La Transjurassienne Classic

by Toni Davis

It had always been my intention to celebrate my 'big five O" with doing something of note, rather than a party. I'm a cross country skier, and the birthday falls in February, so it was on the cards that it would be a ski marathon. We have a good friend in Hayward, Wisconsin, and I'd love to do the Birkebeiner, but it's a long way to go for a long weekend! So, I picked the French one, which had other attractions too. It gave us the opportunity to travel through the channel tunnel for the first time, plus the TGV in France. Also, the 42k race was for classic technique, that is "proper" nordic skiing, not the new -fangled skating style.

Snow was falling heavily as my faithful support -team Husband drove out of the small town of Morez, where we had stayed the night, and had enjoyed an excellent dinner of local fare. As we left the main road heading for the race start in the rural village of Chappelle les Bois, the traffic clogged up along with the snow accumulating on the outside of the hairpin bends. What had seemed like ample time before the start began to dwindle, especially given that we had no idea of what we were to find in Chapelle, what waxes I'd be using and what clothing to wear... the temperature was a friendly -6 in the hills, and the snowfall was forecast to stay and certainly looked set for the day.

Humphrey did a grand job, sneaking into a roadside space with the little hired Yaris just opposite what looked like race HQ. Another large swig from my water bottle, and we went over the road into the mayhem of the tourist office. (One loo... I don't mean one ladies, I mean just the one!) It was with great glee that we found my name on the list, and my number, 7189. Found my bag of bits, including the race bib containing a microchip which guaranteed my hundredth of a second timing!

In the sweaty chaos of the building, skiers were applying the blue wax which I anticipated using myself, so back to the car and duly waxed up. After a few experimental metres, it was back to base in despair, with not an ounce of grip from the wax. I returned via the HQ, miraculously found the loo free, and looked around to see what waxes were in use... still the blues. It felt relatively pretty warm to me, and I felt that my only option was to try a bit of red; scared to go too heavy with it, because you can't put blue on top of red...

That felt better, so now I had the confidence to use it over the whole grip pocket of the skis and hope for the best. So many other things to do.... passing things to Humph to hold, but he was getting cold from his inactivity, hands not functioning for fiddly jobs,... carbohydrates to stuff in my mouth... thin, middling or thick gloves to wear? The driving snow, really rather unpleasant, scuppered my colour-co-ordination... I had to wear the yellow and black lightweight jacket and, dammit, a hat (at least it was a special one, the one Humph had brought back from Peru, with llamas on it) so my pale pink theme, planned for blue skies skiing awaits another day!

Suddenly the area was quieter, as the 250 or so entrants were making their way to the start. I posed for what was probably a somewhat anxious-looking photo, Humph bade me good luck, and I disappeared into the blizzard, pondering how I should be revelling in being back on skis for the first time in 7 weeks, but in fact my thoughts were more to do with what on earth made me think I could be doing competing with 'proper' skiers... all my training had been done on kickbikes, a reasonable substitute, but a substitute nevertheless. Over the preceding weekends, I'd built up to 4 hours and 50 minutes in one session, a pleasant trip out to Rutland Water and around, and I'd banked on getting round inside 5 hours, though I really had little idea.

In the starting pens, part of me wanted to feel the excitement of the noisy, colourful gathering of athletes, but mostly I felt the distant deficiencies of my schoolgirl French, as the commentator gabbled faster and faster with what, if they were indeed instructions, were completely lost on this lone Brit. At last I recognised "cinq minutes", and as much to calm my nerves as for any real necessity, I decided on another layer of red wax. The volume of the gabble increased yet more, and at last, I recognised the seconds counting down, before the starting hooter and welcome movement.

It was probably a fantastic sight; 250 - odd skiers streaming away from the start and up a gentle slope, but it was lost in horizontal heavy snow. I settled in at the back, not looking to see how many people were behind me, but there were a few. As we merged into tracks, I started to find a rhythm, and remembered that I was supposed to be enjoying myself... as indeed I started to do, despite having to look through a half of one eye as the snow was coming up at our faces. We passed a marker telling us we were 2k down, 40k to go, and I found myself overtaking for the first time... a very nice feeling! I managed to overtake just 8 skiers that I could be certain of; keeping count of them was a pleasant ritual. It didn't count if I overhauled someone taking a trackside pause who then overtook me again... And after the first welcome 'warm citron tea' stop, it became hard to know who was in front and who behind.

As always, I like to show my appreciation of the volunteers who man the water stops and make these events possible. My schoolgirl French must have been so conspicuous, because my "Tres bien, Merci beaucoup" was invariably greeted with "Good luck" or "Is good, well done" and so on. Along the way I was variously offered all manner of verbal encouragement, to which I beamed a smile, hoping that it had indeed been encouragement, not abuse!

I would like to wax lyrical about the open French countryside, but foreground, middle and if indeed there was any, the far distance was all a blur of white. In amongst the trees the wind was less of a factor, which was welcome, but the scenery demands another visit to make any comment. I found myself with no-one in immediate sight ahead of me at the height of the blizzard, when the first real sustained downhill descent allowed me to pick up speed. I had the general impression of skiers in the far distance straight ahead, but with the speed, even less of one eye was open for looking ahead. Fortunately, I realised in time, that the tracks veered right round to the right, and it was only the kind conditions that allowed me to make the turn and keep on track. in fact I was pleasantly delighted that I made it round the whole route without a single fall.

Every so often, out of the whiteness ahead, the sound of a commentary drifted through to me, signal that there would be a drinks station and cheering crowds. Whilst the prime attraction of cross country skiing is getting away from them, the colourful and noisy support of the locals cheered me no end. "Allez, Allez, Allez" the most common, but also, from the influence of nieghbouring Alpine nations, "Hop, Hop, Hop". One house alongside the tracks, had a little sign erected with Hop, Hop, Hop writ upon it!

We skied through a few small hill villages, and the villagers seemed to take a pride in being the noisiest, in particular with their cow bells. It is very much a Simmental dairying area, as we found with photos we saw of the villages' agricultural shows; numerous rows of cows tethered in lines. The clang of numerous cow bells reached well out to us as we glided into the villages, and one expected to see dozens of locals wielding them. Instead, there were devious arrangements of a row of maybe six or eight large bells strung up on an overhead pole, hanging by rope from either end on tall posts. I assume that turns were taken to tug on a dangling rope which rocked the pole back and forth; one person, many decibels!

From the second drinks station onwards, there was food as well. Washing up bowls were proffered, containing Agen prunes at the first such. These were augmented by little chunks of ginger cake at the next, and thereafter by the local piece de la resistance, Comte cheese, cut into bite sized cubes. I'd developed a fondness for this just the night before, and took two cubes; after a couple of strides I realized that you can't really ski and hold cheese at the same time, so the second chunk had to go straight in!

Early on in the race, there were distance markers every 5km. By the time our route had looped us back to Chappelle, we were joined by hundreds of skiers who were skating the 25k "Mini Trans". So from here on there were markers every kilometre, and the quality of our tracks deteriorated as, where traffic was heavy, skaters had obliterated our nice loipe. It meant more company though, and the entertainment of seeing skiers skating past, then gasping at the side of the tracks later, while this particular 'tortoise' eased past them.

The temperature was rising as the afternoon progressed, up to about -3, I think, and the going got slower. Gentle downhills had to be worked at with double poling, and nothing seemed to be fast anymore. With the passage of many skiers, the surface of the uphill slopes resembled a 6 inch layer of granulated sugar, and herringboning up became more than ever a plod. Almost at the top of one such very long one, a family had taken residence; Father playing a mouth organ, child tugging on the low branch of a fir tree onto which she'd tied a couple of cowbells, and mother making encouraging noises in unintelligible French... all most welcome.

I was pretty much on my own when I encountered the first and only very steep downhill bit, just adjacent to a road. It was well churned up and at the top, the snow was a muddy brown from the roadside dirt. Skiers ahead of me will have gone down it much faster than myself, and their width of snowplough, if indeed they were ploughing at all, much narrower. The route twisted and turned through the trees, and it was more the power of positive thinking than real skill which got me down intact... It felt great to be at the bottom, despite the eyes streaming from the flying down, and it meant a good few metres covered in double quick time.

The snow fall was reducing, and with it, low cloud which almost became mist became a new hazard. On a later open downhill section, gentle enough not to need to snowplough, I had not a clue as to the direction of the tracks in the gloom, but staying in them kept me on route.
As the markers showed 3, then 2 and then just 1 kilometre left, the weather did lift a little, and I certainly had the sense of coming into a more open broad valley. Soon after the 1k marker, I could see the village of Mouthe up ahead, but too close to be a kilometre away. The route looped around the valley floor, turning back to the village, and from some distance, I saw a tall figure with a dark hat on silhouetted against the yellow inflated upside-down U which funneled us across the finish line. It was as welcome as the finish line itself.

I crossed the line in 200th position, with a time of 4 hours and 52 minutes. Weary but elated, and with only a small blister on my left thumb to show for my efforts. Delighted to have missed out on the 'prize' of the heart-shaped gingerbread which is presented to the last person to cross the finish line! It will come as no surprise that the winners have cowbells slung around their necks! The winning woman took just 2 hours and 32 minutes, the third 2 hours 59, and all the rest came in at 3 hours plus. I have no idea whether I was the only English woman, but I like to think that I was the first anyway!

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About the Author

And as for "moi"... well you know how old I am now! I made a mid-life career change and am the happiest personal trainer/fitness instructor you'll ever meet. I'm a one-man-band, so the gym shuts down for the three weeks every year when I go off to Norway to lead cross country skiing holidays. I'm allowed a little time on holiday myself too!

Contact me through my website at roodhealth.co.uk