The Pow Bug & Bitches in Heats
While these two articles don’t focus on carving they are a fun read nevertheless by exceptional snowboarding journalist Cindy Kleh
Stoked.at 2004
The Pow Bug
By Cindy Kleh
Many times when Im hiking or snowshoeing the backcountry of Colorado, I come across the remains of old mines or ghost towns. I try to imagine what the early high country pioneers endured to extract gold from the Rocky Mountains in the late 1800s.
There were no snugly fleece neck gaiters to protect from frostbite, no Vibram soles to cushion each step, no Thermax underwear that wicked moisture from the skin, no Gore-Tex outerwear to shield from the wind and snow. Yet, those early pioneers conquered 12,000-foot-plus peaks and survived year-round in this climate!
What could drive a man or woman to go to such extremes of hardship? Were they crazy?
Well, sort of. They had gold fever — a disease that infects a person so bad that all reason is lost. These pioneers built roads throughout this rugged country in hopes of striking it rich. Greed kept them going when they were exhausted and discouraged. It made obstacles seem less daunting and it kept them warm at night.
There are not many miners left in these mountains, but the fever runs as hot as it did during the Gold Rush times. Most mountain town residents are miners of fresh powder. They will do anything to get first tracks, and I do mean anything!
I have witnessed many, many cars passing me on the way to my local ski resort, risking their lives to get there first. The fact that there is a double-yellow line in the middle of the road or a large truck barreling down the highway in the opposite direction does not deter these folks. Its a pow day dude, outa my way!
Proportionately more of these cars in a hurry have snowboards attached to the roof. This is because powder under a snowboard is pure heaven, and, once bitten by the Pow Bug, a boarder will spend the rest of his or her life shirking responsibilities and hurdling any barrier that stands in the way of deep, fresh snow.
Riding powder is a psychological cure-all. No matter how bad your day is going, a pow session will make it better. But this natural high can also be addictive. Riders who are normally stable, patient and unselfish have been known to abandon their own mother or miss their own wedding for a pow day. (But if it were true love, they would be out in the freshies, mutually blowing off the wedding.)
Employers in mountain towns are very suspicious of workers that call in sick on a powder day. You have to make your excuse very good, wear sunscreen and make sure not to be seen on the slopes by your supervisor, who likely also called in sick.
I, myself, am a member of Powder Hounds Anonymous, but I keep missing meetings (so much snow, so little time). Some of the things I have done for powder, I cant even print, but at least I havent run over anyone. Yet.
Like many of my comrades, I contracted a nasty flu during the holiday season. After a day in bed, wishing someone would shoot me and put me out of my misery, I woke up the next day to a foot of new snow, and inexplicably, my stomach felt much improved. I hadnt eaten in two days, but the Pow Bug was biting, and I convinced myself that I needed the all-healing power of deep snow.
I rode two gondolas to the Keystone Outback with my teeth chattering and my stomach flip-flopping just to get in two runs. It was practically untracked, and this crazy person that possesses me on powder days, saw all those lines and went for it.
Unfortunately, my lungs and leg muscles were not on the same page. I would rage, then pant. Rage, then collapse in the snow.
At the bottom of my first run, I was hugging a tree for support, and I thought, That was a blast! Ive got to go one more time! And I did.
When I finally got back home, I crawled into bed and passed out. I knew I had been extremely stupid to rip through trees with half of my normal strength, but at least I wouldnt have to listen to everyone tell me how great it had been.
I was going to finish up this story with some grandiose conclusion where everything gets tied together in the last paragraph. But it just started dumping outside, and, all of a sudden, uh, Im not feeling well. Ive got to run.
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Bitches in Heats
By Cindy Kleh
The last group left in the bar asks for their tab, and it’s totaled and on their table in less than 30 seconds. Cool. My butt may be able to skate out of here early for a change. Just then, the door squeaks open and slams shut. Three guys sit down at the bar and ask if there are any specials on draft beer.
“Special deals are just during happy hour … and this is last call.”
“Last call?” they look at me incredulously. “It’s only midnight!”
Checking my watch, I realize that the health insurance policy purchased a few days ago has just become effective. For the first time in eight months, I have, at least, catastrophic health insurance, a $2,500 deductible with no fancy extras like pregnancy. If I require a few stitches, I’m out of luck, but if smack into a tree or fall from a chairlift, it’ll kick in.
Purchasing health insurance does not mean that I’m becoming more mature and or making rational, responsible decisions. I just can’t have a winning attitude without it. It gives me the freedom to take more chances, to push the envelope a little more and worry less about the consequences. I’d have insurance year-round if I could afford it. There always seems to be those silly expenses like gas, rent and food that come first. I mean, wouldn’t it be bad for your health to be without food and a place to live?
Sacrifices have to be made for everyday rif-raf to live among the trophy homes of mountain resorts. Often the sacrifice is health insurance. Sure, there are nine to fivers with full bennies, but if you have to be somewhere between nine and five almost every day, why live in the mountains?
“Hey,” I plead. “I’ve got a boardercross race tomorrow and I have to get up at six in the morning.”
To my eternal astonishment, the honesty ploy works. They order a round and are gone in 20 minutes.
Even with an early closing, I’m a zombie walking around in the dark the next morning, dressing from a pile of clothes thrown on the floor the night before: socks … long underwear … knee brace … elbow brace … hockey pads… snowboard pants … I’m out the door within a half hour.
I drive up Loveland Pass cradling a huge travel mug of coffee between my legs. The only signs of life are the lights from the grooming machines plowing up and down the slopes of Arapahoe Basin in the dark.
An hour later, a faint sunrise begins to show toward Denver as I reach the summit of Berthoud Pass. I pull over to pee, and squat at the top of the Continental Divide. Pacific Ocean. Looking down the northwest-facing steeps, my eyes take in the half foot of snow that has fallen overnight. Those velvety slopes look tempting, and I wish there was time to poach a quick pow run, but there’s not enough traffic on Highway 40 this time of the day to thumb back uphill and get to Winter Park in time to register for the race.
I smile, because I used to never let anything get between me and pow days. I used to make fun of people who would spend a whole day trying to go as fast as they could on one run. I was into pleasure, not speed.
The truth is, I always hated competition and the way my nerves destroyed me. I used to feel like I was going to throw up before gymnastic meets in high school. My nerves could make me weak and suck the confidence right out of me.
It was my first boardercross race three years ago that changed me. Sending four women simultaneously down a course of banked turns and jumps, with incidental contact allowed, intrigued me enough to sign up.
I realized early on in my sports reporting career that it was more fun to compete AND cover an event than to sit on the sidelines freezing my butt off trying to match bib numbers to names. It was easier to write about and understand action that I had experienced first hand, and I got to know many of the competitors as friends. I found that I liked the racing scene and the parties afterwards.
I also liked the part that luck plays in boardercross. You don’t have to be the best rider to win a race. Anything can happen, and it usually does.
But it was the adrenaline rush that lasted long after the race that hooked me. Sliding into the starting gates was much scarier than hucking myself off a cliff or diving down a steep couloir. That first race was the beginning of an addiction that changed my outlook on snowboarding, and life in general, for that matter.
Forcing myself to show up at the starting gates, even though the whole idea scared me silly, was the beginning of a journey. I faced those fears, and it was victory enough just to go through with the first race. That victory (though it was not technically a victory) gave me the balls to begin confronting other fears that are not as easy to look at.
The first race that I actually won was the beginning of a entirely different addiction.
Finding a premier parking space this early in the day at Winter Park is easy, much easier than getting my boots on in the front seat of a Subaru. I throw some energy bars in a parka pocket, grab my board, goggles and helmet and head for the lifts.
Of course, Janet is always already there, and she takes a run while I go in the lodge to register and hit the bathroom. The race director pulls out my file before I even get over to the registration desk. It’s obvious that Lauren’s mind is focused on running the race, and mine is focused on winning the race, so we hug and promise to catch up on each other after the awards.
Janet is waiting for me in the corral, and we bonk helmets.
“How ya been, bitch?” she asks, in her most lady-like voice.
“Great! Guess what? I just got health insurance, effective midnight last night, and I’m gonna kick your ass!” I respond in my charm school best, pinky extended.
“Ya, maybe you will .. you’re always behind it!”
With those formalities out of the way, we board a chair and get down to the important stuff … the stuff I‘m dying to know. How many times have you ridden the course? Are there any gap jumps? How much snow did Winter Park get last night? How many women are signed up for our age group?
“There’s no gap jumps, but there are four whoop-de-doos in the flat section near the end. You could gap any of the whoops to make up time, but if you fall, you’re in the flats with no speed for the last tabletop jump. If you have too much speed, that baby will send you”
“There’s eight women on the starting lists. We’ll see how many actually show up.”
She unzips her parka and shows me her brand-new padded BMX sweater. 250 bucks. It has built in wrist guards and a reptilian back. You could fall from 20 feet on your back and walk away without a scratch.
I ooh and ahh over it. We don’t say it, but we both know this extra protection gives her a huge psychological edge. Suddenly, I feel very naked.
I have trained like mad all summer long to be as buff and quick as possible. Staying in shape took on a new meaning after I got hooked on trying to win these boardercross races. Hikes in the woods became trail runs. Trees became gates and rocks became jumps to olly. I ran backwards and sideways and propelled off banks to get my ankles and knees ready for anything boardercross could throw at them.
Now it’s going to cost me an additional $250 to be competitive, because suddenly, I must have one of those jackets. Without one, I feel like a Harley going up against a Mack truck!
We talk nonstop to the top, but my mind is already turning over the possibilities. Hmm, eight women. That means there will be at least two heats. It’s nice get in more races for the entry fee, but my stomach tightens as I wonder about the competition. I may be dealing with my competition-phobia but I’m not even close to cured.
We take a few practice runs on the course and run into Gwen in the lift line. Her face is white and she looks like crap. Usually she is a force to be reckoned with, even though she barely weighs 100 pounds. She is known to wear a scuba weight belt under her parka and use every dirty trick in the book. I’ve heard her talk trash at the start and seen her elbow other riders out of the way. I’ve even seen her grab the tail of a board and yank a rider off her feet!
But today she is obviously very hung over and useless. As she pukes off of the chairlift, Janet and I exchange smiles. She won’t be anyone to worry about.
I offer Gwen one of my energy bars but she has a box of Apple Jacks and a carton of milk in her backpack. Janet and I take practice runs until the starters won’t let us on the course anymore. I settle down near the start to do yoga while Janet listens to Widespread Panic on her CD player. Gwen goes off in the woods to puke again.
I meet Shelley while stretching. It’s her first race and she is taking deep drags on a cigarette.
“I am so nervous, I feel weak.”
“Everyone feels like that on their first race. I was a wreck! I thought I was going to have a heart attack, I was so scared. You’ll feel much better when it’s over.”
Thus I establish my veteran nature. The experience pecking order has just been established. I know that I am the oldest woman competitor here, but that holds no honors. I could do only races with 40-49 age categories, but I would be running them alone until I got to national level. Racing against the youngsters all winter gets me ready for anyone I might find at Nationals who happens to be my age and rips.
“Konichi-wa, Kitako! Good to see you.” We shake hands as I remember racing against her last season. (Pushover. Too polite to win.)
Kitako is a college student from Japan studying for a pharmaceutical degree at Denver University. We check out the starting lists for our category and realize we are in the same first heat.
We don’t have to race Janet until the finals. High-five.
I meet A.C. and Marla, who are also in my heat. Marla has pearly pink lipstick, matching nail polish and eyelashes thick with mascara.
A.C. has hard boots, plate bindings and a GS board, and she looks like she’s built pretty solid. She borrows some wax from me, but we don’t have much time to talk because the starters have just called for women’s masters, first heat. The boardercross bitches grab their boards and haed for the starting gates.
Strapping in, I try to breathe deep and calm myself down with my mantra: It’s only snowboarding. Stay low. Stay on your feet.
Still, my heart is racing as we slide into the gates. I can’t wait for the starter to yell “Racers ready!” but there is an injury on course, and we have to wait. Nobody wants to think about injuries in the starting gates. Minutes feel like hours. We tell some dirty jokes to ease the tension and give the starters crap (“Come on … while we‘re young! Oh, too late.”) Finally, we are ready to start.
“Three, two, one …” the gate drops and we push off. We are all in a pack and I know that someone will have to give in on the first bank turn. Nobody slows down, and Marla, A.C. and I collide.
I hate collisions. I never did contact sports before boardercross racing. I grew up immersed in toeshoes and tutus, satin and sequins. I was a girly-girl … a child of the 60s. I wasn’t allowed to wear pants to school until 6th grade. I put wedding dresses and cheerleader outfits on my Barbies, and was taught how to get my way verbally. Pushing or being physically aggressive was just not acceptable behavior for a nice girl.
Who would’ve imagined that one day I would be charging into a bank turn elbow to elbow with three other large butts on boards, shoving each other for high-speed position?
Despite the collision, I somehow manage to stay on my feet and chase Kitako down the steep section. I pass her on the next bank turn, but my contact lens blows out of my eye. I can see it stuck to the inside of my goggles, and keep navigating gates with one eye winking.
This works for the next three gates, then I misjudge a turn and skid out enough for Kitako to pass me. She stomps the landing on the table top jump and crosses the finish line ahead of me, but since the top two advance, we will both make it to the finals.
While I’m sticking the lens back in my eye, Marla crosses the finish line. I punch Kitako in the arm and laugh.
“You’ve gotten better since last year.”
She admits that she has more races under her belt since the last time we met.
A few minutes later, A.C. comes down. She tells me my board gave her a concussion. She doesn’t seem mad, so I offer to buy her a beer. As we relax in the sun watching the guys race, I find out she’s a patroller at Berthoud Pass in the winter and a bush pilot and river raft guide in Alaska in the summer.
We hit it off like a house on fire, and she invites me to move up to Alaska with her in April. I can’t give her an answer, but we agree to meet for some bump runs after the race.
I chow down two hard boiled eggs, some Saltines and a loads of water (snowboarder‘s breakfast: $1.60 plus tax). Now that the first race is over, my stomach is settling down.
We watch the men’s races from the start while we wait for our final race. Janet, Shelley, Kitako and I hang out. Guys never chit-chat at the start of a race. They may nod or shake hands, but they are competitors. Women couldn’t care less. They like to talk a lot to ease the tension.
Shelley looks much calmer. She took second in her first race despite her nerves, and now she has a different look in her eyes. We line up, still adjusting bindings and shimmying boards back and forth in the starting gate. We grab the hand posts and look down the course.
The gate drops, and Janet and Shelley move ahead of the pack. Suddenly, Shelley tucks and passes her.
Kitako is ahead of me, but I’m so close behind she can hear my board scraping turns. I know I have to pass her, but I keep waiting for the right moment. I almost pass her from above on a bank turn. I have the speed, but my back is towards her, and since I can’t see her, I back off.
It’s getting near the bottom and I have to do something, but I don’t want a collision. That crash that knocked me out cold last year … going down in a sled, bruises, sore muscles, living in the fog and headache of a concussion for a week. Ouch. Can’t think about that. Stay focused on the course.
We pump through the whoops side by side, watching each other out of the corner of our eyes. She launches off the tabletop a second ahead of me and bails on the landing. I have two choices: to land on her or slide out and take my chances. I get up first, and inchworm across the finish line.
Janet takes first, again. (She’s won enough Palmer boards to start making them into patio furniture.) Shelley had the race won, but was disqualified when she missed a gate near the bottom.
Oh great. Another woman in the 26 and older age category to worry about.
The four of us find A.C. in the bar and spend the rest of the afternoon together in search of powder bumps. Turns out, A.C. is an incredible rider, and I was fortunate to take her out in the first heat. Great, yet another woman to worry about.
It starts to snow as the awards party gets under way. I look out the window while sucking down a cold one, and think about tomorrow’s powder day brewing outside.
“Hey, can I buy you another beer?”
“Ehh, better not. I gotta drive home in a snowstorm.”
“Crash on my couch tonight. We’ll get first tracks in Parsenn’s Bowl in the morning. I can get you a free ticket.”
“Twist my arm, bitch.”
