Ultimately a functionary offers me a room for $45 US per night vs the $20 quoted in their reply to my fax. I stand my ground, my Russian friends intervene and an hour later we are off to the Hotel Arctica - a high standing building overlooking Murmansk's main square, complete with hugh Christmas tree topped by a red star. The functionary negotiates at the desk and suddenly I have a key for the price quoted. Tatiana and Sergei both help me clear my things out of Charlie (Vic's car), to be parked directly outside of the hotel until we leave 3 days hence.

We swill ours too, between scrumptious spoonfuls of caviar. With some beers for a chaser and after a terrific salad, followed by a reindeer main course, my bill for the three of us comes to $15 US. Perestroika certainly has not hit the north as far as tourists are concerned! I appear to be the only foreigner in town!

Arriving back at the hotel through the drab, lonely streets, the place is abuzz. Once past a bouncer style doorman, one enters a billiard room with "new Russian" couples, dressed to the nines, playing at a half-dozen tables. Adjacent there is a restaurant with "topless" cabaret in full swing and upstairs a disco, with mainly women, some quite gorgeous, dancing alone or with each other to Western music, quite happy to have partners join in. And so we hit the floor.

Saturday, April Fools, dawns bright and -15 degrees. I walk over to the Ice Stadium where the Organizing committee is housed. The walkway around the rink has ping-pong tables everywhere - all in use. I pay 100 rubles entry fee ($3.50) and secure start No 1133. I also discover that I am one of six non-Russians in the race, the other five being three Dutch, one English and one Norsk, all working here temporarily. Apparently under the old communist regime, when skiers were subsidized to come, over 10,000 skiers participated, many from other countries. But now, under tight money supply, with the only subsidies being provided by one's own ski club, this has become much more of an elite race of some 1,250 Russian participants. The track has apparently been set accordingly. It will be technical and climb a total of 980 metres in the course of the 50 KM race. And so it seems that I've bitten off quite a mouthful this time.

Two young interpreters take me to the ski stadium where a raft of outside ski stalls are dug into the snow and everything Western is on offer at western prices. This place is "Adidas City" from head to foot, which takes me back to 1976 when Adidas made an unprecedented multi-million dollar deal with the Soviet Union for the 1980 Summer Olympics. Contrary to IOC regulations concerning NOC rights in their own countries, Adidas secured world rights to merchandise Russian Olympic symbol clothing and footwear.

This weekend is also Murmansk's annual Spring festival. Down the hill from the cross-country ski stadium, crowds are gathered to watch reindeer racing, incongruously in a lightly forested area backed by these dreadful high-rise apartment buildings of the Russian north. Both the Lapps and the animals are gaily dressed. The reindeer are skittish and fast, their hugh pads dancing on the snow as the drivers attempt to steer them with a long pole which the animals tend to ignore on the corners, where sleds carom regularly into the woods, spilling their drivers en route. Those that make the two circuits of approximately 4 KM appear exhausted. The 4-6 deer teams arrive panting like dogs with hugh tongues lolling practically to their knees. But they quickly settle down and so we can hope that it is no more painful for them than we cross-country skiers pitting ourselves against each other and the elements.

My guides leave me and I go back to the ski stadium to check out the first part of the course - straight up for the first kilometre, then undulating terrain over fast hard-pack. If the temperature holds in the -6 to -10 range with sun, it should be quite a pleasant trip. I see a Swix tent where two Russian waxers are offering glide wax jobs for 50 rubles $1.80) per pair. Incredibly, they are using Swix HF 8 and Cera 200 powder, a service which would cost a minimum of $50 anywhere else! The wax is what I would have used and so I take advantage. They scrimp through light crayonning however, and I think monetarily about what might happen during the second half tomorrow, but I think also of the time saved now. It's not as though my life depends on the outcome. Thus my lot is cast with their wax on my dry snow skis for hard packed conditions. We'll see what the morrow brings.. Sunday morning brings everything - blowing snow and rising temperatures to near zero! This should be interesting.

There is a bit of a hold-up getting into the starting area, but being finally in place with about 5 minutes to go, I leave my skis on one of the tracks and take advantage of the minutes left to have a little stretch against a nearby guard rail. Big mistake! All of a sudden the masses break ranks and the race is on. I weave my way through the onrushing skiers to where my skis were, finally finding them in time to sort myself and be last out of the stadium to the hill! I'm fairly visible in my turquoise racing suit, topped by a maple-leafed marked touque and ski glasses which make me look like ET. The crowd waves me on and I wave back. It should be fun hauling in the stragglers. Before the top of the hill it begins to happen, the tail-enders are anything but elite, around me is a junk heap of old skis and worse styles as my $2 wax job helps my to slide easily by pack after pack, particularly on the downhills and flats where our glides are the difference between day and night.

Bit by bit I get into the race, passing becomes more difficult as I move towards the middle of the pack and their comparable equipment. We are now being hit with fierce winds and blinding snow, but every once in a while the sun peeks out for a few minutes of encouragement before the next blast.

I try to divert my attention to what I can see of the trail, which is really quite beautiful...little lakes, hillocks and much change of direction in gladed forests. But my glasses have totally iced up and I strain through iced eyelids to negotiate some technically challenging downhills, less so some demanding uphills, where I begin to have trouble holding my own in the now deep snow. However, a vestige of technique remains to help me glide, and the constant change in direction gets me through to the last 15 KM count-down.

The pace begins to quicken again. I latch on to a Russian Ski Team woman and we steadily pass skiers in ones and twos through the last few KM. But my goal of under 3 hours has long since evaporated in these slow and difficult conditions and the new one of 15 KPH is also slipping away. I long for classic skis - so much easier to ratchet down to maintain technique and glide than with skate skis in these conditions, where the gears are so few that a reasonable thrust is required to maintain technique, poling into deep snow is becoming very tough, but anticipation of the end picks up the pace again. The announcer can now be heard over speakers from very nearby and before we know it we are on the twisting downhill towards the finish. I am so iced up that I can barely see my watch but the elapsed time looks like about 3:30, or approximately 14+ KPH. I should have started the final push earlier and stayed a lot more focused through that mid-section by concentrating harder on technique when the conditions became difficult. But that is easier said than done when one is hurting on the trail. I have no idea how I have done and note that a recent Russian Olympic Champion has won in 2:31, although about 20 minutes slower than the record. I console myself by thinking that perhaps Iwould have done a sub 3 hours on a good day. But I know that I shouldn't have been more than 45 minutes behind.

After changing my shirt in a VIP sitting room milling with others in similar mess undress, I shuffle out to the parking lot for a bus ride back to the hotel. There I look for a massage to no avail. But just as I give up and am about to enter my bedroom, the floor maid suggests her daughter who is apparently the family masseuse. I offer her 50 rubles for an hour, more if it's good. She is and works on my aching muscles for an extra half hour. I feel much better and she is thrilled to receive 100 rubles ($3.50) for the effort. She can speak a little english and tells me about her ambition to be a school teacher. This means much more schooling because, in spite of the look of a well turned out young woman, I discover that she is only 16! Good thing I kept my cool!

That evening there is a big party in the hotel's restaurant, complete with cabaret. I trade my empty envelope for a place. Much vodka toasting ensues. Theirs is a hard life here in the north and with the ruble decreasing in value by the day, it is small wonder that they lose themselves in this way. There is very little to go home for, and sothey simply collect outside as well as inside here and there, looking their best and at each other - animated talking and laughing, not afraid to sing or show their talents in whatever way that suits them.