The Drag Coefficient of Chocolate

A view of Snowmass on Thanksgiving Day.

All over the Northeastern United States, in seemingly every ski resort in the Northeastern United States, there is a cultural phenomenon so ubiquitous that it is very easy to give it short shrift and to assume that it’s been around since the Mayflower dropped anchor.

Go ahead, ski around the busier parts of your preferred ski resort on any day when there are large groups of children in race programs swarming around like flocks of starlings in matching jackets while their coaches try their best to keep them reasonably safe and on target. Watch carefully. There will be one small, very particular place where the madness stops, like the calm in the eye of a storm. You will most certainly smell the spot before you see it, and then you will understand the root cause of the big pause in all the action. Yes, I’m talking about the Waffle Cabin.

Vermont purists may bristle at the idea of chocolate-covered waffles having overtaken real maple syrup as the covering of choice for these warm, gooey, saccharine-sweet treats, but there is no denying the preference being exercised. Perhaps “laced” with chocolate is a better description than “covered” or “slathered” given the effects the waffles have on their willing victims. Either way, it's a thing, and it's important.

If you happen to be near the start or finish line of the course where these programs compete on race day, NASTAR or otherwise, you’ll notice the stunning amount of chocolate smeared on the faces of the kids. To be clear, their faces are covered in chocolate because, in defiance rational explanation and the laws of physics, the waffles are larger than the faces of the typical race kid. It can look as though the coaching staff took a big mop dipped in molten goodness and ran down the line of children getting all of their faces in one long swipe to make sure they all got their share. There is nothing quite like the site of a bunch of 7-year-olds in matching oversized jackets or oddly baggy speed suits with chocolate all over their faces. It’s hilarious.

The question I have about waffles and their undeniable place among young, aspiring American ski racers is whether it would be possible to identify, for purposes of modern science, the effect they have on the performance and development of the athletes. If I somehow were able to get press credentials to the FIS World Cup races being held at Killington this weekend and somehow were able to ask questions of the several exceptional American athletes who spent at least some of their formative ski years in the New York or New England, I’d pose the following questions:

(1)    What role do you feel was played by the chocolate-covered waffles on race day as a kid in your ascendancy to the world stage?

(2)    Do you still include chocolate-covered waffles in your race-day preparations?

(3)    Do you think that the quality and prevalence of the chocolate in the Alps is a competitive advantage or disadvantage for European ski racers?

(4)    Mikaela, do you have to make accommodations for chocolate-covered waffles in your sponsorship negotiations with Barilla?

(5)    Paula, do you find a significant difference between the waffles in Minnesota and those in Vermont and how do you accommodate for that difference in your preparation?

(6)    Lastly, and most importantly, do your ski service techs secretly smear chocolate on your face or on your skis to make you go faster?

Like so many Vermonters who are current and former ski racers, I am immensely proud of the way in which the people of Vermont host the World Cup. I absolutely adore the way in which the athletes from all over the globe and from here in the US feel the warmth of the place and its people. Especially now that I am away in Colorado when Killington hosts the races, I get pretty misty when I see the enormous crowds cheering loudly for every single athlete and then get even louder for the Americans. It’s a wonderful reminder of why ski racing in Vermont and in the Northeast generally does have a very special place in skiing in a way that draws out the reasons we all love it so much, allowing it to shine through for the world to see.

I do not know if the television coverage of the HERoic Killington Cup presented by Stifel will allow me to scan the faces of the thousands of kids screaming their lungs out in the base area for the telltale presence of chocolate. I do not know if I’ll be able to tell whether the kids with more chocolate on their faces will scream louder for their heroes. I do know, however, that I will watch the Killington races with great pride and real excitement, for my sport, for the athletes, for my home, and for the wonderful people who make it such an extraordinary event. And, on this Thanksgiving I will be truly thankful for all the many wonderful kids whom I've coached and for their families.

Happy Thanksgiving!

5000 Miles in Five Minutes

My people, on Essex Street circa 1908.

During my last year of graduate school, I lived in a remarkably diverse neighborhood. The numerous modest pre-war apartment houses, mid-century raised ranches, some ‘70’s towers, and some very old classically New England mansions just a few blocks away were homes for a wonderfully technicolor array of people of every economic strata, race, ethnicity, and religion.

As though to make the point, my go-to pizza joint (in a city justifiably proud of its pizza joints) was run by two Jordanian immigrants named Abu and Omar, and it was right around the corner from my apartment. Their place was like Heaven for a grad student. “Hey, Abu, it’s Russ. What’s good today?” I can hear Abu’s voice like it was yesterday: “Ruuuuusss, my friend. Mozzarella is fresh. We just make pesto. Fresh, fresh, fresh. I make you chicken pesto pizza. See you in 15 minutes.” Click. We had some variation of this conversation at least once a week. Absolute Heaven.

There were immigrants in my neighborhood from all over the planet. Abu and Omar were among a small community of Jordanians; I played pickup soccer games every week with several Somali guys who could really play ball with the Peruvians and Columbians who were the crux of our mid-week crew; and there was a particularly large group of Russian families who had resettled in our neighborhood. The Russians were all so happy to be in America that they’d cross the street hopscotching through traffic just to give each other bear hugs so vigorous that you’d think a wrestling match had broken out if you hadn’t see the grins wrapped around their faces showing their unbridled joy at being among friends that they hadn’t seen since the day before.

The polling place for elections was immediately across the main avenue from my apartment, caddy corner from Abu and Omar’s pizza phantasmagoria. This, as you can imagine, was awfully convenient for me, and on the first Election Day that I lived there I took pride in capping my mop with an old baseball hat and grubbily strolling across the street to vote. Super casual, no big deal, we do this all the time, it’s easy and safe … except that wasn’t quite the case. What I found that first Election Day morning as I slinked into the building's ornate lobby was a lesson in appreciation. There as I entered was a large number of my neighbors, dressed up in their best clothes, cleaned up, slightly serious and shaking hands quite formally with each other but beaming with pride, and giddy having just voted or about to vote in America, some voting for anything, for the very first time. I wouldn’t say that I was ashamed to be so nonchalant about my voting, but I definitely was more prideful of and for my neighbors and cognizant of the weight of that day for them. It was one of my proudest moments as an American.

One day last week, after finishing my morning coffee, I sat at our table here in Basalt, Colorado, filled out my electoral ballot that the state so kindly mails to every registered voter, capped my mop with a lid, put on some shoes, drove the five minutes to Town Hall, and put my ballot in the Drop Box. It was cold that morning, so I turned right around went back home, kicked off my shoes, and proceeded with my relaxing shoulder season day. Easy peasy. The subtle grin on my face the whole time was the indelible and joyous reminder of my old neighbors and that neighborhood, and of the wonderful experience of celebrating our participation in the democratic process together.

Next week is another Election Day in America, the traditional second Tuesday of November. Please vote. If you’ve voted already, thank you. If someone you know could use a hand getting to a polling place, please help them. If you know someone who is intimidated by the process or by those who seek to limit access to voting, please take them by the hand and be by their side. If you know someone who is voting in America for the first time, whether because they are now 18 years old or are now a citizen, please give them a sincere and enthusiastic handshake and make them feel welcome as a participant in the most durable democracy the world has ever known.

If you think you have a reason to not vote, shame on you; please do not waste my time explaining yourself. I’ll be busy remembering Abu and Omar and my many friends whose living example reminds me of what my family and so many others endured so that I can exercise this privilege. My family traveled something like 5000 miles to find a place where I could take a casual five-minute gratitude-filled stroll across the street after breakfast to vote as a normal part of my life in America.

Hmm, maybe I should put a lid on my mop. Then again, maybe I should spruce myself up out of respect for the day and for the sacrifices of my family and others who got me here so I can vote. Ok, ok, where's my hair brush?!