“Toooooo-lii Toooooo-mingas”

Tuuli Tomingas might have been the only person more surprised than I was to hear the delightfully alliterative vowels ring out in the Utah afternoon. The Estonian biathlete was several thousand miles away from home, after all, well away not just from her continent but the epicenter of her sport. The International Biathlon Union’s World Cup stop at Solider Hollow Nordic Center in Utah was an outlier. It was one of only two North American stops on a tour that is often exclusively contested in Europe, not infrequently in front of tens of thousands of flag-waving, cowbell-ringing, merrymaking fans. 

Skiing across the course at a leisurely pace toward the shooting range to warm up before her first race of the weekend, Tomingas appeared briefly taken aback to hear the unmistakably American-accented voice bellow her name. In the context of a sport at all its levels, not to mention the macro lens of human population, Tomingas is among the best who has ever lived at what she does. But in the reality of world-class biathlon, she’s just another name, good enough to finish in the top 20 but rarely the recipient of much camera time or a contender for the podium. Accorded a star’s greeting, even without a bib number or the distinctive Estonian colors visible under a warmup top, she waved hesitantly toward the stands. As if not expecting to feel at home here in the Wasatch Range foothills about 20 miles south of Park City. 

She wasn’t the only one. 

As I’ve written here before, my relationship with biathlon grew from quadrennial curiosity during the Olympics to full-blown fanatic status about six years ago. Dig down and the timing probably isn’t a coincidence, rooted in foreboding about the winds of change with regard to ESPN’s mission and some sense of my own increasing lack of agency therein. I covered the sports I covered because they were passions, not as assignments or lines on a resume. So, when a job ends after a couple of decades, it’s difficult to disentangle professional from fan identity. I no longer really remembered how to enjoy an NWSL or NCAA basketball game as a fan. Watching now sometimes left me edgy. Fan muscles atrophy. Rehabbing them takes time. 

All of which is to say that biathlon, like beach volleyball, was a refuge. A sport I had previously been intrigued by but never (or rarely, in volleyball’s case) covered. Of course, the psychology of it all takes place separate from conscious thought. In real time, it’s just a familiar feeling that draws you in. It’s the routine of competitive sports. The event-to-event, week-to-week routine of a season. Learning the characters—first the names and skill sets, then the histories and personalities, finally the future possibilities. 

But without seeing it in person, at least once, there was something missing. I don’t need to be in a packed arena to watch a basketball game. Considering traffic, parking, tickets and the rest, I’d rather watch on television most of the time. But I know what it feels and sounds like in that arena. I know what the game looks like in person. Biathlon remained an entirely virtual viewing experience. I had a sense the Oberg sisters were tall (as it turns out, sort of) and Teraza Vobornikova was a pint-sized dynamo (confirmed), but it was all relative. What did they look like amongst other people? What happened on the course during all that time the cameras focused on the shooting range? How steep were the climbs, really? What did a ragged volley of two dozen .22 rifles sound like echoing off mountains? 

This year’s World Cup schedule featured a stop in Soldier Hollow, the first American stop since before the pandemic. And while some of the classic European stops, with packed stadiums and raucous atmospheres, had appeal as an adventure, Utah felt like a more manageable entry level effort. With only minimal equivocating, and likely without the necessary regard to the impracticalities of taking a long weekend in Utah in the middle of the busy season of two jobs, I decided to find out what it felt like in person and booked a flight to Salt Lake City.  

That others might make the same calculations never really crossed my mind. At home, I watch races alone—sometimes wondering if there is literally anyone else in the state of Indiana streaming a particular race from Ostersund, Sweden, or Ruhpolding, Germany. Even after parking, waiting in line for the gates to open and strolling around the course, I unconsciously assumed the people around me must be either locals willing to partake in anything that came to town, especially on a mild, sunny afternoon, or general winter outdoor enthusiasts, taking a break from their own skiing or snowshoeing endeavors. Anything but biathlon junkies.

Then the voice recognized Tomingas, no casual feat without a bib number and with the distinctive Estonian blue racing suit muted by warmup clothes. 

Then came the cheers for Switzerland’s Lena Hacki-Gross and France’s Lou Jeanmannot, the mellow, tattooed rising star who has brought such good vibes to the intense French camp. They welcomed the Czech Republic’s Marketa Davidova—even if they were too far away to recognize the soft-spoken amateur equestrian’s pink unicorn-decorated rifle (much like Nikola Jokic, it’s never entirely clear if Davidova is happier competing for world championships or spending time with her horses in the offseason). 

A few feet up the course from where I stood, a guy about my age and carrying an Italian flag started chatting with an elderly local. The flag-carrying 40-something was from Charlotte, not Cremona. He had started watching biathlon during the Olympics within the past decade and caught the bug. He talked about seeking out the Eurovision and IBU online streams, a routine I know well since NBC dropped the domestic broadcast rights after the 2022 Olympics. 

He talked about cheering for the Italians, most of all Lisa Vittozzi, partly born of following Vittozzi’s struggles with a career-threatening case of the yips. World-class biathletes routinely hit the target 90 percent of the time or better from the prone position, statistically the easier of the two shooting positions (while the target is smaller, laying prone lends more support to a body exhausted by the lap of skiing just completed). The fastest skiers, those who make the transition from cross-country, might be able to survive at 80 percent. During the worst of her yips, which lasted essentially a full season, Vittozzi would regularly miss three or four of the five targets from the prone position. It was painful to watch. 

A few years younger and long in the shadow of countrywoman Dorothea Wierer, who was not just a world champion but the tour’s glamour paragon and an endorsement magnet, Vittozzi was a promising talent who just needed a break. Instead, she appeared in danger of losing her career, not to Wierer or another competitor but the complexities of the brain.  

Not exactly overnight, and in all likelihood with a great deal of recalibrating routines, mental mechanisms and soul searching, Vittozzi emerged from her prone shooting woes. In fact, she’s enjoying the best season of her life. In Sunday’s pursuit, she would race France’s Lou Jeanmannot to the finish line, settling for second by inches. With one tour stop remaining after Utah, she remains in contention for the overall world title. And with Italy set to host the 2024 Olympics, when she will still be in her prime at 31 years old, she could be on the verge of the sort of storybook reversal that help make sports so enthralling. 

Skiing past on a warm-up lap before the 7.5 km sprint in which she narrowly missed the podium in a fourth-place finish, she, too, looked surprised to hear the fan with the deeply resonant voice bellow her name from the stands as others cheered. Next to me, my compatriot from Charlotte waved his Italian flag and added his encouragement.

My camera is something of my talisman, or maybe security blanket, at events. I enjoy photography. That isn’t to say I’m any good at it, or understand many of its subtleties, but I like the challenge of finding the right shot. Something with some artistry that also captures the athleticism and action of the moment. I like editing the photos and letting them run on a digital frame at home. But bringing it with me also goes back to the simple truth that I feel out of place without something to do. I don’t miss deadlines, even the slightly more malleable sort of online writing, but I feel at loose ends without something to do, without purpose. 

So, as the athletes continued to warm up for the sprint, I slipped away from the Italian fan to reclaim a good spot I had scouted during the men’s relay. Out beyond the temporary stands, with an open view of the starting gate for the women’s sprint, it felt like a grey area for access. Would I get moved along? But I wasn’t alone. As they had been during the earlier race, another middle-aged man was there with what their conversation made clear was his son—late elementary school age. My first guess was that one or both didn’t want to waste an afternoon of spring break here, hence the self-imposed isolation. First guesses are often wrong. 

Throughout the earlier men’s relay, the son had kept an eager eye for the Norwegians, currently on a streak of dominance akin to Oklahoma softball. In this race, one of the Norwegians would have as disastrous a performance on the range as it’s possible to have, leaving the team far back in the pack after one leg. They still ended up winning easily. They’re just that much better than everyone else (I enjoy the men’s side of the tour and following it more closely is one of many reasons I look forward to retirement). 

When the son made his way back toward the main body of the crowd at one point, I started talking to the dad. Previewing what became clear soon enough, he told me that as excited as his sons (the other son and their mother joined them for the women’s sprint) were about seeing the Norwegian men, the women’s race was the main attraction. 

Both sons had gotten swept up watching biathlon in the Olympics, infecting the dad in the process. The younger generation gravitated toward the women’s side of the tour, then and even more now the tour with greater parity and competition (and considering Germany’s Vanessa Voigt is more accurate on the range than anyone in the world, man or woman, arguably the greater excellence). For the sons, the day in Soldier Hollow was all about seeing Ingrid Landmark Tandrevold in person. A forgotten Tandrevold banner led to a momentary family crisis. And they greeted each sighting of “Tandy,” as they called her, the same way I reacted to seeing Eric Dickerson or Dominique Wilkins at their age. 

If casual American sports fan have any memory of Tandrevold it’s probably from images of her forcing herself, Zombie-like, to finish a race during the 2022 Olympics before collapsing at the finish line and requiring medical assistance. Collapsing at the finish line is par for the course in biathlon, where athletes push themselves to the physical limit. But the frightening scenes of Tandrevold forcing herself to continue after her body had shut down, followed by a collapse that brought fellow competitors rushing to her side were decidedly out of the norm. 

That she would be a favorite for kids is easy to understand. She is every sports narrative wrapped up in one person. She’s a smiling assassin, her charming social media vlogs and easygoing pre-race demeanor belying ruthless competitive instincts once the race begins. She is both Goliath, the No. 1 racer for Norway, and David, thrust into that No. 1 role after languishing as understudy to Tiril Eckhoff, her friend and mentor, and Marte Olsbu Roiseland, the all-time greats who both retired somewhat abruptly prior to this season. 

At 27, even as she enters next week’s season finale atop the World Cup standings, she’s trying to shake off the same sort of skepticism that greeted an athlete like Caroline Wozniacki when she ascended to No. 1—that she’s very good and very consistent but not truly great. Not as dazzling on the range as Julia Simon when the Frenchwoman is at her best, nor as elfin on the skis as Justine Braisaz-Boucher, another Frenchwoman. 

But to two kids from Utah, she was a god among mortals, every approach accompanied by “Here comes Tandy” as soon as she came into view far down the course and every shot on the range punctuated by leaps of joy or pained groans. She settled for second in the sprint, unable to match a dazzling skiing performance from Braisaz-Bouchet but progressing steadily toward the overall world title.

The next morning, after getting scolded by an IBU official for, as best I could discern, not looking sufficiently sophisticated to have access to the spectator portion of the shooting range, I set up shop behind the Czech and Italian encampments. Covering some portion of the final hour before the start of a race, “zeroing” is essentially range practice that allows the athletes a final opportunity to adjust their rifles to wind and atmospheric conditions. It’s only slightly more exciting than that sounds, like watching shootaround before a basketball game (not involving Steph Curry). But it is a good opportunity to take photos of shooters in action and observe interactions between teammates and coaches from a few feet away.  

While waiting for the whistle that announced the range was open, another fan with a camera (finally someone slightly older than me, welcome proof that this was still possible) claimed an empty space alongside me. Having missed Friday’s races, he was eager for information on the venue layout and photo opportunities. 

We got to chatting about biathlon—his son, now an adult, had competed in the sport growing up. I picked his brain about costs and entry barriers (not surprisingly, it’s not cheap, although perhaps more affordable than downhill skiing). At my urging, he attempted to impart some knowledge about the waxes used on the skis. I proved a poor student. 

He had driven down from Idaho, missing out on Friday’s races during the drive and begging for no spoilers when I started to mention how good Braisaz-Bouchet had been in winning the sprint despite missing one of her 10 shots (a difficult feat that requires supreme speed on the skis to make up the lost time). He was disappointed to learn the Italians hadn’t included Vittozzi on the start list for the second day’s women’s relay, resting her during the condensed three-day schedule. The clear takeaway from this trip: everyone roots for Vittozzi.

The final day’s early start time compounded by turning the clocks ahead the previous night, Sunday arrived with the same feeling I always had by the end of covering tournaments—that the real fun had been in the early rounds, settling the championship almost a matter of bookkeeping. But as was often the case, whether courtesy of Carli Lloyd, Arike Ogunbowale or Taryne Mowatt, the final act always has the potential to take on a life of its own. So it was, watching from the top of one of the major climbs as Vittozzi and Jeanmannot raced down the final straightaway in a rare sprint to the finish line.

Making my way back down to the center of things for the awards ceremony, I assumed that was where the story would end, Jeanmannot inching ahead to claim victory. Watching the stream, it would have ended there. But here, one more memory awaited. 

It would make for a good narrative if the rich, baritone voice that rang out from the other side of a post on the second-floor deck during the awards ceremony was the same voice I had heard Friday afternoon. It sounded familiar. Sadly, reporting ruins all the fun. The owner of the voice had not, in fact, been out on the course Friday. Still, it might have sounded familiar to someone else, too. As the awards ceremony wound to a close, the elongated vowels caught the attention of the day’s surprise sixth-place finisher (the top six are honored, three on the podium and three off). 

The tall figure looked up in search of the voice and waved, this time not surprised to hear it. 

“Toooooo-li” 

It didn’t matter that it was Utah. She was among people who understood.