Signing up for U.S. Biathlon Nationals sounded like a good idea. Then I had to actually race.

Signing up for a Master’s B race at U.S. Biathlon Nationals sounded like a fun idea when I was at my computer, a safe 2,259 miles from Bozeman, chatting with my sister on the phone. Chloe would be competing at Nationals, her final races of the season. I hadn’t seen her since she left for the World Cup in December. It was as simple as her saying, “You should do the Master’s race.” And suddenly, I had needlessly complicated what could have been a sunny vacation away from my usual responsibilities of parenting two toddlers.

Unlike Chloe, I’m not a biathlete. I did a few biathlon camps as a teenager, but ultimately chose to focus on Nordic skiing. My sister became a biathlete, so I’ve been around the sport, traveling to some of her races, yelling at the Eurosport feed at all hours of the night and early morning. But I haven’t personally shot in quite a while. I did a citizen’s race in 2018 where they mercifully had the rifles waiting for us at the range, and we shot on standing targets for prone (4.5 inches instead of the usual 1.77 inches). I would find no such luxuries in Bozeman.

Unlike Chloe, I’m also not exactly in shape. I raced Nordic in college, but the combination of working life and mom life has not led me to have the same capabilities I had on skis as a 22-year-old. My world revolves around wandering through the woods looking for salamanders, cooking noodles, and writing. Hammering intervals, I do not.

So, when I arrived at the Official Training at U.S. Biathlon Nationals, I wasn’t feeling exactly confident.

I was surprised to find that the basics had stuck with me. I’d gotten a refresher in rifle safety. My thumb clicked along, loading ammo into magazines. I put the cuff on my bicep and remembered its tightness. After a few sequences of skiing into the range and shooting on paper, there was fluidity to my motions: Taking the rifle off, setting up to the target, and finding it in the sights. Smooth trigger, I tried to make my mantra. Rifle back on my shoulders, poles on as I ski out. The cadence of events has a nice rhythm. I fell into it more easily than expected.

We zeroed, and I hit three prone on my first try. I’ve got this. My default for wild optimism taking over instantly. Standing was a different story. In prone, the rifle’s sling hooked to you via the cuff, your body lying still thanks to the support it receives from the ground, you feel incredibly stable. There is motion, of course, as you breathe and your heart beats against your ribcage. But the targets remain within the sights. I felt like I had a chance of hitting every target. Standing up, there’s so little support. Your legs shake as they try to hold steady, opening or closing your shoulders an inch makes the targets suddenly disappear from view. A breeze you otherwise probably wouldn’t notice becomes detrimental to your hopes of staying still and hitting a target.

As I ticked through the standing targets in practice, they got harder and harder to hit, because I became more and more unsteady. Inhale and that little black circle slides out of your sights. Exhale and it should come back in. But you’ve shifted your body an unnoticeable amount and suddenly it’s gone. Instead of waiting for the moment that feels perfect in prone and smoothly pulling the trigger, I was hoping for the target to come into view and pulling the trigger quickly, knowing it was going to disappear again in a second. Jerky trigger motion is not how you hit targets.

“I’m going to have to shoot as fast as I can in standing, it’s only getting worse the longer I stand here,” I said to Chloe. She fed me tips to add stability. Lock out your legs so your bones are holding you up, not your muscles. Drive your left elbow into your left hip bone, use it like a shelf. Feel like you’re pulling your right hand back into your right shoulder.

The tips helped, but there wasn’t much that could be done the day before the race. Standing was going to be another exercise in wild optimism.

“Let’s go ski the course,” Chloe offered. “You can put the rifle on the rack if you don’t want to ski with it.”

This was one area I felt prepared for. Compared to my 28-pound two-year-old who I’d skied with in a backpack over the winter, the eight-pound rifle wasn’t much of an issue.

We headed out. I gave the penalty loop a leery glance, knowing I’d be seeing it the next day.

Chloe said, catching me staring, “The skiers coming out have the right of way.”

I thought about my future self skiing around and around in shame as my family and friends watched the livestream from the East Coast. I sure do know how to pick a vacation.

It was classic springtime skiing in the West. Firm and fast in the morning, and slowly breaking down into sugar as the sun beat on it. I couldn’t help but smile as I gulped in air on the climbs. The sun and altitude brought me back to being a teenager, racing in Junior Nationals out west. I hoped I could find some inspiration in the memory of once being in shape.

We ran into biathletes from Chloe’s world and explained what I was doing on trail, not on the sidelines.

“I think I’m going to ask if they’ll let her shoot on all standing targets,” Chloe said to one.

“No way! I came all the way out here. I’m doing it,” I retorted, knowing that standing targets were definitely more appropriate for my current skill level, or lack thereof.

“I love this, you’re just going to send it,” one said.

And send it, I did.

The morning of the race, I got to the venue far before my fellow Masters B competitors. Chloe was my ride, and the real races happened first. I ventured up into the course, finding a spot where I could run from a major climb to a perch that looked over the range. I hollered at the top of my lungs as my little sister won her first National Championship.

I ate a bar, slurped a Gu I found in my backpack, nervously peed for what felt like the 58th time, and went to get my rifle checked. And by my rifle, I mean Chloe’s rifle. I was also wearing her sunglasses, her shirt, using her skis, and her poles. I had my own boots, but they were brand new. I’d had to order NNN boots to be able to use Chloe’s skis; I’ve been skiing on my SNS college gear.

Chloe stood behind the scope, zeroing for me.

“Ok, try again!” She chirped. That meant I’d shot all over the paper. I hadn’t even shot well enough to create a group that we could zero from. Awesome.

My next five shots made a better group, so she said. She moved my sight a couple clicks for me. Or, she’d lied and pretended I’d shot a nice group, trying to boost my confidence. Either was fine by me.

I skied out on the warmup loop, considered doing pickups, did one and thought better of doing any more. I stopped by the potties for the 59th time.

The nerves and altitude combined for a queasy lightheadedness as I stood in the starting area. Chloe was giving me some last-minute tips; I could barely hear her. Why was I doing this? Why did I think I could do this? Am I going to throw up? I might throw up. I came out of my fog to hear her say:

“And if anything goes wrong with the rifle, raise your hand and a marshal will come over and help you,” she said.

She wished me luck and I was alone to toe the line. And do a biathlon race for some reason that I could no longer remember.

The timer counted down, the sharpness of adrenaline felt familiar. Maybe this would be fun.

During the first climb, I felt the rush of lactic acid flood my legs. Which was unfortunate, because the first climb was about 200 meters into the race. Control yourself.

You take a more conservative approach in biathlon, to make sure your legs aren’t quaking while you’re trying to shoot, and that your mind is functional as you enter the range, not lost somewhere in the deep recesses of the pain cave. Despite my best efforts as a young skier, my race strategy usually boiled down to: Go out hard and hold on. This would not serve me well in biathlon, nor at altitude. I tried to ski smooth, in control, and felt better than I thought I should.

I came into the range and tapered, lifted my sunglasses to let my eyes adjust to the bright sun, and took deep, intentional breaths. I dropped to my knees on the shooting mat, bruised from yesterday’s practice. Unshouldered the rifle, popped in a clip, laid down, hooked the rifle’s sling to my cuff, looked into my rear sight, and saw no targets. Just a gray, hazy blur.

What?

My mind raced. Was I so out of shape that I couldn’t see clearly? That was certainly possible. I picked my head up and looked around. Nope, my eyes worked. I looked through the rifle again. Blurry still.

What is happening?

Precious time was ticking by. I was lying down, but it felt like my heart rate was increasing.

I should’ve left the range by now.

I pulled my head up again and looked down the length of the barrel. I’d left the snow covers open while skiing, but I hadn’t fallen. There shouldn’t be snow anywhere. I couldn’t see any.

A marshall. I could call a marshal. I raised my hand, popped the clip out, and the marshall looked at my rifle.

“Something’s wrong, I can’t see the targets, it’s so blurry,” I blurted out. My body was itching. I needed to get back on the course and ski.

“I don’t see any,” he said. But he blew a hard breath on the sight, and handed it back to me.

I got back in position.

Targets!

I could see.

I shot quickly, frustrated, was jerky with my trigger finger, and sadly not at all surprised when I left the range having only hit one.

So much wasted time. And now more to be wasted in the penalty loop.

Around and around I went. The course was slow, but the penalty loop was harder. Sitting in full sun, getting a lot of traffic, it was thick sugar I was fighting to push through. When you’re skiing that many laps around a penalty loop, I found, your mind starts to play tricks on you. Is this my second? Or third? I started chanting the number lap in my head as I skied. The last thing I needed was a time penalty added on for skiing the wrong number of loops. I’d penalized myself enough at the range already.

Leaving the penalty loop, finally, I didn’t care much for race strategy anymore. My fury at that fleck of snow and how quickly I’d let it unravel my prone stage fueled my next lap.

Chloe was cheering on the biggest climb, “Was the bolt stuck?”

“Snow in the sight!” I grunted as I climbed.

“The leader is only 30 seconds up on you, go get her!”

Why was I getting splits in a Master’s B – not even the Master’s A – race? Why was I loving it?

I leaned into the hill and pushed over the top of it.

I came into the range once again and set up to shoot standing. I watched the sight dance around the targets. I tried to take deeper, slower breaths, anything to make everything feel steadier. Target, pull trigger, miss. No problem. I wasn’t going to clean. The next target came into view and I pulled again. Miss. Ok, next target. Miss. No! This one, I’ve got. Two breaths and pull, miss. I will not leave this range with no hits. I closed my eyes, filled my lungs with air, let it out, and opened my eyes. I hooked my elbow hard into my hip, adding to my bruises. I pulled the butt of the rifle into my right shoulder and waited for the target to show up in my sight.

Hit.

You’d have thought I was the one who’d just won Nationals.

The joy was short-lived, as the penalty loop I’d gotten to know so well was waiting for me again. I got through my laps and took to the course. I passed some people, and was quickly humbled by the juniors who appeared to be floating atop the corn. My legs had little left, the same went for my lungs, as I crossed the finish line.

Recovered, I collected my second-place chocolates.

“If you didn’t have that sight issue, you would’ve won it,” Chloe said as we piled into our Wrangler, the perfect rental car for the week.

“I know,” I said.

“That’s biathlon,” she said. “It’s unpredictable, that’s part of what makes it so addicting.”

We turned up the music, rolled down the windows, and drove down the mountain.

That night when I went to bed, I felt… altitude sickness. But I also felt a bit of pride for putting myself on the line, and invigorated from having a day so different from so many others. I got on a plane back to reality the next morning. Vacation was over.