It was the morning of Saturday, the 31st of January, 2015. The sun still hadn’t exposed its round, golden head over the horizon, but the sky was beginning to brighten.
    

Still in bed, I opened my eyes sleepily. It’s too early to be up on a weekend, I thought; but wait! Oh no! Today’s the ski race at Birch Hill!  I sat bolt upright and threw off my blankets, then dove head-first onto my parents’ bed, hitting the floor with my heel on the way. Ignoring the pain now coursing up my leg, I opened the bedroom door and stomped into the kitchen. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?” I asked myself. It was already nine o’clock and the race was to begin at eleven.
    

Our sled dog, Luna, came stampeding into the hallway, knocking papers off shelves. “Hi Lunie” I greeted her while patting her furry head absentmindedly. Finally, my mom and dad entered the house from outside, bringing a wave of cold air with them. “Good-morning Maggie!” my mom said, “did you sleep well?” I answered with a groan, “Uh-huh.”
    

After breakfast, I galloped upstairs to get my ski gear together, while gathering my hair back into a messy braid. Pulling on socks and slippers I ran back down the stairs and threw my gear into the green duffel bag that seemed like it could hold almost anything.

We arrived at the ski hill about half an hour later; our chauffeur (also known as my dad) dropped us in the parking lot, so I could find a place amongst all the racers to drop my bag. The big building at the base of the stadium was packed with adults and children alike. We made our way over to the concession stand which the mom of one of my teammates was running. She greeted us with a wave. “Are you excited for the race?” she asked me. “Yes, although slightly nervous too,” I replied, as she let out a good natured laugh.
           

From the timing building, announcements could be heard through the speakers located on the building.  “Thirty minutes until the start of the under eighteen boys’ race!  Thirty minutes!” the voice roared into the microphone. I glanced at the other kids around me. Some of them looked like they were about to be sick, while others stood calmly talking to their friends and laughing. I gulped and took a deep breath, trying to focus on anything but the beginning of my race.
           

My mom and I were soon outside again where I felt a little less jittery. As we stepped into the hut, (a small log cabin that was once the main building), I remembered that I still needed to pick up my bib. I darted out the main entrance and almost collided with someone as I skidded on the icy surface, formed by dripping icicles. Returning from the hut with my bib and bag, I made sure I had everything needed –hat, mittens, headband, and face-mask before heading toward the starting line.
Part 2

When I first started skiing, I was about five or six years old. To me, it was one of those sports where you dabble at it for ten minutes or so, and then you’ve had enough. That is to say, I had absolutely no interest in it whatsoever. I really liked my coaches, but the skiing was something else altogether.

About four years later, I took some more classes with the Junior Nordics ski program, and to my surprise, actually enjoyed it.  Then, when I was eleven, I started Junior “Devo” (development), made up of about twenty kids. My coach was wonderful and she taught me so much while I was with that group. She had a way to make everything in skiing fun, even if it was still challenging.

I signed up for the same team the next season, but it seemed that I had already learned many of the techniques that she and the other coaches were teaching.  So next, I tried out the group that was up a level: the “Prep” (preparation) team. After going once a week for a few weeks, I decided to make the switch.

It was very hard at first. We were required to do strength training on a much more rigorous level than in Junior Devo. The first night, our coach had us do ten pull-ups, ten push ups, ten chair-sits and many other exercises that I wasn’t used to. The next morning when I woke up, I could hardly move I was so sore! Now after doing the same routine every other night for about half an hour, I feel much better.

So in the end, taking skiing when I was little paid off!

                                       * * * * * *
About fifteen minutes from the start of the under fourteen girls’ race, I made my way over to the gate and began warming up. Many of the girls were not at the starting area yet, but as the minutes ticked by, more and more showed up.

The lady who was assigned to mind the gate finally let us through, and we covered the snowy ground like ants attempting to get food.  Two officials assigned start locations to each girl, and as they found their spots, the line diminished. Finally, I was given a number. My marker was forty-six, near the back, but not too bad for my first time in a Besh Cup race. I quickly took off my warm up pants and jacket and shoved them in the bag that the organizers provided. “About one minute!” the announcer shouted. My mind was whirring with thoughts: What if I don’t get my poles on in time? What if I fall? What if someone falls in front of me? Just as I finished strapping my pole to my hand, the announcer called, “Thirty seconds!” I could hear the whole stadium become quiet and tense with anticipation as the racers got into the starting position. “Bang!” The gun went off and the three kilometer race began.

Even though I knew that I may have appeared incredibly nervous on the outside –and I’m not saying I wasn’t- I was also smiling inside. The sound of the ski poles on the freshly groomed trail made me feel at home, so by the time I got to the base of the stadium hill I wasn’t uneasy at all. Instead, my nervousness was replaced by excitement.

Climbing the first hill I passed a few girls who were going just a little slower than me, which gave me the confidence to power up the slope. I made it my goal to stay in front of people and if possible, to pass some. This was fun because I had a challenge to complete, and by going faster, and working on my form, it would happen more easily. With this new aspect imprinting itself in my mind, I kept the steady pace that I had been doing for most of the race.

On the last downhill, I went into a tuck position, so I would be more streamlined than when standing up like a sail on a boat. Already I could hear the first competitor’s arrival at the finish line, as the announcer said: “And here’s our winner now!”  I sighed, but persistence gnawed at me like a dog worrying its bone, so I kept skiing.
      

Panting up the final hill –and the steepest one too- I could hear the remaining skiers’ poles crunching into the snow behind me. Through my frost-covered eye-lashes, I glimpsed my coach about halfway up the hill, encouraging my teammates and me to finish the never-ending climb. “That’s it, Maggie! You’re doing really well! Keep your skis sliding; come down on the outside edge of your foot. That’s it!” He ran alongside the trail, yelling instructions as I made my way under the bridge, and into the stadium to the finish line. At about one hundred and fifty feet from the end, the slope lessened and I started to sprint.  Although I was tired, I managed to speed up considerably compared to my pace on the hill. I could hear my other coach cheering for me, and my friends yelling from somewhere among the crowd.  I knew as I crossed the line marked “Finish” that even if I hadn’t won the race in reality, I had won it in just being a competitor, just being there to experience it all.