Meet Olivia, the AMBASSADÖRK who returned to the nordie-verse after decades away and discovered a Boston community of skiers who celebrated their races, laughed at the shared mediocrity with zero shame and always, always congratulated each other —no matter who finished ahead or behind. And how the power of a nordie community can transform more than your fitness or technique.
With that, let's get to it.
ambassadörks
OLIVIA: The Community Matters More
Growing up in Stillwater, Minnesota—a place blessed with one of the most vibrant cross-country ski
communities in the country—meant that there was never a shortage of friends eager to hit the trails.
There, skiing was more than a sport; it was a way of life. And for me, it was the idyllic "Nordie"
existence. But after high school, when I left the familiar snowy landscapes of Stillwater to go East, my
journey took an unexpected turn. Not long after arriving at Bates College, I discovered that I’d been
grinding away the cartilage in my right hip. And just like that, my skinny ski life came to a screeching
halt—one that would last for the next 22 years.
Fast-forward to 2021, and I was sporting a new ceramic and titanium hip—affectionately named
"Bob"—a renewed sense of hope, and the long-awaited orthopedic approval to return to cross-country
skiing! The first time I clipped into a pair of skis again to glide across the snow, it felt like coming home.
But as much as I rejoiced being back on the trails, there was one glaring issue: I didn’t have any Nordie
buddies to share it with.
Decades removed from the sport and 1,300 miles away from the tight-knit skiing community of my youth, I found myself in uncharted territory.
The excitement of skiing again was undeniable, but without a community, the joy started to feel... incomplete. I wasn’t sure where to start or how to reconnect with the sport I loved in a city better known for its traffic jams than its Nordic trails.
As fate would have it, my 25-year-old skis had their own way of nudging me forward—they delaminated.
It was almost poetic, in a way: my trusty companions from the glory days of Minnesota had reached the
end of their trail. I wasn’t quite ready to commit to a brand-new pair, but the timing couldn’t have been
better.
Enter Charles River Recreation, the company that manages the Weston Ski Track just 30 minutes outside
of Boston. They happened to be running a used rental equipment sale, and I jumped at the opportunity.
Affordable gear that could get me back on the trails without breaking the bank? Yes, please! It felt like a
small step forward—one that carried the promise of fresh starts and, just maybe, new connections.
I dove into the fleet with fervor, sifting through skis like a kid on a treasure hunt. But it wasn’t long
before I encountered a befuddling new problem: NNN bindings. Apparently, during my 22-year hiatus,
the sport had decided to overhaul its binding system, leaving my trusty SNS boots out in the cold.
Suddenly, my options were drastically limited, and the shiny promise of affordable skis seemed to dim.
Just as I was beginning to despair, there they were—a glorious, unexpected sight: a pair of "vintage"
Fischer RCS Plus skis, complete with SNS bindings. Were they decades old? Probably. Was I far too light
for their stiff flex? Absolutely. Did I care? Not in the slightest. I needed something familiar, and those
Fischers called to me like a long-lost friend. They needed to be mine.
A tall, friendly staff member named Bryce stepped in just as I was lovingly cradling my “new” very old
skis. He glanced at me, then at the Fischers, and raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, miss, but those skis
look a little big for you,” he said, clearly trying to save me from myself. Much to his surprise, I
enthusiastically agreed. “Yep!” I chirped, continuing my march toward the register.
Bryce let out a resigned sigh, and as I placed the skis on the counter, the man behind it chuckled. “Bryce,
are you sure you’re ready to let these go?” he asked.
That’s when it hit me: I was buying Bryce’s old skis. Suddenly, everything made sense—the pristine
bases, the slight hesitation in his voice. These weren’t just any vintage Fischers; they were his vintage
Fischers.
“Bryce, did you race with these?!” I asked, excitement bubbling over. He paused, as if weighing his
response, then countered with a question of his own. “Are you looking to compete?”
The thought stopped me in my tracks. Compete? Me? The last time I’d been on a start line was 25 years
ago—back when I thought my hip was fine, and my plans to ski at the college level were still on track.
But before I even made it to my first carnival race, my orthopedist delivered the crushing news: my hip
dysplasia had never been fully corrected, and if I pushed my body any further, I could be looking at a hip
replacement before my 20th birthday. It had been the end of my competitive skiing dreams, and for
years, I buried the idea entirely.
But now, with four hip surgeries behind me and the promise of my new sidekick, Bob, I found myself
wondering: Could I? Should I? Sure, I was old, slow, and more than a little out of practice. But the door
Bryce had cracked open—a door I hadn’t dared to peek through in decades—tempted me.
Even if it wasn’t about chasing podiums, maybe it could be about something else: joy, pride, or just proving to myself that I could do it again.
“Do you know about the Tuesday Night Race Series?” Bryce asked.
I shook my head, equal parts intrigued and terrified. Racing? It sounded so official, so... intimidating. He
went on to explain that Boston has a vibrant ski community, and the TNR as it’s more commonly known, is one of the largest Masters racing groups in the country. Suddenly, the idea of skiing alone didn’t seem like my only option.
As I mulled this over, Dave, the man behind the counter, chimed in. “You know why Bryce isn’t using
these skis anymore?” I shook my head. “He has a bad back injury,” Dave said.
The news hit me in a strange, bittersweet way. It felt unfair that Bryce, who had owned these skis and
clearly loved them, couldn’t use them anymore. But it also strengthened my resolve. If Bryce couldn’t
glide across the snow with them, I would. And I wouldn’t just ski—I’d race. Slowly, sure, but I’d make
sure his vintage Fischers saw another finish line.
The thought was nerve-wracking, but it also lit something in me. By the time I left the rental shop, I was
brimming with fiery resolve. This wasn’t just about skiing again—it was about reclaiming a part of myself
I thought was lost. I went home, hopped online, and without giving myself time to second-guess, I
signed up for the Tuesday Night Race Series.
That part was easy. The hard part? Convincing myself to wear Spandex again.
Did I even own Spandex anymore? Long ago, I’d handed off all my “Nordie” gear to my sister, assuming
I’d never need it again. Now, the idea of squeezing into something skin-tight after more than two
decades away from the trails was… daunting, to say the least. But I wasn’t about to let a wardrobe
challenge derail my mission.
After some serious digging through my closet—and more than a few moments of existential dread—I
managed to cobble together enough to resemble a racer. Sort of. Sure, my outfit was a far cry from the
matching kits I used to wear back in the day, but it would do. And besides, I wasn’t aiming to be the
fastest skier out there. I just wanted to be out there at all.
So, the following Tuesday, I found myself standing at the starting line of my first race in decades wearing
an outfit that could only be described as... unique. Green Bay Packers leggings (yes, I know—I’m a traitor
to my Minnesota roots, but that’s a story for another time), a faded Nike dry-fit top, oversized sledding
mittens, and a knit Wisconsin hat designed to look like a piece of cheese. On my feet were 90’s-era
boots, and beneath me were Bryce’s giant skis.
Meanwhile, the other Masters racers warmed up in sleek, aerodynamic suits, seemingly moving with
effortless grace, confidence radiating in the icy air.
I tried not to let this intimidate me, but it was hard not to feel like a stray dog who had wandered into the Westminster Kennel Club Show.
Taking a deep breath, I focused on my first task: getting my bib and timing chip. Surely, this part would
be simple. I slowly glided over to the man I was told was in charge, a guy named Wes, clipboard in hand
and an air of calm authority. He glanced up, and his eyes scanned my ensemble, pausing for what felt
like an eternity.
“Are you here for the ski school?” he finally asked.
Apparently, my outfit wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped. “No,” I replied firmly, summoning every ounce
of resolve I had. “I’m here to race.”
The words hung in the air, surprising us both. I could almost see the gears turning in Wes’s head as he
processed this information. He looked me over once more, his expression landing somewhere between
bemusement and mild dismay, before shrugging and handing me a bib and timing chip. This was not a
man who was going to stop me from doing something stupid. I liked him immediately.
The rest, my friends, is history!
That first race was, as expected, painful. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, and yes, I was terrifyingly
slow. My debut effort put me 61% back from the winning time, landing me 69th out of 79 racers. But
none of that mattered. It was exhilarating! Crossing that finish line felt like more than just completing a
race—it felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
And more importantly, it marked the start of something even better: meeting my new Nordie friends.
First, there was the amazing Viera, a 73-year-old dynamo who inspired me every time I saw her out on
the course. I made it a point to cheer for her whenever I passed her (which wasn’t often, given how out
of breath I usually was). Her presence reminded me that skiing is a sport for life.
Then came Michael and Victor, two tall, jovial, and utterly relentless Russians. Thursday nights became a
ritual of being goaded into doing “just one more interval”—whether I had the energy for it or not. Their
good-natured teasing kept me pushing harder than I ever thought I could.
Next was my buddy Michael, a stellar runner-turned-skier with a knack for diving deep into all things
endurance. From heart rate zones to World Cup results, these conversations became a highlight of my
training sessions.
And finally, there was Natalie, a recent college graduate whose enthusiasm and love for the sport were
infectious. She quickly became one of my most regular training partners, even introducing us all to Noah
Hoffman’s Fantasy Cross Country League. Because why stop at skiing when you can also obsess over
stats and strategy?
In short, the Nordie life was back—and better than I ever could have imagined.
Our crew kept growing. We didn’t only race together, we started training together, both in-season and
off-season. We found joy in the shared chaos of being “B wave warriors,” celebrating our races and
laughing at our shared mediocrity with zero shame. At the finish line, there were always
congratulations—no matter who finished ahead or behind.
And let’s be honest: we weren’t too proud to admit our fears. Whether it was being terrified of going
down steep hills (or any hills) on our roller skis, we owned up to it and supported each other anyway. In
the fall, we met in the dark to go hill bounding with headlamps, which was its own kind of adventure.
We started a Strava group and created fun challenges to motivate each other. And at the end of our
favorite roller ski path, it became a tradition to snap an “us-ie” photo—a blurry, chaotic snapshot of our
group that perfectly captured the fun and camaraderie we shared.
While my goal was never just about improving my standings—it was about finding a Nordie community again—that community helped me grow more than I ever expected.
With their encouragement, support, and occasional nudges to push myself harder, I improved. By my fourth TNR season, I had brought my time down to an average of 31% back from the winning time—a 50% improvement from that first painful race on Bryce’s giant skis!
Which brings us back to Wes, the OG Nordie I met on Day 1.
Wes isn’t just the guy behind the clipboard; he’s a racer too. By my second season, I found myself
trading places with him mid-race—we leapfrogged each other a few times, and when he passed me on
the final hill (they always get me), I cheered him on, trying to sound encouraging even as I fought to stay
upright.
At the finish line, Wes came over, impressed. “Olivia, you’ve made SO much improvement!” he said,
which would have made me blush if I wasn’t still gasping for breath.
Then he asked a question that surprised me: “When was the last time you raced before you started the
TNR?”
I grinned. After all, this was the same guy who initially mistook me for a ski school hopeful—the same
guy who’d handed me a bib while (rightfully) side-eyeing my Green Bay Packers leggings and cheese hat
combo.
I replied, “The 1999 Junior Nationals in Anchorage, Alaska.”
Wes blinked, seemingly stunned. Before he could recover, I added with a wink, “Myself and everyone
else got absolutely smoked by this phenom named Kikkan Randall.”
I had to laugh to myself as he skied away. I was a long way from the girl in mismatched gear who could
barely scrape her way through her first Tuesday Night Race. But as much as I had improved, I knew I’d
never again be racing to achieve a specific placement or competitive outcome.
For me, it’s the community that matters far more than the numbers, podiums or percentages. The camaraderie, the laughter, and the shared love of skiing, even when it’s messy or imperfect, is what makes the sport truly joyful.
That’s why my greatest wish—and mission—is to help Nordies find an inclusive, supportive, and positive ski community they love. Because when you have people to train, race, and laugh with, it feels better than any podium you could ever stand on or medal you could ever wear around your neck.
This is why I’m also honored to be an Ambassadork for a brand that fully embraces what matters most:
community.
Olivia Ester is a Coach. Nordie-Converter. If I could convert everyone I meet into a Nordie, I would! As a coach in the Stillwater MN club, I love introducing new people to cross-country skiing, and helping others feel more confident and proficient on their skis. As a Masters racer, I love challenging myself and feeling like I’m flying across the ground. This is the kind of joy I want to share with the world. When not eating swedish fish, Olivia can be found on the grid as @oliviafmbt
the closer What We're Thinking About.
That we wish we could ski with Olivia and soak in this positivity and inclusivity. Nordic skiing can be challenging to learn - and that threshold of fitness and technique - can feel like gatekeeping. But, finding the right group of people that make you feel comfortable, seen and respected is an important piece to ensuring our sliding sport thrives for coming generations.
If Olivia's words impacted you and you'd like to ski, learn or meet with her in Stillwater, please reach out via her instagram handle, or contact us skadi@nordjork.com and we'll put you in touch.
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