The Circuit.

Were you to come on the scene after the fact, the remnants would be the same: hazy clouds of flouros, holes in the snow where stadiums and snow fence lived, used wax tins and stale beers from coaches socials, a startlist blowing around.  The circuit is wherever ski racing is.  It’s the loudspeaker feedback, the sea of wax tables, trailers, irons and supplies loaded, unloaded, heat guns plugged into powerstrips, plugged into genearators smoking and blowing fuses.  It’s torch heads and portapotties.  Digital thermometers and half filled bottles of Gatorade bleeding on the groomed snow.  It’s lycra bibs that smell like the last racer. It’s point lists, broken poles, binding bumpers and binder layers.  It’s forgotten windbriefs and long rides home.  The circuit comes alive this week in Anchorage.