Falling in love with Nordic skiing

Story by Tyler Hansen | Photo by Robby Lloyd

“Well, I like it.”

As a rule I try not to get too hung up on stylistic chauvinism. Meaning I like to think I’m not in the habit of yucking other people’s yum. Like the music of Captain and Tennille? It’s not the direction I would have chosen, but go for it. Enjoy the feeling of a nice sweater vest? Dive right in and, by all means, enjoy your virginity.

I learned the importance of a personal judgment DMZ from a friend of mine years ago. He was a stylish guy, and by stylish I mean he would walk down Elk Avenue dressed exactly like Captain Jack Sparrow. He actually showed up uninvited to my post wedding brunch during said Jack Sparrow phase. Fake dreadlocks and all. But I digress…

One night this friend of mine showed up to a music gig I was playing and made the brave stylistic choice of using a combination lock as a belt buckle. Yes, like from a high school locker. During set break I came over and made a snarky comment on his choice of what was sure to be an inconvenience in the event of a desperate need to use the restroom. He replied with a simple and straightforward, “well, I like it.”

And with those four simple words he won for good and all. He liked his belt buckle and that was enough for him and should have been enough for me. He certainly didn’t need my approval, that much was very clear.

There is a generalized sense amongst some in our charming little mountain village that Nordic skiing is for old people. I’m being ungenerous, it’s not seen as that exclusive. Old people and nerds, let’s call it. And there’s likely a grain of truth in such a stinging assessment. There’s a reason Nordic skiing isn’t included in the X Games. Try though I might I have a hard time seeing Mountain Dew devoting marketing dollars on that all-important untapped Nordic skier demographic. Walk-in showers, reverse mortgages and Wilford Brimley hawking diabetes gadgets might be more par for the course. What I’m saying is, it’s called “Nordorking” for a reason.

And I have to confess, in my twenties and thirties I was guilty of such contempt. I figured Nordic skiing would become a part of my life right around the same time as prune juice and Matlock reruns. 

But something started to push me to the dark side more quickly than I anticipated: my metabolism. I began to notice that with every passing year my midsection would become softer and more tofu-ey as the winter wore on. Alpine skiing just wasn’t cutting it to keep the weight off. I had to do something. 

And so, with great trepidation, I found myself strapping on skate skis five years ago. I felt discombobulated. The skis were tiny and unwieldy, the jacket was ill fitting and more revealing of my aforementioned stomach than I would have preferred. The pants, I came to realize, were for women, so they bulged out around the waist in a way that suggested I had some glandular disorder. 

The equipment I was using had been abandoned at the bathrooms next to Tommy V field the year before. It was the Nordic skiing equivalent of a genuine “Rolux” watch purchased from a guy in front of the M&M store at Times Square. Needless to say I was not looking elite. I was barely looking human. 

Off I went like a newborn giraffe. My stride had the consistent rhythm of avant-garde free jazz, my arms flailed with every kick like I was calling for help from the beach of a deserted island. And in a way I was calling for help–I was crying out to God, who I was convinced had abandoned me. There was no poetry of motion, no elegance, no efficiency. It was battle between my ego, my winter-weakened body and the complicated physics of this illogical sport. I looked like I was trying to solve the Three Body Problem with my limbs. 

It’s a miracle I tried again after that first time. But try I did. Again, and again, and again. Slowly it began to make more sense. My rhythm, while in no way proper, began to have some discernible regularity. My arm movements stopped looking like a desperate cry for aid and more like I was practicing some kind of primitive semaphore. I graduated beyond a cautionary tale for others on the trail and started to become merely a sympathy case. God returned to the trail. And beyond all possible reason I found myself enjoying it. Not just enjoying it…loving it. 

Something was happening. I was becoming a Nordork. 

These days, when my wife offers me the choice between Alpine and Nordic skiing, I will choose Nordic 10 out of 10 times. I’ve invested in the skinny pants and the ridiculous looking sunglasses. I have multiple pairs of Nordic skis at the office, and multiple more at home. I say things like “V2,” “Holmenkollen,” and “Double pole” without shame.

Nordic skiing has changed my winters. There is something so deeply contemplative about trying to wrestle the various parts of my body into cooperation long enough to get one, just one, proper kick and glide. And when it happens, it’s magical…it’s like the perfect drive on the golf course, the perfect spot on a wave while surfing, the french fries right out of the fryer at McDonalds. And even on the days when it’s not all clicking, I’m still out in the middle of the woods, enveloped in the quiet of a place that has been put to rest for a season. My blood is pumping and there is cold breath in my lungs, it’s what feeling alive feels like. 

Today I have fully drunk the Kool-Aid. I strut into Clark’s Market sporting my Nordic gear like I’m the Fonz. I walk the aisles of Ace Hardware knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that the women want to be with me and the men want to be me. And if I happen to see a friend who makes a comment on my laughable outfit, I can answer with a resounding, “well, I like it.” 

But don’t worry, I still have the presence of mind not to show up at your post-wedding brunch.