Ridderrenn Remembered

A hushed murmur of excitement rippled through the dining room at the 2016 Ski for Light international event as Krista and Larry prepared to announce the skiers and guides who would be attending the Ridderrenn in Beitost�len, Norway. Both Ski for Light, and its Norwegian counterpart, the Ridderrenn, host annual events for visually and mobility impaired cross-country skiers, and invitations to represent Ski for Light at the Ridderrenn are much coveted. As I sat in the dining room the strains of a Hardanger fiddle drifted through my mind, and I began to recall my 2001 Ridderrenn experience.

Like most, I returned excited about the great skiing and the chance to participate in an adaptive biathlon, but now, fifteen years later, I realize that the experience is about so much more than a pair of well-waxed skis.

Fifteen years later it is the people and Country of Norway that are forever etched in my mind and my heart. A million picture postcards passed by the car window on the road between Oslo and Beitost�len. The rugged mountains rolled away to reveal a frozen lake with a dusting of snow broken here and there by ski tracks, footprints and an occasional ice-fishing hole. While our driver Ingvard's English was limited, he did not miss the humor in my question about how the Elg knew to cross the road exactly where the crossing signs were posted.

In Beitost�len the local market had a very small parking lot, but a large and sturdy ski rack for folks to rest their skis on while they shopped. A pizza shop nearby offered a discount for hitting certain numbers on a dartboard. Tore was nominated to throw the dart as he had the least vision in the group. We laughed a lot but did not get a discount.

Passing through the hotel lobby in the morning involved picking your way through a crush of skiers and guides, surrounded by the sounds of every imaginable language. "You can eat that if you plan to ski 20k today," said Ine as I smiled over my bowl of R�mmegr�t.

The slalom course for an alpine downhill competition was lined with spectators, some watching intently and others cheering wildly. Kristin pointed out a handsome man at the top of the course and said he was the fastest sit skier in Norway. She was right.

I took a deep breath of the crisp spring air and surveyed the snowy peaks surrounding Beitost�len as Ingvard loaded the last of the ski bags into the car and we prepared to leave. A brief detour along the way revealed a medieval Stavkirke built in the 13th century perched on the side of a hill along with a small cluster of brightly painted houses. The tops of headstones could be seen in the churchyard rising only an inch or two above the snow. The mechanical hum of a small rope tow harmonized with the happy voices of children sledding and skiing.

Standing in the sunlit snow, I looked up the hill and realized that while I had come to ski, this was the picture of Norway I would take home in my heart.