My weekend racing as a Québécois

[JWatkins15]

If you are anything like me, you’ve been jumping out of your skin waiting for more sessions this winter. That said, I acknowledge that I am a premadonna when it comes to winter kiting conditions. I just don’t think 230 lb bodies are designed to be strapped to snowboards chattering across icy snow. Well a couple weeks ago, I couldn’t take it any more. The sunshine, warm weather and wind were enough to convince me that I needed to head to WBL and score any icy session. I scooped up a pair of used 228 cm giant slalom skis at the end of last winter (think Peekaboo Street, long stiff sticks designed for going mach 7 down an Olympic GS course), and this seemed like an appropriate use for them. I strapped in, got my 10m kite into the air and then set off on an hour and a half long rip session. The conditions of the day, and the gear pretty much ruled out carving turns, jumping, or any type of trick progression. It was all about the speed. When I put the kite down, ~90 minutes later, I had logged just a touch over 50 miles of lake. Carry the one, and that’s a blistering 35 mph average speed. Top speed logged: 47.8 mph. I had never been much into the speed thing, but my hands were shaking with adrenaline, and my legs shaking with exhaustion.

I bumped into Lakawa Mike after the session, and he mentioned he was headed to Quebec for a race the next weekend. I jumped in my truck, fired up delta.com and 35,000 reward miles later, I had a Friday night to Sunday night trip to the great white north booked.

The affordable mileage tickets all had connectors, so I chose to fly through Detroit with the logic being that if I got stuck there, I could justify it as a work trip. You know, market research and all. I have this hair-brained scheme to start an urban apple orchard in Detroit since land is so cheap inside the city limits right now. That’s a story for another day. Anyhow, a cobb salad and two fest beirs later, I was on my puddle jumper of a connector, fingers crossed that my skis and kites made the switch as smoothly.

When I arrived at Montreal Trudeau International, it became immediately apparent that this place was not Canada. Canada is Minnesota with a passport. Quebec is berets, accents and unshaven underarms. It was the first time I regretted spurning high school French for Spanish. That’s what you get for making enrollment decisions based on what class Emily Johnson signed up for.

A short drive and awkward conversation with the girl at the Tim Horton’s drive though later and I had arrived at Trois Rivieres Quebec. I arrived just in time for a table full of Frenchmen to regretfully inform me that they’d killed all the beer and that it was time for bed. After all, we had racing the next day.

Until we didn’t. The wind didn’t materialize, so Saturday was a total bust. Mike did let me get out to flail around on one of his foil kites, so I got a couple short tacks in before the wind totally quit. I scored just enough reps to make me question my original plan to buck the international speed sailing trend by flying my trusty Switchblades. A windless day transitioned into a wine filled night featuring speeches, raffle give aways, live music and applause. After one such round of applause, the guy I was sitting next to nudged me in the ribs and told me to stand up. People laughed. The night evolved, or more accurately, degenerated into dancing and karaoke. I was asked to sing Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecelia, which sent me into cold sweats because I only really know the chorus. Turns out the French, also, only know that part. Bullet dodged.

The next morning we were met with rain, but would not be discouraged. Kites were rigged, skis waxed and buoys set. I’ve raced the crossing several times, but there was something really intimidating about seeing 40-60 kites tricked out race kites connected to a bunch of amped up Frenchmen wearing GPS watches and start timers. I decided, I had nothing to prove and that I was here for the show. Then the first horn. Five minutes until race time. My heart started pumping, and I began to rethink my plan to take it easy. I was like a racehorse getting loaded into the starting gates. I was hot. And ready to go.

One minute. Kites move into position and a flotilla of kites starts charging the line. I eased my kite to 2 o’clock and picked a jersey in front of me. Jeff, an east coast dude that speaks English. He’s my huckleberry. I cross the line about 15 seconds late. The peloton, with Jeff in it, is way out in front. The snow is deep. Like once in a decade in Minnesota deep. I find myself wishing we had some of the WBL ice I ripped around on the weekend before. I don’t crash, I don’t pass anyone or get passed. My legs burn. 3 minutes later I cross the line. 14th place, that was awesome. Seriously, the burn!

Then another buzzer, flags go up. 5 mintues until the next race. Mike finds me, asks how I did, and I find out he was duking it out with the leader on the first race. I decide its time to make something happen. Another buzzer, that’s the 1 minute mark. I charge the line. The wind has picked up so I am moving way faster than I expected. I look around and I’m all alone, then I look at my watch… 30 second left… 30 meters from the line. I’m going too fast. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT, I can’t slow enough to avoid crossing the line before the buzzer.. I bail downloop and bail out. The peloton goes screaming by. I correct my direction and find Hugo’s red Chrono. I find a deep groove set by a snow board and find some speed. Then some more. I have to yell at a guy to lower his kite so I can pass him on the up wind side. I don’t know the French word for get the frack outta my way. My legs burn. I cross the line… 14th place.

Race 3, I am determined to get this race right. I decide to follow Mike, who is coming off a 3rd place finish. The start is smooth. I’m right in the middle of the pack. Some guys kite flags like 20 feet in front of me. I cut down wind, loop the kite and duck, missing the flagging kite by inches. I’m still with the pack, but I am way down wind. I set a hard edge, and sacrifice some velocity to make some upwind progress. I see another kite go down at the front of the pack. Its Mike, he lost a ski in some really deep stuff. I make it back across the line about the same time as the other American, Jeff. I look down and notice he cruises across the line just slightly in front of me… on one ski… I’m humbled. 11th place.

Race 4, no wrecks, but wind is starting to die. I can’t get the same velocity I was before. Cannot remember any of the details of the race. I am in the zone now… 9th place. Race 5, wind coming way down. Kites falling out of the sky. I am working my kite like a hooker with two hoo-hahs. My kite stalls 10 meters from the finish. There are down kites everywhere. I unhook, drop my skis and run across the line… 9th place. Pretty sure it doesn’t count if you don’t use your sail.

Now its go time, I’m stuck on the ice, and I have 3 hours to make it to the airport. I tear down, and start hiking. I made it in with enough time to ask Mike if he can ferry my gear back to Minnesota. I wonder how he is going to answer the question “did anyone other than you pack these bags?” I get a vision of a Frenchman with a rubber glove. I scarf down some mashed potatoes and bratwurst before jumping in the car and bee-lining for the airport. I return the rental car, and the attendant tells me, gas is $3.20 a liter. I say, no problem man, your currency looks like monopoly money. I run, and then I wait in the most painfully slow security line of all time. I forgot my hat in the front seat of the rental car. Security guy tells me I am in the wrong line. Like wrong side of the airport wrong line. I run some more, I am terribly out of breath. The international line is super short, but I got an orthodox jewish gentleman in front of me who is very deliberate and careful (read slow) as he de-robes. I politely ask if he would mind if I sneak ahead so I don’t miss my flight. He smiles, and responds kindly in English. I smile, America here I come baby!

After making my gate by the hair of my chinny chin chin, I settle in to my seat and try to decide if my adrenaline shake is from the airport shenanigans or still left over from racing. It doesn’t matter. All I can think about is when I’m going to get to race again.. it occurs to me how fun it is going to be to get good at this with all my MN kiting brethren. Before we take off I jump onto ebay and find an 80s era skin suite for $99. BUY IT NOW. Who’s ready for the crossing?

-JW