This is the finish line of the Vasaloppet, held annually since 1922. The sign across the finish says: "I Fäders Spår för Framtids Segrar" , which means "In the footsteps of our forefathers for the victories of tomorrow"
I find that that is quite a beautiful sentiment.
The Vasaloppet is a 90 km ski race between Sålen and Mora in Dalarna county. It commemorates an actual event : in 1521 Gustav Vasa, who was trying to convince the Swedes to rise up in arms against the Danes (editorial note: the Swedes were only convinced to join his rebellion after the Danes lopped of the heads of 80 Swedish noblemen in Stockholm. The Swedes are a bit slow to get upset about things). The Danes were naturally not terribly fond of Gustav, and he was forced to flee for his life from Mora towards Norway (another editorial note: the modern Vasaloppet goes the other direction, having Gustav fleeing into the arms of his pursuers. Note to organizers: sort this out). This being Sweden, he had to flee on skis even though it was July. OK, I made that part up.
So future-king-Vasa fled on skis from Mora towards Norway and a bit afterwards news of the 80 dead guys finally reached Mora (the e-mail containing the news had been accidentally marked as "spam" and deleted). The Mora townspeople, realizing their grave error, sent off two of their strongest skiers to go catch up with him and bring him back to lead them in their struggle against their oppressors. Those two skiers were Lars and Engelbrekt (editorial note #3: heros should never be named Engelbrekt. They totally lose all credibility. It is like if Superman was named "Gus " instead of "Clark Kent"). So Lars and Engelbrekt finally caught up to Gustav Vasa in Sålen. He came back to lead the peasants and yadda-yadda-yadda they drove off the oppressing Danes and established the kingdom of Sweden.
In my opinion, the race should be called the "Lars and Engelbrekt"-loppet, but that just doesn't ring as nicely, does it? I mean, they are the real ski heros here, right? If Vasa had been a bit fitter, they would never have caught up to him. Just my 2 cents.
As I was doing my laundry the other day, I was just about to fold this pair of socks up and put them in my drawer when I realized that these were the Best Socks Ever. I bought these socks for Phase III Army training while I was still at RMC, because the army socks at the time sucked (scratchy wool). That means I purchased these socks in 1995. If a year is - what, 7 dog years? - then I reckon a year has to be about 25 sock years. The lifespan of an average pair can't be more than 3 years or so. That means these suckers are the equivalent of 300 years old. I bet that these socks are the choice of Galapagos tortoises.
I remember purchasing them because my strategy at the time was very simple: Price Is No Object. I had no desire to have anything but the best available equipment in the field in Chilliwack, because I knew that Phase III would be extremely demanding and I didn't want to worry about having crappy equipment on top of everything else. (As an aside, it turns out my premonitions about Phase III were quite correct. At the end of that summer I was exceptionally well qualified for any job that required large amounts of digging and misery.) So, I went to the Mountain Equipment Co-Op store in Ottawa and simply asked for the most expensive pair of hiking socks they had. These puppies cost me $45 bucks.
The socks did serve me very well in the field, and when I returned to RMC that fall, I still wore them frequently in my parade boots. Then one day I did laundry and only one of the socks came back. True story. I was rather sad, but kept hope that its mate would eventually turn up, so I put the lone remaining sock in the bottom of my barrack box. A week went by, then a month. No sock. I kind of forgot about it.
Two months later - November sometime, because there was snow on the ground - I had to go into Kingston for some errand. I had no car, and rarely went into town because it was just really inconvenient. I was also in Chemical Engineering and did biathlon and therefore had no social life. I guess some things just don't change. Anyhow, as I passed in front of the Tim Hortons beside Fort Frontenac, I had to keep my head down because it was quite windy and cold. I noticed a dirty rag in the gutter. Then I stopped dead.
Yup. My sock.
To this day, I have absolutely no idea how my missing sock travelled from my Squadron laundry room to a gutter on the side of the road in Kingston over a kilometer away. And to find it two months after it went missing defies belief. But there you go. The world is a strange and mysterious place.
I gingerly picked it up out of the gutter and inspected it. There was no question it was mine. There are not too many $45 dollar socks lying around in gutters. This was my sock. Correct size and everything. So I brought it back to the College and laundered it. Then, with a song in my heart I reunited it with its long lost comrade from the bottom of my barrack box.
Since then, these socks have accompanied me on virtually every trip I have taken because they are still darn comfy and pretty much indestructible. They have run with me in at least two CIOR orienteering races and I wear them regularly inside my ski boots, so they have no doubt accompanied me on many of my ski and biathlon races also.
I now believe that these socks are immortal. They are the Chosen Ones. When Christ returns to judge the living and the dead, he will be wearing these socks. I do not own these socks. Nobody can own them. I am simply their guardian and keeper. And as such, it will be my humble honour to wear them in the Vasaloppet next week.
I consider myself a sort of a jack-of-all-trades. Passingly good at a bunch of stuff, but very far from being the best at anything. I think that one of the nice things about having a finger in many different pies is that when you happen across genius in whatever field you have a bit of experience in, you can see it and really appreciate it. I have no idea how I have managed to get this far in my life without hearing about Leo Kottke, but he is my new hero. This guy plays guitar like nobody I have ever heard of or seen before. Eric Clapton, eat your heart out.
I have had the privilege in my travels to have gone to some fairly nice places, and many of those places have nice or world famous casinos. Naturally, in order to fully experience such a place, one must frequent said casino. Monte Carlo springs immediately to mind. Despite this, I have found that I simply can’t learn to gamble. Sure, I can put coins in a slot and push a button with the best of the grizzled old casino hags, but when it comes to the more exotic forms of gambling, I have some sort of mental block. Craps? No way. Pai Gow? Nope. Even Poker eludes me. Roulette is OK simply because it takes the mental ability of a drunken monkey to plunk chips down randomly on the felt.
In order to learn something, first you must have enough interest to activate whatever brain chemistry it takes to first concentrate on the subject and second to burn the rules into your long term memory. Apparently this is easy for people who believe that their gambling decisions have a strong influence on whether they win or lose. To me, every casino game except roulette looks like an annoying set of rules layered on top of what should be a simple process of taking your money and giving you nothing in return.
Apparently when other people hear the rules of card games they think: "This is how I will become rich. I must pay attention." Whereas my brain just activates the fight or flight response. I don’t know whether to run away or start punching the dealer.
I can’t tell you how many times well-meaning people have described to me the simple steps involved in casino blackjack. It always sounds to me exactly like this:
“It’s easy. If the dealers gets at least (I’m drifting off by now) and you have (Jesus, will this explanation ever stop?) then obviously you would (Is my soul leaving my body? No, phew, it’s just cigarette smoke.) But if you get dealt a (mwuwahah) then you want to double down. That means (Hey, that guy behind you has a funny shirt. I wonder where he got it.) And of course you can always bet on the (Nahnahahnahnah), and that means (I’ll be at the roulette table.)”
I wish I were one of the people who get an adrenaline rush from gambling. But not so much that I’d eventually need to sell the kids to a Thai businessman. There’s an ideal sweet spot for addiction, and I envy those who have it. These lucky people have all the incentive in the world to learn complicated gambling rules. In stark contrast, I get only a modest psychological buzz from roulette, mostly because of the flashy turny thingy and the fast moving marble. But after about a half an hour I start regarding my remaining money as a filthy thing that I must shed as quickly as possible. One way you that can know for sure you’ll never be a professional gambler is if you ever have this thought: I wonder how quickly I can get rid of this last 40 dollars.
Normally I am up to speed on interesting Swedish cultural things before they happen. St. Lucia, for example. However, for one reason or another, Fettisdagen caught me off guard.
On Tuesday we were eating in the cafeteria and people were loading up on some rather tasty little pastries, which is not normal (Swedes don't eat dessert at lunch. It is written in their constitution.) Most folks were also eating baked beans, which was also a first in the cafeteria. So I inquired what was going on.
"What is going on with the baked beans and pastries?" I inquired.
"Actually, it is Fettisdagen." (Swedes tend to preface any statement with "Actually", much like we Canadians suffix statements with "eh". I find it kind of cute)
"Jaha." I replied thoughtfully. "And what exactly is Fettisdagen?"
"Actually, it means "Fat Day". On this day it is traditional to go go skiing, eat beans and these wonderful little pastries. They are called Semla. Actually, you must try them. They are delicious".
"Really?" I replied, quite intrigued. "So you actually have a day reserved for skiing and eating pastry. How excellent. Are you kidding me?"
"Actually, no. It is a serious tradition that we think has some kind of religious meaning, but we aren't so sure because Sweden is probably the most secular place on the planet after Quebec."
"Fascinating." I answered, fascinated. I mulled this information for a bit. "So would Fat Day have anything to do with Shrove Tuesday?"
"Actually, perhaps, but we have no idea what a Shrove is."
"Right, right... OK, how about Mardi Gras?"
"Yes! Oh - uh, Actually, yes. You caught us by surprise there."
"So Fat Day in Sweden is the same as Mardi Gras in Rio and New Orleans"
"Actually, of course! That is what we have been trying to say."
"So while folks in Louisiana and Rio go nuts, get naked and party until dawn, in Sweden people go skiing and eat pastries. I see. "
Everyone at the table nodded in serious actual agreement.
But you know something? I dig it. I would much, much rather go skiing and eat pastries than fling myself into the debauchery of Mardi Gras. Well, OK, I wouldn't mind experiencing that level of debauchery at least once in my life (CIOR Gala Balls do not count). But on a day-to-day basis, skiing and pastries would definitely win out.
Well, I am not so fond of Brussels. I try to avoid putting negative stuff up here, but in the interest of being honest, I think it is necessary in this case. There are many cities I rather like, such as Ottawa, Quebec City, Victoria, Salt Lake City and Stockholm (actually, all Swedish cities I have seen to date, including Sundsvall, Luleå and of course Umeå). The characteristics those cities have in common are: all of them are clean and have easy access to big parks or wide open spaces. They are also friendly. That is a pretty open adjective. To me it is has more to do with the feel a city has rather than any particular characteristic. However, small things contribute to this `friendliness´. For example, I have never had a cab driver tell me they didn't want to take me somewhere prior to this trip to Brussels. However, on this trip it happened several times. Either the destination was too close (ie, the fare would be low) or they simply didn't like the look of me, I have no idea. Still, not very impressive. The rows of restaurants that hire thugs to cajole you to come eat at their establishments - then ridicule you when you pass them by - also didn't impress me very much.
Suffice it to say that in my opinion, Brussels is sorely lacking in many respects. There are plenty of pedestrian areas in the old city, but there are absolutely no parks of any significant size. New York has Central Park, Quebec City has the Plains of Abraham, Ottawa has Gatineau park. Brussels has a few cobblestone squares with statues of old dead guys. That isn't totally true, there is a `park´ at the War museum, but any park that you can stand in and see the four corners from any point inside it just doesn't cut it as far as I am concerned. To get out of the city to exercise properly, I had to get on the train and travel 45 minutes outside the city center. Even there, traffic was heavy and the roads marginal. Many roads in Belgium are concrete rather than asphalt, which is horrible for rollerskiing. Poletips cannot grab concrete, so your poles are useless, and concrete is much more slippery than asphalt. Also, many roads suddenly transform into cobbles with no warning. Cobblestones and rollerskis do not mix.
I did see some cool stuff, of course. Belgium is very big on road cycling (it is the home of cycling legend Eddy Merckx) and while I was out rollerskiing I got passed on a couple of occasions by huge pelotons of hundreds of cyclists. I assume they were cycling clubs. That was pretty cool. I have never seen that anywhere else before.
I suppose the weather didn't help my opinion. It was rainy or overcast and around 0 degrees the entire week. Apparently for Brussels this is about status quo for the month of February however. I have never had a problem with seasonal affective disorder in the winter no matter how little light there is - as long as there is snow on the ground. However, a month or two of drizzly, overcast weather would make me seriously depressed.
In general, Brussels: inte bra. (Swedish for not so good)
Hi everyone. Just to let you know I am in Brussels until the 18th, so I am not sure how often I will be able to post.
I am not really happy that this brussels thing is happening just 3 weeks before the Vasaloppet, it kind of messes up my training. I pulled out my rollerskis and will be rollerskiing around the City in a vain attempt to maintain my fitness. If this looks as ridiculous as it sounds, I may post pics. Stay tuned.
Isabelle really wanted to go dogsledding. To be honest, I thought this was just another cheezy tourist thing to do, but hey, I am willing to try anything once (with the possible exception of intravenous street drugs).
Turns out, dogsledding is pretty cool. The dogs are awesome. We both had a team of 4 dogs, and we were out for 2 hours. Lars Eric, proprietor of Wild Adventures led us on a tour of the Vasterbotten backcountry trails, and it was really cool. I was always under the impression that sled dogs were really aggressive, but it isn't true. They are really nice dogs, who happen to really, really love running. Preferably in the snow, and preferably pulling something heavy. As a middling cross country skier, I humbly take my toque off to these dogs. When it comes to pure, sheer motivation and love for their chosen sport, they kick any human athlete's ass by a landslide. It is like running is like the best thing they have ever done, ever ever ever in their entire lives. It is like running for these dogs is better than chocolate cake, beer, skiing and high speed internet, combined. It is pretty awesome.
Only negative - being on a sled behind a team of hard working sled dogs puts you directly into the slipstream of serious, nuclear-powered dog farts. This is not a joke.
I do not recommend travelling to see the Jokkmokk marknad (market) if you happen to be a card-carrying member of PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals).
I have never seen so many dead animals all in one place (if you disregard the steak counter at your local supermarket). Piles of reindeer skins here, a table full of fox tails there, a bunch of marten furs hanging off a trader's tent pole. It was awesome. There were even seal skins, though sadly there were no baby seal skins (definite market opportunity here for Canada's East Coast seal hunters/clubbers).
Isabelle beside a pile of assorted animal bits
It was like a throwback to a time when furs were a reality of surviving above the Arctic Circle. The best thing was that this was not some made-for-tourists type of event. The Jokkmokk Market has been happening continuously for over 400 years on the first weekend in February, and although the town of Jokkmokk sees an influx of some 30 000 people for market weekend, the majority are expat Sami people making the pilgrimmage back home (on a side note, it appears that the Sami do very well for themselves when they strike out on their own in the southern world. A whole section of the parking lot was reserved for Porsches). Jokkmokk is just too remote to really attract huge numbers of tourists. Perhaps that is a good thing, because PETA metrosexuals would go collectively apoplectic if they experienced this market en masse. There would be protests by city-dwelling "animal lovers" throwing paint on furs and all that other nonsense. The thing you quickly come to understand (if you aren't a PETA nutjob) is that reindeer are still a very real and integral part of the Sami lifestyle and economy. By extension, so are reindeer furs and hides and meat. At the home we stayed at (Terese Pirak and her sambo & 2 kids Siri and Johan - more on that later) they keep reindeer in their backyard - and they live in a very nice bungalow on the edge of town.
The reindeer behind Terese's house.
Although the Sami are no longer really nomadic, they still herd semi-domesticated reindeer around the northern parts of Sweden Norway, Finland and Russia. When you drive around up here in the winter, you have to watch for sticks stuck in the snowbanks with plastic bags tied to them. Those are the signs put up by Sami herdsmen along the sides of the road that their reindeer are in the area, so you should pay extra attention when driving. Reindeer herds apparently routinely block off major roadways by just standing there, refusing to move even as furious drivers honk their horns and scream obscenities (which, because this is Sweden, amounts to "Darn you, stupid reindeer! Please get off the road as soon as you can!") Reindeer are not renowned for their penetrating intelligence.
It took us 5 hours to drive to Jokkmokk. I was joined in this adventure by Isabelle Mousseau, who sacrificed her perfectly good vacation time to freeze her ass off above the Arctic Circle rather than lie on a beach somewhere. Isabelle arrived Friday night and we left Saturday morning first thing, so my hat goes off to her for sitting in a car for 5 hours while still jetlagged. Jokkmokk is about 20 km above the Arctic Circle, so we had to take the obligatory tourist shot of crossing that line. I didn't know that the Arctic circle actually means something: it is the latitude furthest south that experiences 24 hours of daylight and darkness.
Jumping over the arctic circle
I had reserved a room through the Jokkmokk tourist bureau. The town of Jokkmokk has a normal population of 5900, so an influx of 30 000 people cannot possibly be accommodated by the 1 hotel in town. So people clear out their spare bedrooms and rent them out during Market weekend. When I wrote the tourist bureau, they gave me the name and address of our host, Terese Pirak. We arrived in town early Saturday afternoon and then walked around the market for 4 or 5 hours. I figured I would be able to spot the street Terese lives on, but I didn't see it all day. So that evening we were sitting in one of the three restaurants in town, and I figured I would have to ask someone who looks local for directions. So I lean over to the next table (where the dude is wearing reindeer skin chaps and boots) and give him the piece of paper with Terese's address on it, and ask him if he knows where it is. Dude looks at the piece of paper, looks at me, and goes to get his wife. His wife arrives and announces "You will be staying with us." (she spoke much better English than he did).
This is a bit awkward. I appreciate the hospitality, but I have already paid for the room at Terese's place. So I thank her for her offer and just ask again if she could tell us where Terese lives.
"No, you don't understand" She answers. "I am Terese."
Yeah, that was pretty weird. In a town of 5900, with 30 000 visitors, the chances of that happening are around 1/36000 or about 0.003%. Weirder - later that evening as we walked around town, we saw a poster for the Jokkmokk film festival. On it was a head shot of Terese. She is the star in some art film that was shot in Jokkmokk called The Dinner.
So what cool stuff did we buy? Well, I got two reindeer skins, a great Sami belt knife and some gifts. Isabelle got a fox skin, a marten skin, and a reindeer skin. She knows a lot more about skins than I do. Our reindeer skins are currently gracing my car seats, because they're toasty warm. I have to say, I am amazed at how toasty they really are. There was an icebar near the Jokkmokk museum - an outdoor bar made of ice, with ice stools and ice everything. Ice stools don't sound so comfy, I admit. However, each stool had a single layer of reindeer skin on the seat and let me tell you, that 0.5 cm of fur between your cheeks and the ice keeps you butt toasty warm. The Sami use reindeer skin for sleeping on outside, and they are clearly superior to any Thermarest I have tried. They will make a wicked cool accessory for the Canadian Ski Marathon...
Jokkmokk market: two enthusiastic thumbs up. Unless you are a PETA nutjob.
Isabelle and Suki, the amazing hugging dog.
Can we run now? How about now? Now? Please? 
