Posted at 18:21h
in
Blog
by Melanie Chambers
I bought cross country skis in Norway today. Not rented, but bought. I will take them home with me once I've broken them in here--the birthplace of nordic skiing. A place that seems to be outlined with tracks--alongside the roads, the city parks, the sidewalks, the fjords... trails are everywhere.
For $250 including bindings, I walked out of the store with the skis slung over my shoulder feeling like I became a member of an ancient Norwegian club. Yea, I'm one of you now. Maybe I should have cut my thumb and rubbed blood with the teenager that sold me the skis, but that's just not sanitary these days.
Instead, I had the best guide a person could want: Bjornar. For as long as I've known this viking, I mean man, through hiking in Scotland, biking up a 2,000 meter mountain in Croatia and riding across Sardinia, I was always curious, yet frightened, about skiing with him one day. He's been skiing since he was old enough to stand. So, it was with a bit of trepidation, anxiety and excitement, that we set out at 4pm, just as the light was going down and the snow, finally, began to fall in giant blobs. It couldn't have been timed better. I couldn't wait to begin gliding.