At the count of one, I sucked in a deep breath of the cold March air and blew into the plastic red whistle. A puttering squeal shot through the air and a wall of racers surged forward. I stood precariously balanced on the trailer hitch feeling hungover from several sleepless nights and peered down as 50 people on bikes, skis and foot funneled into the narrow slot in the trees. They were just starting their race and for me, my race was over. From an idea that was conceived 9 months earlier while packrafting through this country in the warm sunshine, the White Mountains 100 became a reality. Skiing the 100-mile course was going to be a cool down or decompression of sorts, and time to watch the race unfold before me.
Thanks to all the volunteers, athletes, and supporters that made this a successful race.
