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Photo: It all depends what the meaning of ‘winning’ is

By Mark Sabbatini on May 2, 2015
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Caroline Landmark and Jorge Cuadrado Reyes pass the starting line of the 23rd annual Svalbard Skimaraton several minutes after a multitude of world-class racers and other competitors Saturday morning. The pair’s late start, which had something to do with a “little trouble with the bus,” ensured they avoided the crowds resulting from a record 900 participants during much of the 42-kilometer race through Todalen. Johan Kjølstad was the overall winner with a time of two hours, five minutes and 36.8,seconds, beating Øystein Pettersen’s second-place finish in 2:07:16. Astrid Øyreslind was the women’s winner with a time of 2:26:39. Participants described conditions as ideal, with temperatures slightly below freezing, clear skies, little or no wind, and stable snow.

About Post Author

Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
marksabbatini@yahoo.com
http://icepeople.net
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Published in Svalbard

Mark Sabbatini
Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.

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