spots where the bedrock was exposed. Katie tripped over a down log and joked that her coordination was disappearing as she tired. We laughed, but all knew it was true; the same thing was happening to each of us.

We hit the Appalachian Trail in a small clearing, where a sign pointed south to Podunk Road (1.8 miles) and north to Elm Street (3.5 miles). We ran toward Norwich. It was one of the trail sections I am most familiar with, since it’s so close to campus, but at the same time, it is one of the sections I understand least. So much looks the same. The obvious landmarks are only close to the end.

And so while the forest type changed from hardwood to pine and back again several times, we wondered how close we were actually getting to Elm Street. It was at one of these transitions to a dark, pine forest where the ground was soft and muted the sounds of our footsteps that I realized I was tired.

I wasn’t bonking, no. But while only a few minutes before I had been bounding over rocks and logs and roots, I could feel that my pace had slowed. I was more apt to walk a few steps up a steep section. It was more of a chore to stride out the flat parts. It was more dangerous to run freely down the hills, because I was starting to trip over things. My curiosity and energy were dampened just like the sounds of my feet, but Katie and I kept talking, discussing the subtle psychology of training in groups.

At the same time, Julie was developing blisters. Mark had drank half her water before he left us, and she was out. She lagged behind and stopped talking. I worried, sometimes slowing down to let her catch up, sometimes trying to draw her into the conversation. But it was fairly useless. Julie was in her own world.

We finally crossed the powerlines, and then the stream that told me we were only minutes away from Elm Street. I have an incredibly distinct memory of running up the hill from that stream with Kristina Trygstad-Saari, class of 2007, on a fall day two years ago. I wondered why the memory was of that place and not some other along the trail.

As we ran up the long hill into Hanover, we could smell the pig roast at Theta Delt, a fraternity on West Wheelock Street. It was a reminder of how different we might be from the rest of campus: on this Green Key party weekend, our classmates were wearing sundresses and had probably only woken up a few hours earlier. We had been running for three hours, and were drenched in sweat, exhausted, smelly, and covered in scrapes from tree branches.

But after we showered, we went to Theta Delt ourselves to restore our energy supplies, munching on corn and meat. As we discussed plans for the evening, I thought we weren’t any different from the rest of campus after all.

And in any case, we had survived to rejoin our classmates in their revelry. We had survived, and the next difficult workout, number two of the year, would be entered with more confidence, less trepidation, and a sense of satisfaction: we did what we needed to do. As recovery, maybe I’d do an easy bike ride the next day, just like nothing had changed.

Maybe it is about the bike, actually

Lance Armstrong says that it’s not about the bike. I don’t know if he’s telling the truth though.

My last week was framed by two rides. On Monday afternoon, my roommate and I spun up route 132, over the hill from South Strafford into Sharon, and back along the river on Route 14. I rode with the understanding that I was hurting myself by spending these three hours on a bike instead of at a desk working on my thesis, but I didn’t care.

Riding bikes with girls is refreshing. I could have written a column last week that was called, “riding on bikes with boys,” and would have said how tired and sunburned I got, and how I never wanted to give up and be slower than the boys. I’m too competitive, and when someone is actually better than me, it leads me to exhaustion.

But Monday, that wasn’t a problem. Kristin and I don’t compete with each other. Not going up the hills, and not going down them, either. As we came down the hill into Sharon, we were followed by a logging truck. I tried to pull to the side, but with no shoulder and so much speed, I was worried about hitting the edge of the pavement. The logging truck had to wait for the curves to end. With boys, we would have had to race, and I would have been scared.

Kristin and I talked about school, our house, our team, boys, the economy, the future. The miles go fast when you’re talking, even if it isn’t anything particularly important.

She didn’t know the route, so as we rode I pointed out the things I grew up with: the Elizabeth Copper Mine, where my AP Environmental Science class did a lab in high school; the Strafford Saddle Shop, where my mom and I would drive every spring; the burnt-up parking lot that used to be Brooksie’s in Sharon, where we’d stop to get breakfast before going to Tunbridge.

It was the kind of ride where you feel the wind in your face without having to work for it. We basked in the sun and the green and the smells of spring, and the coolness rising from the river.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were not kind to me. I slept an average of three hours every night and spent the days frantically running statistics and trying to write them up coherently. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt so isolated in my life. I’ve been solo backpacking and felt less alone.

I watched my friends go about their usual routines, going running and biking after class, making dinner together and going out at night, while I was stuck. I didn’t even get much sympathy; nobody seemed to notice I was missing. I began to wonder what it said about me as a person if nobody noticed that I wasn’t there. Everything bad anyone had ever said about me came back and I began to think it was all true.

So by Friday, I was ready for another ride, regardless of whether I should be doing work instead or not. I e-mailed the team asking if anyone wanted to join me. Nobody did. But that was all right. I could go my own pace.

I set out at 1 p.m., and after a half hour of biking up into Hanover Center, it started pouring rain. I thought about turning around, but then I hunkered down and kept pedaling. In a sense, this is what I had wanted: an outlet for my frustration and anger. Unlike the million thesis revisions I had been frantically completing, this was something I could control and overcome. It was just rain. I was stronger than rain. It wasn’t going to stop me.

About as soon as I got into that mindset, I rode out of the rain. The pavement smelled wet and warm and I only worried for a moment that it was greasy. Then I bombed down the hills on Dogford Road. The sun started to dry the rain off my jersey.

Being alone, I could pedal slowly while I daydreamed. So what if my heart rate was below 130 beats per minute and my new coach had told me I’d have to train 5 hours to make that pace worthwhile? Today was not about training. I didn’t have that luxury. It was about mental recovery.

So when I pedaled back into the rain, which was almost hail-like on Greensboro Road and left pink welts on my exposed arms, I thought about my ride, and the one on Monday. No, they weren’t about the bike. But what allowed them to be about anything else? In truth, the bike.

Sorry, Lance.

I Try Tuckerman’s.

Nat and Han hiking up to our lunch spot. Photo: Courtney Robinson.

Nat and Han hiking up to our lunch spot. Photo: Courtney Robinson.

Last week I wrote that I wasn’t a bike racer, but I enjoyed a bike race. Well, I’m not an alpine skier either, but I still went to Tuckerman’s Ravine this weekend.

It started something like this: having dinner with friends on Thursday night, they started talking about going to Tucks on Saturday. I wanted to go. Oh man, I wanted to go. But… “I really should work on my thesis, guys. I just don’t think I can go.”

My friends pretty much think that I’m crazy and all this work I’ve been doing is somewhat unnecessary. So they convinced me (it didn’t take much): I hadn’t been to Tuckerman’s in four years at Dartmouth, and this would be my last chance. I could always make up for it by working harder the next day, right?

And so on Saturday morning we shoved our skis in the car and hit the road. The cast of characters included this outgoing ski team captains Hannah Dreissigacker and Courtney Robinson, incoming captain Ida Sargent, senior teammate Sarah Van Dyke and her friend Nate Mazonson, and my old Ford Sayre teammate Natalie Ruppertsberger, who was home from Bates on break.

When we arrived, we ran into more friends: Pete Van Deventer, Lizzy Asher, Katie Ammons, and Zoe Acher. They had driven up the night before to get an early start, but their plan had obviously failed since we all met up around 10.

Natalie, Hannah and I don’t own our own alpine gear, so we had brought nordic skis. As we stood waiting for people to get ready at Pinkham Notch Visitor’s Center, the AMC staffer came over and asked us if we did this often.

“No,” I replied, “Not really.”

“Well, just be careful. Those skis aren’t really appropriate. You’re not planning on skiing the bowl, are you?”

No, we weren’t. But it seemed to us that anyone who bothered to bring nordic skis probably had, actually, a pretty good idea of what they were doing; it would never occur to an out-of-state novice to bring nordic gear. This was evidenced by how many times we were asked if we were crazy.

As we started up, Pete said, “Less talking, more walking!” which turned out to be his mistake. Natalie and I power-hiked up, passing dozens of people on the highway of a trail. We were aided by the fact that our skis weighed so much less than everyone else’s heavy alpine skis and boots or snowboards. Nonetheless, it was a workout; I guess maybe we are a little competitive with each other! I was drenched in sweat by the time we reached the Hermit Lakes shelters, where we paused for a snack before continuing up into the bowl.

There were so many people. It was overwhelming. Where could we put our packs and eat lunch? Before we even figured this out, someone shouted “Avalanche!” and we watched as a huge section just below the cliffs come tumbling down as people sprinted out of the way. It ran out before it reached us, but we still retreated towards the scrubby trees.

We decided to climb up to some rocks on the right side of the ravine, high above the “Lunch Rocks”. It was a steep hike, and I wondered a few times, “how am I going to get down from here?” But I put these thoughts on hold.

We sat in the sun eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, slapping on sunscreen and watching people tackle the headwall. It was probably sixty degrees and not a cloud in the sky; I could have sat on those rocks forever, although I would have ended up with quite a suburn.

It was amazing the risks people were taking. We saw a guy break his femur. While he was being helped, not a minute after his crash, a snowboarder attempted the same line and carwheeled all the way down; I don’t understand how his neck wasn’t broken. “Look at those knuckleheads,” Natalie said. It made me nervous, even though of course I wouldn’t be trying anything nearly as dangerous. I just thought of how unpleasant it would be to be carried out from Tuckerman’s on a stretcher – it’s a long, jolting way down.

After lunch, half the group bootpacked up to the summit so they could ski in the Great Gulf, where it was less crowded. The three of us with nordic skis stayed in the bowl, hiking and sliding our way down through the rocks and scrub to the bottom. Sarah and Ida hiked over the rocks to the Right Gully, and skied down from there.

Hannah, Natalie and I decided to tackle the left side of the bowl. We hiked up to a set of rocks below the Chute, and looked down. It was steep, but not too steep (not compared to the terrain I foolishly attempted to ski in Colorado this summer…); the difficulty was more that the snow was heavy, thick slush, and there wasn’t much chance we could push it around with our skinny, light skis.

Hannah tackled the problem by doing telemark turns. They weren’t the as graceful as turns on real telemark skis, and she fell every once in a while, but they worked. She was having fun.

As for me, well, I can’t do tele turns. As far as I could see, this left me only one option: jump turns. The first run, I did okay turning to one direction (as long as I didn’t get up too much speed), but the other way I crashed every time. Once we got down to the shallow bottom of the bowl, we could step around the turns and go faster. It was fun.

We immediately hiked back up to those rocks. People started asking us, so what trick are you going to do this time? We would smile and laugh and say we didn’t have too many tricks up our sleeves. That time, I think I made it down the whole way down jump-turning without any falls. I was feeling pretty good about myself.

The third time, of course, I was overconfident and fell on almost every turn. But so it goes. We were enjoying ourselves, enjoying the sun, enjoying the atmosphere; there was nothing that could make the day better, it seemed.

And we were sad when, after a few more runs, the time came to leave the bowl and head back down the mountain. Couldn’t we just stay there forever? Did we really have to go back to school? And did Natalie have to go back to Bates? Why couldn’t she just hang out with me all the time? We were exhausted from the sun, and the ride back was quiet. I was just glad I’d had the chance to experience Tuckerman’s once before I graduated.

I try cycling.

Like many seniors, I have a mental list of things to do this spring, and I don’t mean chores like “apply for degree” or “present thesis”. it’s a list of fun things I have to do now before I run out of time.

Unlike most seniors, one of the things on my list was “do a bike race.” With Dartmouth hosting an Eastern Collegiate Cycling Conference event this weekend, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to cross that off my list.

I’m not a bike racer. I’m a ski racer. Biking is my just-for-fun, endurance-but-not-on-the-training-plan activity. Like my teammates who tried their hands in Saturday’s team time trial and criterium, I didn’t train for this; I had been been on six rides before the race, and I hadn’t done anything aerobically taxing since my last ski race of the season.

I was also worried about riding in a “peloton”, since my bike handling skills are less than impressive. What if I caused a giant wreck or something?

And yet I found myself on Route 5 at 9 o’clock Sunday morning, cruising along with 40 other women. We were all chatting and laughing – I talked with my teammates, with Jennie Bender, a standout UVM skier who was doing her first bike race and didn’t even have clipless pedals, and with a nice girl from Colby who was impressed we rollerskied on the bad roads.

The pack periodically rearranged itself, but this was the first thing I noticed that was very different from skiing: for the first third of the race, nobody was racing. At all.

That would change. We rode up into Norwich, through town, and out Union Village Road. The pack collectively sighed and hunkered down, thinking, here come the hills… And come they did. There is nothing like a good hill to break up a pack (apparently). As girls dropped back, I found myself just out of the top 10, chasing a breakaway led by next year’s ski team captain Ida Sargent and Bates skier Caitlin Curran.

We were pretty strung out as we passed Maple Hill Road, and we certainly weren’t appreciating the scenery. By the time we got to Goodrich 4 Corners, I had joined a chase pack of five – two Army girls and two other Dartmouth racers, including outgoing ski team captain Courtney Robinson – in hot pursuit of the six-person lead pack.

Going up that last steep, the one with the “8% grade” sign, I panicked for a second. I was killing myself, and this was only halfway through the race! How was I going to do this a second time around? Then, unusually, I put that out of my mind and kept chasing. If I blew up later, well, I’d deal with it then.

We set up a paceline on Route 132, riding towards the river, but we were exhausted from the hills. We were working hard but staying exactly the same distance behind the leaders.

And then, as we turned onto Route 5 again, they came back to us. I have seldom been so relieved in a race as when I hooked onto the back of the lead pack and finally stopped pedaling for a few seconds. No more chase.

Unfortunately, the reason we had caught the leaders was that they had slowed down, and before long, the main pack engulfed our group. Another thing I don’t understand about bike racing: why work so hard when you’re just going to let everyone catch you anyway? In skiing, if you get a break, you live and die trying to keep it.

In any case, I enjoyed the recovery pace for a few miles, because I knew as soon as we hit the hills again the chase would be back on. And sure enough, when we looped back through Norwich and were deposited at the bottom of the hill, Ida took off again.

The field strung out, but I found myself with more or less the same chase pack I had been with on the last lap. Going up the hills, and down them, we weren’t consciously pacelining; instead, we were all going as hard as we could, and if that put us in the front of the pack, great, but sometimes it put us on the back.

The sensation in your legs which comes as a result of riding up long hills as hard as you can is pretty unique. I don’t think I’ve felt quite the same burn in any other sport. I kept imagining that it would be easier to stand up, but after three or four pedals I found myself back in the saddle. My legs had accumulated too much junk.

To finish, we had to cross the covered bridge below the Union Village Dam and ride up Academy Road, no easy task. At the bottom of the hill, I did something I’m usually ashamed of: I switched into my granny gear.

Going by Burnham Road, I was still riding with the two Army girls, and the rest of our pack had disappeared behind us. I warned them that the pavement was terrible.

I think that was the last time I thought of them for the next few minutes. Going up that hill, this is what I thought: this is the end. I have to keep my momentum going. Switch gears.

Yeah, that’s all. My head was empty. I felt like I was riding fast, maybe because I was passing the stragglers from the men’s race which had started 10 minutes before us. It’s perhaps the most competitively absorbed I’ve ever been in my life, a lesson I hope I can take back to skiing!

500 meters from the finish the Army girls passed me, working together. I tried to follow them but couldn’t. My legs were blocks of lactic acid. Dave Lindahl and his children were on the side of the road, shouting, “Go Dartmouth! This is your hill! You know this!” And I thought, no, this is not my hill.

With nobody close behind me, I was happy to forgo a sprint finish. I rolled across and saw Caitlin and Ida, and Courtney rolled in a minute behind me. After a few minutes we did a short cool-down, trying to spin the lactic acid out of our legs. Ida had ended up second to the Colby girl, Jennie 4th, Caitlin 5th, and I was 8th. That put four skiers in the top 8. Not bad for a sport we don’t train for or, really, understand.

Then Courtney and I spent the afternoon at various intersections, acting as course marshals for the afternoon races. We mostly soaked up the sun and reveled in the spring weather.

I had so much fun that I considered racing the next weekend at MIT. But I decided not to. For one thing, I want to keep this memory of how fun bike racing is, and I don’t want to ruin it. But this is just part of a larger idea: biking is the only sport I do where I’m not focused on competing. I want to keep it as something I always think is fun.

This weekend, mission accomplished.