
Posted February 5, 2026
by Brett Arenz, Flying Fungi of Yuggoth team member
Happy trails, to me?
42km guys, what’s the rush? The field quickly stretches out and splinters.
Amoeba-like we search for a pack to belong to. Goldilocks’s logic, this one too slow, this one too fast, this just right.
Safety in numbers, companions in the lactic acid bath till the end.
Snow feels fast but should have kept the big baskets on. The skaters have churned the snow into sugar the day before with their urgency and thunder thighs.
Is it faster outside the track or in? Yes, no. The answer changes with every corner as we awkwardly negotiate with the tracks.
Our legs check-out as we disdain them, simply attachment points for our torsos to our skis.
Wait, someone is kicking? Or was it simply an autonomic reflex like a fish flaring its gills on the bottom of the boat.
Herringbone up the hill like Kermit the Frog in a French restaurant. Tuck for a precious one second longer than the ones in front.
Energy? Some of it makes its way into my mouth, it tastes purple. The horizon bops up and down.
What language are those two speaking? German, Norwegian? (Narrator: it was Danish).
Focus narrows to the ski tails just in front. We pass another group, "hihowareyoujumpin!" Secretly hoping their spirits are crushed.
Not long now.
Old alliances discarded, the mood shifts, high noon approaches. The bell is chiming, another brief marionette-like dance up the hill.
Main street, happy faces. Good race, thanks for the pull. Help me put my shoes on tomorrow?