Roller Screaming
In cross-country skiing, sometimes you have to coach by the seat of the pants.
MY MOST TERRIFYING DAY as a coach involved roller skiing. During the off-season, cross-country skiers train by striding in a skating motion on a pair of short skis, each with a thick wheel fore and aft. Most practice sessions were pretty stressful, and a few were downright terrifying. Falls on the pavement always produced serious road rashes. It wasn't uncommon in the autumn for several team members to have donut-sized scabs on their elbows, knees, or butts. Not all the residents were thrilled about the training, either. The roads around Hanover are narrow, and often the motorists are not happy about being delayed or inconvenienced by a bunch of fruitcakes in flowered lycra tights skating one after another down the road. I did my best to remind the skiers to stay to the side, ski single file, and to double pole when they heard a car approaching. I was also accustomed to defusing irate motorists when they stopped to explode at me.
One crisp fall day a large co-ed group of Dartmouth skiers skated from Thetford Center to Vershire, a gradual climb of about 14 miles into honest-to-goodness rural Vermont. I handed the skiers water and they strided on up the hill. A knot grew in my stomach when a couple of tough, backwoods boys roared by in a car and flipped me the finger. Several minutes later, a beat-up old Ford pickup, the body replaced by a wooden box, pulled over and stopped. The bearded driver reached across and rolled down the window. I braced myself for more abuse.
"Jesuscrise, the guy who invented thet there lycra otta getta medal!"
"Whaaat?" I stumbled.
"Them suits, the guy who invented that stuff, I hope he's making a million. He deserves it!"
The guy floored it and left me on the side of the road laughing out loud.
But that, you may have guessed, was not my most terrifying day.
This was my most terrifying day:
Among the traditions I had inherited from my predecessor, Jim Page '63, was a 50-kilometer rollerski time trial just before each Thanksgiving vacation. The intra-team race, scheduled for a Sunday morning, started at the Norwich town green. From there the route was north through the Norwich hills, past the Union Village Dam, down into the village of Thetford Center, up Thetford Hill, back down through Union Valley, and back to Norwich. It was an arduous three-hour test that involved some very serious descents, two with sharp turns into covered bridges. It had become a rite of passage for freshmen, and since it was a time trial there was motivation to go for it on the downhills.
After starting my dozen charges in Norwich at one-minute intervals I leapfrogged along the route in the van, doling out water. By the time I reached the common on Thetford Hill my skiers were spread out over 45 minutes. I ran alongside the athletes as they charged past, handing each a paper cup of water and cautioning them about the steep, turning downhill into the Union Village covered bridge. It so on became decision time. I wanted to be on the turn above the covered bridge to warn the guys (especially the freshmen), but knew I wouldn't make it if I waited at the common for all the stragglers. I left five or six cups of water on the roadside and roared down Academy Road to the last pitch before the covered bridge. I thought I had caught and passed 'most everyone, but I couldn't be sure. As I pulled the van off the road on the steepest section of the hill, my heart stopped. There was a ghastly smear of congealed blood across the road.
"Oh, God," I thought, imagining one of my skiers plowing into the hood of an oncoming car, the panicked driver throwing the broken body into the back seat for a fruitless trip to the hospital. At that instant a skier thundered around the corner. He was crouched low with legs spread and skis vibrating wildly on the rough pavement. Sparks were flying from his pole tips as he dragged them in a futile effort to slow down. His eyes widened with panic as he took in the steep, twisting approach to the quaint covered bridge.
I sprinted full-bore down the road behind the skier and grabbed the waistband of his pants. As I slowed to a jog and then a walk, the panic left the skier's face. From a standing start a hundred yards above the bridge, the turn was negotiable. I released my grip and watched the skier roll smoothly into the covered bridge. Then I dashed back up the hill to intercept the next one. I sprinted to catch him, slowed him to a stop, then raced back up the hill for the next one.
Meanwhile Joe Cook, a local celebrity whose house guards the entrance to the bridge, pulled a lawn chair to the edge of his porch and sat down to enjoy the show. As I sprinted up and down the hill in front of his house, Joe watched with the detached amusement of a world-class figure-skating judge. I half expected him to hold up a card ("5.9") after I made an especially good save. I was still trying to remember who had been in the lead and was by now dying on the operating table back in Hanover. I was also trying to remember which of the lessexperienced freshmen might have fallen behind and were still to come.
After several minutes of no skier traffic and repeated checks of the start list, I was pretty sure everyone had passed the bloody corner. I hopped in the van and pulled onto the pavement. In the rearview mirror I caught a glimpse of David Willauer '82, a freshman who had never roller skied before arriving at Dartmouth that September. He was hunched over in a bowlegged crouch and so petrified that he was not making the slightest attempt to slow himself down. I slammed the van into park and scrambled out of the driver's seat. David was going so fast there would be only one chance. I lunged, stretched, and grabbed in one desperate motion. I felt the elastic waistband in my hand and yanked him to a stop like the arresting cable on an aircraft carrier. His face was blanched and he couldn't talk. I tried to sound matter-of-fact: "Take your skis and poles off. I'll get the van and give you a ride back. You've had enough for today."
As I hiked up the hill for the last time, Joe Cook stood up from his lawn chair and began to clap. I looked over in confusion.
"Crisalmighty, that was great! You fellows gonna do this every Sunday mornin'?"
"Nope," I responded, "this is the last time as long as I'm involved." Then, with a sense of dread, I asked, "Was there an accident here earlier, one of my guys hit by a car?"
"Huh?" Joe answered.
"All that blood on the road, did one of my guys get hit?"
Joe's confused look resolved into a broad smile. "Oh that, hell no. One of the Barker boys got hisself a nice little buck down the river 'bout sunrise this mornin'. had to drag it up the bank and crost the road t'is pickup. That's deer blood ya see there!"
MOTORISTS ARE NOT HAPPY about being delayed or inconvenienced by a bunch of fruitcakes in flowered lycra tights.
