Hole Shot Tour: Day 4

The Hole Shot Tour reaches a close (for me, anyway). My qualification run went well. I was pleased with my performance even though I placed 17th. I missed moving on to the finals by one place, but I was okay with that. This experience taught me a lot about God's faithfulness, my husband's faithfulness, and my own weakness.

I've seen where I need to grow. I've seen a glimpse of what God asks from me. He doesn't want me to play things safe. There's no risk in that, which means there's really no faith in that. When I fully trust Him, with my safety, with my score, and with my pain, I see Him clearly. 

Next race is next weekend in Raging Buffalo (the ant hill). It's easy for me to feel like laughing at the small course I'll be tackling after four days at Copper Mountain, but it's still learning. It's still my road to the National Championships. God uses the small things. Raging Buffalo is one of them. I am another.

Hole Shot Tour: Day 3

RACE DAY (1 of 2)!!!

 

Today, the butterflies went wild swarming into each racer's mid-section until we all felt sick...at least that's how I imagined everyone else feeling because that's how I felt.

I woke this morning prepared to be comfortable taking last place, but Daylen woke after a night that left him feeling we should not limit our requests of God. He felt urged to think with a mindset of greater things. We adjusted our thinking...and I boarded the best courses yet. Rollers seemed smaller, I felt more in control, energy was pumping, and my nerves were settling.

Qualifications started. I was number 74. Each girl would race alone, timed, and the top 16 (out of 25) would head to the final that afternoon. My turn came. I entered the gate and heard the official say, "Ten seconds."

God, this is Your race, I thought, and launched myself out of the start gate. Every jump, every turn, every roller, went great...until I saw the wave of a yellow flag. Mid-course, gasping for breath, I stopped. The girl in front of me had fallen.

I reached the bottom, hopped on a snowmachine (aka. snowmobile), and zoomed back up for a re-run. Every other racer waited on me. No one could go until I re-raced, but I was still catching my breath.

I jogged to the start gate, strapped in, and an official knelt beside me. "Everyone's watching you," he said in a gentle voice. "But take the time you need. Go when you're ready."

I sucked in deep breaths, but my heart wouldn't stop hammering. It's now or never.

Back in the start gate, less nervous than before, I craved a replay of previous great start. When I pulled myself out the gate, all went fine until halfway down the course and I found it even harder to breathe. So hard, in fact, my concentration completely left the course and turned to my burning lungs. That's when I lost control on my bank turn and careened into the fencing.

I've seen racers crash into fencing on TV before. It doesn't look too bad, it looks more like a cushion. Well, it's not a cushion. It's more like a zillion stiff bungee cords that latch onto you like leeches and stop you with a jolt.

I was tangled like a fly in a web, but I hadn't gone outside of the course yet. It took me a good 25 seconds to pull myself out. By that time, a ski patrol had run up to me in a panic. Before he could say anything, I asked, "Can I still finish?"

He paused a moment (while I pushed myself up), and as I boarded away trying to make up time, I heard him say into his walkie-talkie, "Uh...she's gonna finish the course."

I finished with no other mishaps. My time was 1:37.14. Everyone else was in the 50-60 second range. The race has left me grumpy at the course. There's no more room for fear. I want back on that course, NOW, to make up for that silly fall.

Good thing I have tomorrow. Maybe God knew this was just what I needed to give me the push to be fearless.

Hole Shot Tour: Day 2

The second day of training inevitably leaves me on the brink of race day. Today I learned an important lesson after a particularly hard crash.....

...those two rollers I was trying to gap? Well....I shouldn't try to gap them (it's okay if this doesn't make sense to you). Just another moment of accepting a weakness. I can't do what everyone else is doing (aka. gapping the rollers). When I get intense air, I'm in less control. The more I stay on the ground, the better. Once I understood this, God gave me a crash-less run. 

Today I was Gideon with a small army.

I was Caleb, unafraid of the enemy (i.e. competitors)

I was Joshua looking foolish boarding with the professionals.

But I was His. I am His.

Peace came today, despite my crashes and my speed checks. I'm nervous about tomorrow, but not afraid. I'll be racing 25 other women. Only the top 16 move on to the finals. I'm not in my own bracket this time. And that's okay.

Until tomorrow, my friends.

Hole Shot Tour: Day 1

Fifty racers stripped down to their customized, padded, skin-tight racing clothes, chatted with their coaches, met with their racing friends, and analyzed the course like it was a particularly tasty burger.

I sat alone in floppy torn snowpants purchased nine years ago, strapping in to a board even older than that. No coach. No racer buddies. Just staring at the intro jump a good three feet taller than me.

 

When I slid into the start gate, I wasn't hit with the arm-shaking nerves I got during my first race at Raging Buffalo, but my heart belly-flopped into my stomach when I pulled myself out of it and launched over the jump. 

 

(this is not me, just a few guy boarders to give you a taste for the start gate)

Today was training day: an extra optional day for racers to board (or ski) the course early. Snowboarders had from 12:15 to 2:00. To the professional eye, I looked like a beginner my first time slipping the course. I lost my balance, I lost my edge on the particularly icy portions, and I muttered like a maniac the whole way down about how intense the course was.

On my way back up, determined to climb back on the horse (or should I say dragon?), feeling coachless and inept, I remembered who my coach is. He's not a human coach, but a coach who can command the mountain to adjust beneath my board if He wants.

The course went better. I started anticipating the launch of the jumps and the lengths of the gaps. I understood the iciness of the snow and roughness of the landings.

I'm in the hotel now, counting the bruises and wondering if I'm allowed to stuff a pillow over my tailbone for tomorrow's training. I've yet to completely board the course without slowing down. Most of today's training tried to tackle my lack-of-confidence. Every time I close my eyes, I imagine the course and how I'll dominate it tomorrow...with my Coach. He's the one who decides what "dominating" will look like. Even if it's last place, I'm following His commands.

God-Goggles

For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named, that according to the riches of His glory He may grant you to be strengthened with power through His Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith--that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen.

Ephesians 3:14-20

Me before the race.

I'd never pulled myself from a start gate until the moment I entered my first course inspection. There's something unnerving about propelling myself off a ledge toward a blind jump on a course I've never boarded before (can't imagine why...). I didn't expect it to go flawlessly, but I couldn't stop the imagined movie scene of instant perfection.

Perfection is a process. This race was the very first droplet.

I took first.

Sounds impressive, right? Friends have told me I don't have to give details, but I don't feel right just leaving it at that. It's important everyone know I took first because I was the only racer in my bracket. That means, as long as I finished, I would win. It's easier to see where God takes me when we know exactly where I first stood. In this case, alone with a promised win--skilled boarding or not.

I still ran the course three times with two other racers also in their own brackets. All three races, I took "third". I crashed twice.

Daylen was proud. I was discouraged, even though I still won in my bracket. Part of me expected God would imbed some miraculous ability to be the best. But the willing ant part of me knew He was still saying, "You're not the best, Nadine. I am."

When I hiked the hill after my last race, embarassed and hoping people didn't recognize the 26-year-old stranger who thought she could come and leave an impression, I was met with a strange form of encouragement. A stranger came up to me, smiling wider than a kid on her birthday, and asked, "Are you going to try to go to Nationals?"

I stood dumbfounded, unsure what to say. Did you even see me race?

Daylen came to the rescue. "That's the plan."

Four steps later, another stranger with the same question. This time I knew the answer. "That's the plan."

Inside the lodge, as we ate nachos and waited for the little snowflake medals, the mother of another competitor asked the same thing.

"That's the plan," I said again, filled with new hope. 

Not all was lost. In fact, nothing was lost but my pride. Nationals is still an option. God put me in my own bracket to keep me humble, to keep me small, and yet to keep me on track. 

He took me a step back and showed me the race from his eyes: Daylen fasted the entire day until I finished racing. I finished safely. Despite equipment malfunctions, the race wasn't cancelled. This was my first ever boardercross race. I was promised a win while receiving three practice races at the same time. We were obedient.

God's eyes are so much more interesting to look through than mine. They bring reminders and promises, encouragement and clarity. Redirection. Too bad I can't buy a God's-eye lens for my goggles.

Now we're home with a dinky medal hanging beneath our life verse:

"Glorify the Lord with me; Let us exalt His name together." - Psalm 34:3

Our next race is part of the Hole Shot Tour in Copper Mountain, Colorado. Two days of practice followed by two days of racing. I'm not nervous. I'm not doubtful. In fact, I'm fidgety with excitement. I can't wait to hit the slopes. 

This race is big. Our God is bigger. I'm trying to keep His goggles on.

A Willing Ant

My first race is in approximately 36 hours. 

The bags are packed, the snowboard rests against the door frame, new goggles sit in their case, and the prayers have increased tenfold. I think I owe an update:

During my two months of silence, miniature trials filled the empty space. I fell into new commitments that suddenly filled my training time. I discovered I'm lactose intolerant. I found out I've developed metatarsalgia in my right foot. 

None of this felt like spiritual attack. Actually, it felt more like God saying, "This is for My glory, remember? So now I'm going to weaken you."

I was like Gideon who set out with a large army and God dwindled down the numbers until 300 men remained to fight, only instead of an army He's shaving away my own capabilities and opportunities. I've learned over the years that God is the most evident in my life when I admit my weakness and allow His strength to dominate. 

These days of trials have chipped at my confidence, which tells me my confidence is ill-placed. It needs to be redirected into God. Do I believe He's greater than my inability to train? Do I believe He's greater than metatarsalgia? Do I believe He's greater than days of illness when I indulge in milk and cheese?

Do I?

My first race is the day after tomorrow. The cherry on top of my trials came when I looked up the ski hill online to get a feel for where I'd race. 

It's a sled hill. No, worse than a sled hill, it's an anthill.

The vertical drop from top to bottom is 150 feet. The ski hill I grew up on is 2,600 feet. This...this feels like a joke. When I stared at the picture of the "park" (as they call it), my stomach sank as if the ski hill of hope inside me started melting. How in the world can I learn anything when I'm racing down this?

Where will they even put the course? 
Ten people would cause a traffic jam on the lift. 
I could hike this hill faster than the chairlift.

When I finally straightened up from my moping and entered into prayer with my husband, I saw the Raging Buffalo Snowboard Ski Park as another stamp of God's insistence to prove His sovereignty. He's sending me into nothing...so when He pulls me into something, it will scream His doing and not mine. His reputation and not mine.

And isn't that what I prayed for in the first place?

So, with my first race finally here, I step into it with a fresh acceptance of nothingness, weakness, smallness. I'm willing to be an ant. This isn't for my glory. If God wants to take a Wyoming-turned-Missouri girl from anthill to Olympics, I want to be the one He picks. He can do it. He's God. He's our God. He's my God. 

And we have a race to win.