Gray shrouds the March morning. Rain pours. Temperatures hover in the upper 40s. I stand with dozens of fellow skiers in a sopping snowground of incipient exhaustion. BANG. It begins.

The crack of the starting gun initiates the Ski to the Clouds race, a 10-kilometer sprint around Great Glen Trails and then halfway up the Mount Washington Auto Road in New Hampshire's Presidential Range. "There's nothing like it," grinned Ryan Triffitt, marketing director for the Auto Road, in our pre-race meeting. "The race gains 2,200 feet in 6 kilometers. You won't find anything else even close. To have that much vertical in a short race is crazy."

LEARN MORE
For a first-person perspective on the Ski to the Clouds race, watch a video of last year's event at outdoors.org/skiracevideo. This year's Ski to the Clouds race will take place on Sunday, February 26, 2012. Learn more at skitotheclouds.com.

My goals? Finish. Don't finish last. I'm a novice skate skier with three years of experience. I trained all winter on the Weston Ski Track, the closest cross-country venue to my eastern Massachusetts home. I repeatedly lapped "Mount Weston," a pile of snow at least 20 feet tall, a mere 2,180 feet short of today's finish line. How hard could it be? "It's a real challenge," Triffitt warned, "both mentally and physically."

The year I'm skiing, 2011, marks the fourth for this annual event. Ski to the Clouds attracts mostly serious racers, including former Olympic athletes and a slew of college skiers. This year nearly 70 participants show up, a sea of skin-tight suits labeled with the diversity of New England skiing: Maine Nordic Team, UNH, Middlebury, Bates, Cambridge Sports Union. Buzz fills the pre-race lodge, dominated by talk of the watery weather. 'I might prefer to have a boat." "It's supposed to actually pick up." "Maybe I can ski with oars."

Enthusiasm is equally palpable. "Anything related to Mount Washington is fun," notes racer Eric Wolcott. He glances out the window at the deluge. "Conditions are pretty epic today. I'm excited." He's not the only one. "I love everything about it," muses Mike Sachse, a volunteer with the event. "The attitude, the enthusiasm, the camaraderie of being out with guys doing crazy—I mean active—things. Nobody takes it too seriously, but they take it very seriously, if you know what I mean." I ponder that koan as I head toward the starting line.

Adrenaline juices as the pack of skiers accelerates. A mix of male and female racers charges out. The leaders blast into the first curve as I dig a ski tip in haste and fall splat out of the gate. By the time I'm moving again, most skiers have disappeared into the woods that surround the first 4 kilometers of the race. I establish a caboose-worthy pace and loop steadily through the gentle terrain.

Great Glen perches at 1,600 feet, right at the base of Mount Washington. My heart pumps as I try to regain some modicum of time in the rolling terrain. My thoughts float back to an earlier conversation with Mary Power, event and sales director for Great Glen Trails and the Mount Washington Auto Road. "The first 4 kilometers are just the warm-up," she cautioned. "But it's called 'North America's Toughest 10K' for a reason. It's the climb, which averages a sustained 12 percent grade. There's no let-up at all. It’s a grueling, grueling race."

Throw in Mount Washington's notoriously bad weather and it gets even gruelier. Anything from single digits, howling winds, and icy conditions to skiing in a hypothermic swimming pool of rain. Due to the uncertainty of weather and road conditions at higher elevations, this particular Mount Washington race ends near the mountain's midpoint, at 3,800 feet (unlike the mountain's summer running and bike races, which finish at the 6,288-foot summit).

Ski to the Clouds is also unusual for its freestyle nature. Nordic races usually feature separate categories for skate skiers and those using classic technique. At Ski to the Clouds, racers are free to choose whichever method best suits conditions. Skate is markedly faster on level terrain, though classic can be faster on the steep ascent, especially if the snow is soft. Skate skis have won out in the four years to date; indeed most of the field today uses this technique. "So far the snow has always been such that skate skiing is much faster," noted Triffitt, "but one of these years a classic skier is going to win."

I pass a charging classic skier as the Auto Road nears. Triffitt is there at the base with a few dozen waterlogged spectators. He dishes out encouragement as I start the climb. "That's it! Find your gear and relax!" I downshift and begin a not-very-relaxing ascent. The classic skier hits her uphill stride and accelerates past me.

The first 1,500 feet go swimmingly. Gear engaged, I feel comfortable, steady. Despite all the moisture, the snow is firm and in surprisingly good condition. I briefly keep pace with a pair of stragglers ahead of me, but soon they disappear uphill. Then it's just me.

I climb steadily through misty forest. Droplets patter loudly from branches. Rain continues to pour. Every corner looks the same, a climb of unchanging scenery interrupted only by intermittent elevation signs. 2,000 feet. 2,500 feet. 3,000 feet. All systems go.

Then my body begins to break.

Skate skiing is rough on your ankles. And that right ankle I twisted shoveling Nor'easter snow a few months ago? It's not happy. Dull grating pain emanates from the inside of the joint, slowly building in intensity each time I stride forward. I push off less vigorously with my leg to minimize the discomfort, adopting a lopsided technique. I increase poling power to compensate. I try to focus on something, anything, else.

Why do people do this? Why am I doing this? Triffitt's words dance in my head. "It's the lore and mystique of Mount Washington. People have been coming here for hundreds of years to challenge themselves. This is just another way to do it."

As I pass the halfway point, finished racers come zipping down past me. "Keep it up number 55! Good work!" Before 3,500 feet comes into view, my right side begins to cramp from the increased poling effort. I stand erect to lengthen my torso and minimize the tension. Now I'm an upright, off-kilter skiing disaster.

The journey becomes a battle of body versus will. I creep uphill in a trudging herringbone of determination. My mind starts talking to me. Don't stop. Whatever you do, don't stop. I slow to a crawl. A lone spectator on snowshoes plods past me, going uphill. I climb in a drenching bath of rain and sweat, feel myself start to shiver despite the sustained exertion. My overtaxed shoulders feel like bowls of mush. I can only think one thing, repeating it like a mantra. I just want it to be over. I just want it to be over.

A Mount Washington Auto Road snow coach finally comes into view. This modified passenger van, outfitted with snow treads for tires, marks the finish line. I struggle limply past it and stop, heaving myself forward over my poles to rest. I stare blankly at a woman handing out medals to finishers. She extends a ribbon to place around my neck. I wobble forward. She pulls back in concern. "Are you OK?" she asks. "I don't want you to fall over."

The ski down is a blur of burning thighs as I snowplow continuously down the mountainside. By the time I reach the bottom, I can barely move. The base of the hill is empty now. The lodge awaits nearby on the far side of Route 16, though right now it looks as distant as the moon. I ski exhausted through giant puddles of water splattered with continuing rain. I finally arrive, looking so trashed that my father-in-law turns off the video camera out of courtesy. I sit down. Pruney hands shake as I remove my boots to pour out the water, then wring brown water from my socks. It dribbles out like the murk of my mind.

In the end, I finish fifth. Fifth from last, of course, with a time of 1:29:51. Goal accomplished. Just 46 minutes behind the winning time of 43:25 set by four-time consecutive winner and former Olympian Justin Freeman. So only like double the winning time. Plus some.

"It was a good race for me," Freeman reflects later. "I played it smart. You have to go hard and fast but you can't bury yourself. Early on the climb, somebody tried to make a move. I let him, then put the hammer down and went hard to the top."

I didn't put the hammer down in my race. Mount Washington did. I wasn't alone. Andrew Johnson, Nordic coach at the University of Vermont and another former Olympian, finished 11th. "I suffered. I won't lie. The climb was tough. It was really hard and it was slow skiing," he tells me. "I've never done anything that sustained before. It was an eye opener for how long 6K of straight climbing actually is."

"It's a huge achievement to finish the race," concludes Power. "The sense of accomplishment is very overwhelming. It's what you walk away with."

So what did I limp away with? Mortality. Mountains are timeless. Our bodies are not. It was the first day in my life that I felt time wearing me down. The first moment I felt my body fail despite good fitness and focused training. When it comes to man versus mountain, it seems that Mount Washington wins. Mount Washington always wins.