When we got to the track this afternoon, we wondered if someone had canceled the race and not told us. It was 20 minutes before parc fermee (when you have to have your sleds checked in before a race) and there wasn't a soul there. And why wasn't anyone there? Because it was snowing SO FREAKIN' MUCH that no ones cars/vans/buses could make it up the hill to the top of the track.

We, of course, had already dealt with this in Winterberg ... and in Altenberg ... and in every other berg we have visited since the day we stepped foot on this continent ... and so we had our tired chained up and ready to roll.

Everyone thinks that because skeleton is a winter sport, that snow must be good, because it's very wintery. Not so ... snow is slow, and collects in the track and in the groove and in general makes everyone's lives more difficult.

So you can imagine everyone's mood when we got to the track with three feet of snow in it, and three more feet still falling. Let's just say there was a general lack of motivation in the air. They decided to run the race anyway, partially because this was already a make-up race for one that was canceled for January. You think someone might have clued in to the fact that these were not exactly ideal ice conditions when the first forerunner went down and was almost 10 seconds slower than the day before. As the women's field started down the track, things didn't get much better.

I was ninth off, and had already conceded that I could only do much in dealing with the snow. I put Operation Don't Move into action, and made a half decent run down the track, but certainly nothing to write home about.

They got through 20 women when they finally called a coaches meeting, and decided to cancel the race.

Ask me how Lanette and I felt about that decision ...

(Please note the strategic position of the snow plow in the background. Thank you. Thank you very much.)

We weren't the only ones happy with the decision ... the situation quickly escalated into a inter-continental snow ball fight between the North Americans/British and the Swiss/Mexico (with an American defector), along with an Italian contingent who doubled back after their van was attacked and flanked the entire field. They received several snowballs through their open van door in return.

My dad would have been proud of the snowball I fired within inches of the Swiss coach's head and the shot I rocketed at the departing truck that caught one of the Brit's square in the face. My teammate Charles celebrated that shot so vigorously that the Brit still thinks he was the one who threw it. Shhhhh .....

All in all ... that was the BEST RACE EVER.