How I Ended Up in My First Cross-Country Ski Race, at 65

An old pal talked me into participating in a legendary ski event. Here’s how it went

Bill Horne,

AARP

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Published December 15, 2025

A photo shows author Bill Horne and his friend Henry Peck at the American Birkebeiner cross-country ski event in Wisconsin.

Author Bill Horne (left) and his friend Henry Peck participated in one of the largest cross-country ski events in the country: the American Birkebeiner, in Wisconsin.

Courtesy Bill Horne

There I was, in Wisconsin, miles from home, sliding my skis back and forth to stay warm while my fingers and toes went numb. The record cold bit through every layer I’d thrown on. How had I ended up here — for my first ski race ever — at one of the largest cross-country ski events in America?

Oh, right. Because of Henry. For the past 48 years, this kind of thing has nearly always been about Henry Peck.

“Birkie?” he texted last year.

He meant the American Birkebeiner, a legendary Nordic ski festival that brings some 12,000 skiers and tens of thousands of spectators to Hayward, Wisconsin, every February. There’s a 50K (30-mile) race, a 29K (18 miles) and the “short one,” 15K — 9 miles of rolling snow and pain. 50K was lunacy, 29K still way too far for me. Even 15K felt like a stretch; to be clear, I had never ski-raced at any distance.

Henry and I ski every winter, often together — not the bombing downhill kind, but “skating,” a faster, more technical version of cross-country skiing that American skiing legend Bill Koch introduced into competitive skiing in the early 1980s. (As opposed to the traditional “classic” cross-country form, which involves kicking and gliding in parallel tracks.) It’s a full-body workout that taxes one’s lungs, arms, legs and balance equally. I love the rhythm of skate-skiing up and down rolling hills through an avenue of trees under my own power, even if my technique lags behind Henry’s (he’s been doing the Birkie for nearly 30 years, and usually the 50K sufferfest they call the “Full Birkie”) and even though each year it gets just a little bit harder.

But Henry, from the moment we met in a dorm room in 1977, has always been an inspiring and generous friend. When I turned 50, he upped the ante — let’s run the Grand Canyon rim to rim to rim; let’s climb the highest peaks in New York (in winter, of course!); let’s run some ultras (50K or longer; he’s done 125!) — and I said sure, because it was Henry asking, and if not then/now, when?

I texted back: “In.”

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The author reaches the last hill before the finish line at the “Birkie.”

Courtesy Bill Horne

After studying all the races and their frightening distances and elevations, I signed up for the 15K Prince Haakon (a nod to the Birkie’s Norwegian creation story). On Henry’s advice, I entered what’s called the “open-track” version of the race: rolling starts whenever you are ready, lower-key crowds, little fanfare, little pressure.

Still, it’s 9 miles and nearly 800 feet of elevation. I was terrified of failing to finish. So I trained. A couple of times a week I’d drag myself out in the predawn darkness to the Garnet Hill ski center near my upstate New York home. I’d squeeze in 5 to 8 miles, gun home and be back at my desk by 9. I also hit Lake Placid’s Mount Van Hoevenberg and Vermont’s Craftsbury Outdoor Center, both Olympic-grade venues. In other words, I did what I could, given my full-time job and crankyish 65-year-old body.

By the time we flew to Wisconsin in February, the weather was brutal, ranging from minus 20 to 20 degrees. We piled on layers of down to walk around the festively energized Hayward; “Birkie fever,” it turns out, is very real. We plugged into Henry’s friends, a circle of accomplished Midwestern skiers who learned to skate around the time they learned to walk and who did not hide how stoked they were to be back in Hayward. Over beer and a big fish fry, they gossiped about cross-country Olympians like local hero and gold medalist Jessie Diggins, and analyzed every aspect of the next day’s forecast, including air and snow temperature, which skis to use and which wax. So much talk about wax! Brand, color, who could apply it when — an obsession perfectly captured on a trucker hat I spotted: “Silently Judging Your Wax Choice.”

I splurged on mittens and upgraded to new poles and was about as ready as I could be, though I had serious butterflies. Henry’s admonition, “You’ll be fine,” did little to settle me.

Race day dawned crisp, with a cloudless, cornflower-blue sky. I wolfed down a bagel and coffee, then hopped on a school bus to the start. It was as advertised, with skiers milling around, then gently gliding off when they were ready. (Our start and finish times were collected through the chips embedded in our race bibs.) I popped on my skis, slid into the tracks and off I went.

The first mile or so was flat and just fine. Then we merged onto the trail with the 29K-race skiers, and the chaos began: epic ups (the first, aptly dubbed “Bitch Hill”) and terrifying downs. After a few miles I began to step aside for a beat or three, heart hammering, lungs on fire. Droves of skiers passed. I wish I could say they were all younger and thinner and fitter, but it was a kaleidoscope of body shapes, ages and sizes, using mad skills that made me look like the amateur I was. But they were invariably kind, calling, “You got this!” “Stay strong!” Even, with a grin, “It’s all uphill from here!”

Halfway through, I got into a rhythm: push, glide, breathe. At an aid station I downed a couple of shots of warm water and maple syrup (it’s a thing) and felt my energy quicken.

A few miles later, the trees parted and I was on Lake Hayward, a flat stretch leading to town. My legs were like jelly, but the rapidly approaching jingle of cowbells and cheers lifted me. I even passed a few stragglers. Finally, exhausted but feeling triumphant, I skated down Main Street to finish my first-ever ski race — a tribute to me and, of course, to Henry.

Epilogue: The aftermath wasn’t pretty. I skied a second, longer race later in the week, and MRIs later showed microtears in one hamstring and both rotator cuffs, the latter likely from all my “double poling” — driving up hills by pushing on both poles and alternating skis. A couple months of physical therapy followed, but I’m nearly good as new and, frankly, ready to rock. As for Henry? As I write this, he’s training for a marathon and thinking ahead, as always, to the next challenge. And when he texted me in August — “Full Birkie 2026?” — my reply was instant.

“In!”

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.

How to Get Into Cross-Country Skiing at Age 50+

By Bill McKibben

Cross-country skiing is, at its elite level, routinely described as the hardest sport in the world. Skiers use both arms and legs (like rowers, but rowers are sitting down, and like swimmers, but swimmers are buoyed by the water).

But it may also be the single gentlest exercise in the world for aging bodies, combining an invigorating spin through the open air with almost no impact on your joints.

Here’s how to get started:

Rent or buy skis. Visit a Nordic ski center and rent skis and poles the first few times until you learn what feels right. You’ll almost certainly start on “classic” skis designed for the diagonal stride that’s the sport’s most iconic form. For beginners, a relatively wide pair of skis increases stability, but you don’t need heavy metal edges unless you’re determined to head off for real backwoods adventuring.

The essence of Nordic skiing is the ability to go uphill as well as down, in apparent defiance of gravity. This requires something sticky on the bottom of your skis. For many generations, special waxes (color-coded by temperature) provided that grip, and they remain the most elegant solution. But if you’re more likely to just grab your skis and head out the door, you’ll want either a fish-scale pattern cut into the bottom or, more likely these days, narrow strips of mohair-like fabric. Those “skins” will grab the snow when you plant your foot and release it when you’re ready to glide.

Fuel and layer. Don’t go out the door without a pack or waist belt to carry a thermos of water — warm water, otherwise it may freeze before you remember to take a drink. The pack should carry the layers you’ll inevitably be shedding. The best advice, which almost no one follows, is to dress so that you’re a little chilly in the first 5 minutes, confident that your pumping heart will soon warm you up. And take a snack. If you get cold, the concentrated calories in a Snickers or other candy bar will help.

Learn the technique(s). Take a lesson. In Norway, the sport’s birthplace, youngsters start in kindergarten in order to get their technique nailed. But a certified instructor can catch you up. What you’ll learn is that kick-and-glide is the essence of the sport; efficient technique involves getting as much distance from each plant as possible. Your stride shortens as you head uphill, and your arms become more important as you begin to lean more heavily on the poles to propel you forward.

Find your rhythm. It will take you a little while to get past the twitchy feeling of standing on something slippery. Your heel needs to be free in order to kick; if you’re used to the heavy, stiff and easy-to-control feel of an alpine boot and ski, this is very different. A good sense of balance makes it easier, which is why I brush my teeth standing on one foot. At their best, skiers transfer almost all their weight from one ski to the other with each kick. Bonus: It feels like flying.

In 2000, environmental writer and cross country ski enthusiast Bill McKibben, 65, published The Year of Living Strenuously about his year-long quest to become an elite cross country skier. His latest book is Here Comes the Sun: A Last Chance for the Climate and a Fresh Chance for the Environment. McKibben is currently the Schumann Distinguished Scholar at Middlebury College, where he has also served as faculty advisor to its top-tier Nordic skiing team.