“Short Title Goes Here”
“Something cool about my website (65 characters max).”
“Lorem ipsum consectetur pharetra elit varius.”
Hi, I’m Olivia, and you’ve just read selections from my most recent professional graphic design projects.
I am adept at inserting placeholder text into my designs, which, when combined with my ability to cobble together semi coherent emails to colleagues and prowess as an increasingly unhinged political meme content creator, doesn’t come close to making me a writer.
So, when Nat Herz asked me to take on the role of Ski Gossip Reporter at the World Cup in Minneapolis, I thought he was joking.
Given my complete lack of journalistic experience, the role of Ski Gossip Reporter seemed like a daunting first foray into the scene. As a World Cup superfan who has only ever been able to offer unintelligible word salad during brief exchanges with Kikkan Randall, I couldn’t quite imagine myself flagging down Olympic gold medalist Victoria Carl to ask about her race performance — followed by an inquiry into which German racers had created Hinge profiles for their trip to America.
Reporting opportunities aside, however, I was already planning to attend the World Cup races. Until I left for college, which is where Nat and I first met, I dutifully performed Midwestern rituals such as eating pasties, pronouncing sauna the correct way and training at the Michigan Tech ski trails. I’m a Yooper, but the entire upper Midwest feels like home, and I was eager to reunite and reminisce with old ski friends.
On the morning of Friday, February 16, I apprehensively walked to the media room at Theodore Wirth Park, the site of last weekend’s World Cup races, to pick up my credentials.
Although the temperature was a brisk 10 degrees F, I began to sweat profusely when some of the World Cup athletes entered my field of vision. The rest of the day was a blur, during which I mostly performed as Nat’s shadow. The following morning, as we traveled together to the venue for the sprint race, the first in two days of World Cup events, I almost wished Nat had left me behind at Maria’s Cafe, the iconic Colombian diner where we’d eaten breakfast. I wondered: Would it be so wrong to order one corn pancake after another until closing time, to spare me the embarrassment of asking deranged questions of some of the world’s finest athletes?
When I eventually stepped into the mixed zone, the strange liminal space in which World Cup racers interact with reporters post-race, I deeply wished I had eaten zero corn pancakes; I felt queasy at the thought of introducing myself to any passing athletes. In hindsight, the confidence with which Nat suggested that I introduce myself as the “Ski Gossip Reporter” should have been a red flag. Blinded by nervous energy, I unquestioningly accepted his recommendation, which was met with perplexed expressions and avoidant laughter. Perhaps not unexpectedly, I didn’t get any gossip.
Later that night, while I topped off my air mattress, I felt despondent and directionless — as if I was Jessie Diggins thrown into a decathlon. I was exhausted and I felt like a fraud, but I also hoped that some professional quality rest would change my trajectory. Ten hours of sleep later, I looked east to the rising sun, put my headphones on, and played Forth Eorlingas from start to finish. I hitched a ride to Wirth Park with my friend Jay, and when I left his car, I looked him straight in the eye and announced that I was going to do 20 interviews. He seemed bewildered and skeptical, but he also earnestly added, “Good luck.” Something stirred within me, and it wasn’t (only) the milk I chugged with breakfast.
Shortly after dropping off my excess belongings at the media center, I found myself standing next to Bill McKibben, abandoned by Nat, who had gone to retrieve his camera. After a few minutes of chit chat, Bill gave me an encouraging pep talk that would set the course for the rest of my day. The only thing I clearly remember is the aftermath: a garbled halfway screech and a fist bump, followed by a hasty descent into the crowd, lanyard flying in the wind.
Spoiler alert: I did, in fact, interview more than 20 people. Once I accepted the absence of any narrative arc to the gossip story I was constructing, I felt at peace. Some selections from my brief and varied conversations ensue below.
The European athletes acquainted themselves with the Midwestern lifestyle, as did the Americans.
“We have visited the downtown of Minneapolis and the Mall of America,” Richard Jouve, a French athlete known for his sprinting prowess, informed me seriously.
Scott Patterson, the American veteran: “Some Norwegians were going for a run and asked, ‘Where should we run?’ I don’t know! We’re going to check out the cherry and spoon.”
“We had flight troubles when getting here. But we’ve been to Target,” said Maja Dahlqvist, the Swede who is the reigning World Cup sprint champion.
Alayna Sonnesyn, who grew up in the Midwest and is obviously a connoisseur of its regional cuisine: “There was tater tot hotdish last night for dinner at the hotel.”
“We have been running around the city,” said Lotta Udnes Weng, half of Norway’s famous Weng twins. “But we should have been exploring more, I guess, so we have to come back.”
Meanwhile, I discovered that while athletes often hurried through the mixed zone, spectators did not have such an easy means of escape. And many were dressed to impress, so I began asking them sartorial questions — particularly of those wearing onesies.
Mia moved to Minnesota from California ten years ago and picked up skiing as a way to enjoy the winter. “If I’m living in Minnesota, I’d better do it in style,” she said, when asked about her purple suit.
Scott lives a few miles from Wirth. “I’m gonna scoop up a little snow and save it, and put it on my shelf. The energy and the organization is phenomenal.”
Karen fell in love with the sport after her mom brought home a pair of skis for her when she was in high school. Her American flag onesie had been balled up in her closet since she received it as a gift several years ago; she was thrilled to have the opportunity to finally put it to non-obnoxious good use.
Mason, who ski raced competitively through high school and college, wore his tiger onesie to “bring the fun.”
I thought I was onto something juicy when I saw some of the German racers walking through the spectator zone with beers. Sadly, they were actually drinking water and Coke.
Speaking of Germans, I did flag down Victoria Carl, who told me the fans were “beautiful” and that she loved the track.
The sentiment was clear among athletes and spectators alike: Minneapolis put together an event for the history books. Every other actual reporter has already written about the deafening cheers from thousands of supportive fans that persisted from the initial warm-ups until the top skiers stepped up onto the podium. But I want to further assure those who couldn’t be there in person that this is absolutely true. I’ll be shocked if we have to wait another 23 years to see another World Cup event on home snow.
After the mixed zone emptied out, I walked to the parking lot to reunite with my friend Tay (not to be confused with Jay), who had served as my personal hype man throughout the day. They agreed to wait for me near the stop sign on the corner while I retrieved my bag from the media room. I noticed that autograph-seeking fans had started to assemble along the fencing. Although my toe warmers had started to create painful hot spots on my feet, I quickened my pace and made a beeline for the designated stop sign; I did not want to be misperceived by the apprehensive crowd.
“Hey you! Give us your autograph!”
I heard the request loud and clear, but I pulled out my phone, pretended to send a text message, and mumbled something about how I’m nobody.
“Don’t say that. You’re somebody to us!”
I stopped walking and found myself face to face with a small group of teen boys, extending their posters to me. Still unconvinced, I laughed and said that I didn’t have anything to write with, but one of them pulled out a Sharpie and handed it to me. After I signed their posters, I told them that they had just made my day, and I meant it. The two minute exchange felt both unbelievable yet entirely perfect.
I may not have pulled off the role of Ski Gossip Reporter as originally envisioned, and for that, I apologize to readers who were hoping for some details about William Poromaa’s relationship status. But I did get to see my favorite athletes on earth race in one of the best places on earth — the Midwest — surrounded by thousands of ski nerds, just like me. And I discovered that the real Ski Gossip Reporter experience was the lessons learned along the way. Or something like that.
Olivia Orr is a professional graphic designer, competent meme maker and pot stirrer living in Portland, Maine. Email them with any World Cup or SuperTour gossip they missed.
