Alpine Arbor Day

Think you've experienced cold days?  Try being a race coach in Alaska!

By Mike Hancock

Last Sunday morning we planted a forest, a dense maze of blue and red plastic poles that probably seemed almost random to the casual observer.

I arrived at the mountain 2 hours before the lifts opened to the public.  The thermometer said -8F when I showed up, but the skies were blue and there wasn’t much wind.  A quick check with the race program director showed that 4 separate groups would be vying for hill space, and that the various groups would be setting 3 slalom (SL) and 4 giant slalom (GS) courses.  My group, the Alyeska Masters, was going to be short on coaches that morning, so I knew I had to get everything organized early so we could start setting as soon as possible in preparation for the day’s training.  I carried the gate bundles to the lift, made sure the drills had fresh batteries, and got on the chairlift as soon as Ski Patrol cleared us for loading.

The comments from the public as we scoot past the lift line to load early never seem to change.  There seems to be this perception that we’re up there free-skiing, getting first tracks on all of the prime terrain.  I used to think that, years ago.  Then I learned just how fun it is to ski powder with a heavy bundle of gates on each shoulder.  Many training days I don’t get to ski a run without carrying equipment or doing course maintenance.  I spend a lot of time standing around providing feedback to athletes, so they can beat me on race day.  That’s my glamorous reality of being a ski coach.

As the Junior Program coaches finished setting their last SL course, I started tucking my GS course next to theirs.  Because of the different speeds, ability levels, and turn shapes, I had to balance the hill space I had with the training goals- all while maintaining a reasonable amount of athlete safety.  It wasn’t the prettiest course I’ve ever set, but it did the job. My fingers were just starting to tingle a bit when we finished, giving me a hint of how my day was going to go.

Soon the lift was packed with athletes of all ages that were intent on knocking down all of our hard work.  I stood at the bottom of the course to critique each run, but also to watch for telltale signs of frostbite and other cold-related injuries.  We’ve been focusing on line and turn shape this season, and I tried to find different ways to say the same thing- give yourself enough room to turn.  Every racer is different, and you have to find a way to make the message click.  Then they’re back on the lift to do it all over again.  You watch for trends, trying to gauge how the course is holding up under the near constant stream of athletes.  Maybe your attention drifts a little to the other courses, and you marvel at how the Juniors have no sense of their own mortality.  You, on the other hand, have a career, a family to support, and a lifetime’s experience with injury.  You know how much pain hurts.  Every time one of your athletes goes down, you worry they might not get back up.  Blown knees are all too common these days.

Word soon filtered down that the rest of the mountain was almost deserted, while the day lodge and bar were packed.  The high speed quads and tram were empty, while our little double chairlift was completely filled from top to bottom.  The majority of the activity was confined to a small section of the hill.  I can’t think of a better example of the impact of a healthy race program.  Who else is out there on the truly rotten days?

 Even with the dedication of the racers, enthusiasm on all sides started to fade after lunch and numbers started to dwindle.  Bodies started to tire under the dual loads of fighting the frigid temperatures and training.  Plastic doesn’t get any softer when it gets cold, and there were more than a few arms that were sporting new bruises.  A few hearty souls wanted to press on, but at a certain point you stop making progress.  Better to end a day on a positive note than continue and risk injury or reinforce bad habits.  We let the few remaining die-hards sneak in another run, and then started to tear our course down.  I sorted the gates for the upcoming race, inspecting each for damage before bundling them up.  I popped the drill batteries back on the chargers, and had a brief chat with the program director about the next week’s plan.  8 hours after I arrived at the hill, I pried my feet out of my stiff, cold-soaked boots, stowed my ski gear, and then dragged myself to the car for the drive home.

It was a good day.