Kosciuszko Tour

This year’s Kosciuszko Tour was another epic that will be talked about for years to come and will surely be used as another yardstick to measure difficulty. As the race candidates stood and chatted in the sunshine in Thredbo village before the start, little did they know what they were about to be in for.

The organisation of the race went well, and everyone seemed to make it from Bullocks Flat to Eagles Nest at the top of Thredbo without much trouble. A sign of what was to come was the way the chairlift bucked and rocked as we approached the top of the hill. It was literally blowing a gale as we exited the chairlift, and as we sat around in the Eagles Nest restaurant waiting for the pre-race briefing it was obvious it was not going to let up. In the briefing we were told that wind was blowing at about 80km an hour, but it was OK once you got over the top of the hill. Bruce Porter was running the start, and informed us that we would do a mass, rather than staggered, start, partly due to the fact that he didn’t want to stand around in the conditions any longer than necessary. Within about half an hour of him saying that, I’m sure that every competitor agreed with him.

The starting line was just behind Eagles Nest, with the ‘rated’ skiers at the front, and the rest of us sorted roughly according to age and / or ability. Bruce counted down the start and we were off. As we all soon found out, the wind was blasting right into our faces for the first kilometre or so, with the long haul up the hill to the Kosciuszko Lookout area the hardest. The surface was pure ice, with not a skerrick of soft snow. Even the track that the skidoo had chopped up seemed to be ice hard. It was a brutal haul up the hill from the start, with finesse and style counting for nought. It was head down and slog hard against the oppressive foes of wind and ice. My skis became crampons, my poles became ice axes, digging in hard with both to gain purchase and headway. I was glad I had been getting some time in at the gym as this was a brute strength start to the race. I wondered at times if I would make it to the top of that first big hill. As I got to the top a couple of other competitors realised the futility of their battle against the elements, and took a lift to the top on the race marshals’ skidoos. “Protest!” I yelled out jokingly to Ann as she hopped off a skidoo, but not one competitor would have blamed her for her decision.

I decided to jump into the tracks on the downhill into the top of the Snowy River, but my three-pin bindings were too wide for the ice hard tracks and they kept on catching on the icy sides and threatened to send me sprawling. I jumped out of the tracks and committed myself to skittering downhill on the sheet ice. The track to the Snowy bridge and down to Charlotte Pass was fairly uneventful, but I was cringing at the thought of anyone watching me as I fought to keep control on the slippery ice in a howling side wind. A couple of times I was sent sprawling as a gust of wind caught me in a state of unbalance. A few people passed me (including Osmo - going on 80 – so there’s hope for me in old age yet), but I was amazed that I had left behind the main pack of the race. A lot of people must have taken their time on the first big hill.

The view to the West of the track was quite awe inspiring, with the Main Range a mass of rounded white peaks against a deep blue sky. I would have loved to have stopped and taken some photos. As I got close to Charlotte Pass I was overtaken by Rosemary, and I was starting to realise the performance penalty of my light touring skis. Rosemary was on racing skis, and was able to glide along on the slight downhill sections of the track, whereas I had to double-pole to maintain the same speed. The snow had started to soften by Charlotte Pass also, so it was a bit slower, but a lot more controllable.

I grabbed a drink at the drink station without stopping, and managed to cram the empty cup into my pocket as I reached the top of the service road into Charlotte Pass. Rosemary and another competitor looked as though they were picking their way carefully down the hill, whereas I kicked on as much speed as possible, tucked into a crouch and locked into a skidoo track. I hooted as I flew past the others – maybe those light touring skis I had on did have some advantage! The problem was when I got to the bottom of the hill, where the flags marking the track cut over a berm of snow on the side of the road and cut a hard left hand turn. With the speed I had on, I was committed, so I bounced over the berm and did my best to turn. I went sprawling without any damage, and was back on my feet in a flash in an attempt to minimise my embarrassment in front of those I had just passed.

The track then followed Spencers Creek around to the bridge on the Kosciuszko Road. There was no snow on the bridge, so it was skis off and a quick trot across the bridge. Rosemary had caught me again by then and we paced each other through Betts Camp. The next bridge at Betts Camp was pretty much the same as the last one, no snow and a quick ski-less trot to get over it. I had a quick break there as I was stopping to get my skis on anyway, taking a long draught on my water bottle, watching Rosemary disappear off up the hill. From there it was the long incline up to Perisher Pass. My light touring skis again showed some advantage as I started to close the gap on Rosemary and Osmo, nearly catching them at the Pass. All advantage disappeared as we crested the hill and started to head down the hill into Perisher. Yet again I was double poling to maintain the same speed as those gliding along on their racing skis.

Over the line!

Pain and fatigue were starting to creep in as the road dropped down into Perisher Village. All I wanted to do now was see that finish line. Finally I rounded the last corner and the finish line was close. I saw my son Oskar waiting there, and I yelled out to him. He spotted me, and he ran off to get my wife Salome so that they could watch me finish. I made a lunge at the line as I skied over it, lost my balance, and ended up sprawled in a heap. Oskar was standing there, so I gave him a hug. I looked over at Gwen, who was a finish line judge, and asked if I had finished. “Yep, you’ve finished” she said. Oskar looked at me sprawled on the ground and said with all the innocence of youth “Did you do that the whole way, Daddy?” I didn’t care, I was over the line.