I remember looking at the website of the 2001 JO's last November, and feeling somewhat apprehensive as I read the name of the trail system where the races were to be held: SUICIDE BOWL. Four months later, over-trained and exhausted, I was there, in the stadium, with the rest of the Far West team, waxing skis. It seemed strange to be there after waiting so long. I stopped waxing for a moment, looked up, and thought of what had led to this day, our first day in Michigan.

I had trained more than ever this year, but my results were worse; I had pushed too hard and needed a rest. I stopped racing in the middle of the season to try and recover. I then hoped to restart my season and come back with of redeeming results from Suicide Bowl. As the weeks went by and March drew closer and closer, I still felt tired. I didn't have much money left after the early season races, and wasn't sure I could earn enough to make it to my last Junior Olympics. I considered staying home. And then I thought of my first JO's, when I had been one of the youngest skiers on the team. A big part of that experience was feeling the strength of the team around me, and the support I felt from the older racers. What would it have been like without them? So I decided the best thing I could do was to go with the team, for the team.

I finished waxing and skied out on the course. It is important to study and remember as much as possible about a race course, so you know where to push hard in the race. As I skied up the first gradual hill, I was surprised to find that, despite all the travel and lack of sleep the day before, I felt great. No matter how fast I skied I couldn't get tired. I was barely even breathing hard. What a feeling!! I tried to go easy to conserve my energy for the four upcoming races, but it was like trying to hold back a big river, swollen by spring rains and melting snow. I charged ahead of my group, skiing fast and smooth. This was the happiest I had been all year, and I hoped it was a sign of things to come. To do well now, after a disappointing season, would make it all worth it.

We woke up to a furious snow storm, with cold screaming winds and enough flakes in the air it seemed like you could barely see your hand in front of you. The sprint race was to be held on a golf course, not on the ski trails where the other races would be. BANG! I accelerated quickly, trying to stay relaxed but fast on the first part of the course. I had a vague awareness of Nancy Fiddler encouraging me, and then I was over the hill and heading straight into the gusting wind, down a long open section. I tried to stay low and let the wind pass over me but it felt like a huge hand was forcing me backwards. My legs were gone, full of lactate, and my breathing was painful. After what seemed an eternity I was heading back into the stadium, as fast as my dead limbs would allow. Sixteen skiers would make it to the semifinal heats. Natalie Joffe and I had made it!

In the first heat, 4 skiers would advance to the finals and 4 would be eliminated and ski the "consolation round" which would decide who received the remaining medals. As the gun went off my pole slipped and I was suddenly behind everyone. I quickly recovered and was tied for third at the end of the stadium, when two Alaskan skiers on either side of me rudely closed in, elbowing and stepping on my skis and poles, forcing me out of the way. I couldn't believe it. I expected a certain amount of jostling, but nothing like this. The whole way around the course I tried to get around on the outside and into a higher position, but was cut off every time. When the pack reached the stadium, I was still near the back and unable to move up, with 100 meters to go I knew I was out of the finals.

But there was still the consolation round. This time I exploded from the start, sprinting as hard as I could. By the first turn I was leading the pack, and by the halfway point I heard Nancy yelling that I had a 4 second gap on everyone. Entering the stadium my legs had had enough, I sank like a rock and got passed by two people in 100 meters. Still, third place for the heat did not necessarily put me out of medal contention. But as it turned out, I was the 7^th Older Junior for that day.

Wednesday brought better weather and the 15k Freestyle race. I tried to start out slow but couldn't help myself. At the top of the long hill known as "the grinder", I was in first place of the skiers that had gone by so far, but I was already tired and had most of the race ahead of me. Throughout the race, I fell further and further back. On my last lap I was getting the worst splits I had ever heard. It was like I bad dream. I was trying so hard but nothing was happening. Then, two kilometers from the finish, something clicked. I found myself charging up the hills at a pace that put my sprint race to shame. I was still tired but somehow I was skiing faster than I ever had in my life, and I suddenly realized what it means to give it everything. I charged to the finish, feeling my arms move faster than I thought they could. Then it was over. I knew I would not have a great result, but for the first time ever I was excited about a race in which I finished 17^th. I was excited because for 2k I had been able to do something that possibly even the winner hadn't experienced. Maybe I could do it again, for a longer time.

After another day of rest and waxing, it was time for the 10k classic. I felt tired but hopeful, I had done better in the classic races this season. This time I started slower, and settled into what seemed like a steady, medium fast pace, and kept it for the entire two laps. On the last long climb, Dan Hill yelled that I was only a few seconds out of 10^th on a back split. But when the results came out, I was in 13^th place. My last individual race in my last JOs, and I was 13^th.

Finally, I was discouraged. I couldn't understand how I could train so hard all year and not even manage to match my results from last year, let alone make any progress. I didn't mind having bad results, but I couldn't stand the idea that my training could not bring about improvement. I had always believed that anything was achievable with enough hard work. But if that wasn't true, I might never make it as a skier, I might never be an Olympian or national champion no matter how hard I worked at it. All year I had been waiting for things to take a turn for the better, some wonderful result that would make everything okay again, and carry me into the long months of training ahead. With the last individual race over, it seemed there was nothing left to hope for.

I went to bed discouraged. I did not sleep well, and woke up tired. It was time for the relay. I didn't worry about what I ate at breakfast-I didn't care. Any tiny measure of hope I had had was gone. I felt too tired to walk, let alone compete on a demanding course with the toughest juniors in the country. I went through the morning in a daze. But I did a lot of thinking, and by the time I was putting my race bib on I had a better attitude.

Standing in my starting lane, I almost collapsed of tiredness. There was simply nothing left. Then the gun went off. Somehow, I started moving. I had almost expected nothing to happen, but I guess that's what it means to be a true racer, no matter how bad you feel, you make yourself go when it's time. I took two steps and then almost fell as my skis crossed. I had to stop and untangle myself as the entire field zoomed ahead. Finally I got going, putting as much power into my double poling as I could muster. I was shocked at how easily I moved up through the throng. Within 30 seconds I found myself sharing the lead with Zach Hill, the winner of the 10K classic the day before. After another minute, the rest of the field was dropping away. I focused on matching his stride and sticking with him. The silence seemed strangely out of place in contrast with the intensity and excitement of the race. Only our hard breathing and sliding skis could be heard. We rounded a corner on the brutal climb, and there was Rick Kapala, a coach from Idaho, reporting back to the stadium on his radio. "It's Zach Hill of Alaska...followed by Ian Case, of Far West." It occurred to me then that I was really in second place. Not bad.

Zach was hammering up the steep, long incline, seemingly un-phased by the effort. I hung on, two seconds behind him. Several times I figured I was about finished and would have to let him go, but then immediately I would refuse the idea and quicken my tempo. Finally we reached the flatter terrain on top of the hill, I closed in with some hard double poling, then I stepped out from behind him and took the lead just before a long downhill. For a few minutes I stayed in front, then he charged up ahead of me on another tough hill. I was so full of lactic acid I didn't think I could move another step, but I kept going. Zach pulled several seconds ahead but I didn't let up. In the rolling section of shorter hills, I accelerated again. I wondered about everyone behind me and then put that thought out of my head. On the last hill, Nancy Fiddler was saying, in her no-nonsense, serious voice:

"Alright Ian, you're in second place, first OJ, let's get moving."

And move I did. I bounded up that hill at a tempo I had never imagined before, pushed over the top and crouched into a tuck for the downhill. Then across a long flat section, I saw Zach again. I was closing on him! There was just a minute left in the race. I flew down the last downhill and sprinted to the tag zone where Nick was waiting. "Come on, Nick!" I yelled breathlessly as I tagged him. Then I stumbled off to the side, trying to breath, and watched the other skiers come in.

After I could breathe again I realized how happy I was and how fun it had been. How something like that could happen when I had been struggling to even stand up at the start was beyond me. But I knew that this kind of experience was the reason I had trained so hard. Not for a medal. Our team didn't win a medal that day. But for the joy of overcoming seemingly impossible circumstances, seemingly devastating fatigue. I hoped that everyone else on the team, everyone else from every team, who felt disappointed or frustrated or weak during those races in Michigan, might remember this too-this is what cross country racing is about. The hardship is why we race, isn't it? What would be the joy of racing if it were simple and easy and there was really nothing to overcome?

Although I technically didn't have any outstanding results in those races, I learned something that I will help me more than any medal in my future years of racing. I will welcome every challenge, every disappointment, every failure, because I know that just one step beyond them are the successes that all of us strive for.