By Taiga Moore
The disorganized chatter of 40 youth athletes scrambling to scatter their various duffel bags of clothes and gear as far across the parking lot as possible filled the morning. The other “coaches” and I surveyed the scene, feeling just slightly in over our heads. It was my first time helping to coach the annual BSF youth camp, and while I stood amidst the chaos, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of deja-vu sweeping over me, transporting me back to my days as a devo skier; the excitement in the air was just as palpable as it was 10 years ago, piling out of the van for my first training camp with my middle school friends. It was a feeling that had shifted and developed inside of me as I grew up, but never truly disappeared, and as I watched that group of excited skiers zip up their boots and click into their skis, I felt it once again - the simple joy of nordic skiing.
It didn’t click right away however. I spent much of that first training session (a skate rollerski with drills and speeds), attempting to impart technique advice and overly complicated body positioning tips in a way that only an athlete can. That is to say, entirely lacking the grace and experience of a coach. At the speed station I went through countless examples of how to transition from double-pole to hop-skate, and gave what were surely indecipherable explanations on the importance of the “athletic position”. My ramblings fell upon blank faces, the group politely letting me blather on, waiting for the moment where I would give up my attempt and simply let them ski. Eventually I got the hint, and took up my role as a spectator of their efforts.
From the side of that bike path, I learned my second lesson of the day. Without any prompting or crude attempts at coaching from me, the skiers would finish the speed and immediately begin excitedly discussing the very things I had been failing to explain. I caught snippets of advice between teammates, athletes discussing what felt good, and sharing what they’d like to try next. As I took a step back and watched the mob ski back to the starting line, I realized what I had been doing wrong. I wasn’t there to coach these kids (yes, Andy, I know that was my intended job); I was there to be one of them, to show them even after 10 years, or 20 years, or a whole lifetime, that skiing is still fun, that the joy they had as they piled out of the van that morning never goes away. These skiers had plenty of time to work on their technique, or get advice and coaching from someone far more qualified than me, but what I could do was let them ski, let them make mistakes in one drill and learn from it the next, and just be an example for them that the joy that comes from skiing with your friends will always be there.
The practice ended, time having passed quicker than I had expected it to, and the skiers made their way back to the vans in packs. Some were chatting about skiing, many others were cracking inside jokes, or quipping about how violently they were going to devour the sandwich they packed for lunch. As I took off my skis, I looked up and swore I saw myself in the reflection of a van window, 13 years old, with no idea where skiing would take him, just the biggest smile on his face. I think I can still learn a lot from that kid. I think we all can.
As the van doors closed, I let myself fade to the outskirts with the rest of the volunteer athlete “coaches”. One by one, the kids waved goodbye, the vans pulled onto the road, and silence overtook the parking lot once more.
