The Wild Ride of Beatrice Nelson

Beatrice Nelson, grasping her nephew’s “Ice Monster 2000” racing sled, asked herself if she was really going through with this. She was a baker, for crying out loud. Two decades of professionally honed skill, crafting tens of thousands of pies, had led her to this literal precipice. She would careen down the icy hill at sub-sonic speeds toward the riotous crowd below to what… prove a point to those ungrateful villagers? Settle a score with Mason’s Menagerie and her unsightly cupcakes?

No, she told herself. She was here because she needed to do this.

Her snickering nephew nudged her forward. She would be next in line. The course record was 12.03 seconds, and the crowd favored the kid in front of her to break it this year. After 70 years, it was time to see the longstanding speed sledding record be broken by someone, anyone, who dared to challenge it. Every person under the age of 20 in the village had spent the better part of the winter preparing their handmade sleds for this tradition, hoping they would be the one to take the top prize.

Beatrice, however, was there on a dare. It seemed much more doable at the base of the hill. How did the slope’s grade become so much more severe now that she stood at the top?

She never, in a million years, would have chosen to do something so daring and… well… dangerous. She lived safely. Three cats. A few houseplants. A bakery downtown in the village that she bought from a kindly old gentleman fifteen years ago. She didn’t have a TV, preferring to keep her nose in a book instead. No partner (and no luck finding one). That was okay. Being alone wasn’t so bad, she convinced herself. Her simple, quiet, cozy life was enough for Bea. She had conceded her big dreams and aspirations long ago. Who, at the age of 45, would realistically think they could find love, build businesses, or scale new heights? Foolishness. She forced herself to be content and that was okay. She didn’t have want for anything, except…

Nordingham’s Annual Winterfest Best in Show. For 70 years, this event was staged at the foothill of Nordingham’s hills. The carnival atmosphere was set up for two major traditions of the festival. The first was an all-out baking contest drawing entries from eager chefs all over the state. The second tradition was this stupid sledding contest where young people shot themselves down the aptly named Devil’s Tongue on homemade sleds. The baking contest was cordial and sweet. The sledding contest over the years had broken no less than 34 bones and doled out 15 concussions to no less than a dozen sledders. Bea was not cut out for the sledding.

The village of Nordingham was known for its culinary delights, but none more noteworthy than Bea’s pies. For 13 years running, since the first year she entered the contest, Bea’s pies took first place. Never had she repeated a recipe. Never had she conceded the top prize, that is until last year’s event.

Mason Johnson-Ortiz rolled up in a decked-out Airstream that had been converted into a traveling bakery. Her “thing” was showing up at weddings and festivals to bake ornate and gaudy cupcakes covered in layers of buttercream frosting and (Bea shuddered at the thought of this) fondant. Yes. Fondant on cupcakes. Only a monster would do such a thing.

Mason was cute, young, and vivacious. Her bright pink trailer-turned-kitchen attracted families and couples to line up for these ridiculous creations. Bea was appalled at the ghastly sight but didn’t consider Mason to be a real competitor. That is, until Mason entered her Apple Crumble Delight Cupcake. The judges were dumbstruck in love with the things so much so that Bea’s Bourbon Pecan Pie took second. Second!

“I can’t believe she smoked you!” Bea’s ignorant teenage nephew would comment after the prize was awarded. Stupid kid.

This year would be different, Bea thought. She held nothing back. When Mason would show up in her little trailer, she would stop dead in her tracks at the sight of Bea’s Homemade Cinnamon Apple Pie, a simple pie with unsuspecting layers of complexity that she had honed her skills on for years. It was handed down by her bakery’s previous owner and given to him by his mentor. Three generations of baking perfection in one unbelievable pie. It was the nuclear option, but something had to be done to stop this chaotic force from infecting Nordingham’s Winterfest any further.

The judges were in awe. Astounded. They loved it so much, Bea had their hearts melting over it like the butter in the crust.

Then Mason – that devil – brought out an Oreo Mudpie Surprise. She plated those cupcakes to look like Devil’s Tongue, complete with little sugar figurines of kids racing down the mountain. Upon seeing it, one judge dropped her plate of Bea’s apple pie and walked over to Mason’s cupcake display as though a spell had been cast over her. She laughed with ridiculous glee at the expressions of the little figurines. Another judge bit into a sample of the cake and exclaimed he was a kid again. These grown adults were acting so… childish! This was a serious baking competition that was being upended by… by… a witch! A young, beautiful, attractive witch married to an equally beautiful woman who manned the front counter and laughed with guests as they picked out culinary delights, leaving gushing 5-star reviews online.

It disgusted Bea to watch this production go on any further. The judges and villagers were over there, all of them, acting gaga over the new kid in town who baked a simple Oreo cupcake. Really? The main ingredient was an ultra-processed, mass-produced cookie that came out of a plastic tray. Mason and her wife probably went home at night to their cottage two towns over and held each other close in smug satisfaction as their cats nestled in their laps. Disgusting. They were probably happy. Even worse. They were obviously successful. Unfair. They had everything Bea had wanted but never found because, well, who knows why.

Bea knew she lost. Worse still, she was jealous, and that made her the most angry.

“Man, Aunt Bea, that chick has got your number again. She’s coming for you!” Her knuckleheaded nephew was so sensitive with words…

“Yeah,” joked his friend. “If you can’t win this prize again, maybe you should give us a run for our money on Devil’s Tongue.”

The kids laughed. Bea was in no mood. The nerd was right. Maybe it was time to show the world, and herself, that Beatrice Nelson had a few more tricks up her sleeve.

She grabbed the sled out of her nephew’s hands and marched to the line of contestants, hobbling their way to the top of the slope. Bea had no time to think of the consequences. This was her moment, it was her year, and her slope to conquer.

As she marched toward the hill, villagers and contestants froze in shock and surprise. Their mouths were agape. A few kids pointed and whispered, “Is that… Is she…? I think so!”

That’s right world, soak it in, Bea thought. This is your 70th Annual Winterfest Best in Show walking. A living legend.

Then she got to the top, looked down the mountain, and nearly crapped her pants.

“Okay, Bea, you’re up next,” said Sheriff Gourley, the volunteer officiant for the sledding competition. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

Bea couldn’t speak. There was no air left in her lungs, both out of fear and because the march up the hill was way more taxing than she thought it would be.

Then she spotted the pink trailer at the foot of the hill. Mason was doling out the last of her cupcakes, oblivious to what Bea was doing. You’ll notice me when this is over, Bea thought. She nodded to the sheriff and mounted her sled.

“Okay, now, Bea. Here’s the rules,” said Sheriff Gourley. “Keep your hands and feet up. If they touch the ground, you’re disqualified. Fastest across the finish line wins. Last kid did it in 12.47 – that’s almost a new record. Stay on the path and don’t make the EMT’s work today, alright?”

Bea hiked up her legs on top of the sled and held on to the pole next her, conveniently stuck in the ground for contestants to get a slight push off. She took a deep breath in, clutched the pole, and wound herself up so she could push off with all her might.

The sheriff backed away. “Take off in three… two… one…”

Rushing wind. Ice flying at the base of the sled. The foot of the hill jostled in her field of view as she tore a path to the finish, conveniently placed in front of the winner’s circle (and in front of Mason’s pink trailer).

Once Bea saw the trailer, it was all she needed to hunker down and streamline her descent. A bright red pace clock above the finish counted the seconds of each sledder’s attempt. As it got closer, Bea’s last thought was, Did that say 10 seconds?

Close. It said 11.42 seconds as she passed the finish line so quickly that she kept going past the winner’s circle and toward a bright pink trailer that stopped her dead in her tracks.

The impact with the trailer wasn’t initially painful, due mostly the adrenaline that was coursing through her body. Bea didn’t even hear the roar of the excited crowd that hurried to catch up with her. No, the first thing Bea noticed was Mason and her wife hovering over her with looks of concern and compassion.

“Oh dear, are you alright?” Mason asked.

Bea muttered an affirmative.

“Get the EMT’s,” Mason ordered her wife, who hurried off to make room for the medical team.

Bea craned her neck up to see a hundred villagers running toward her, all of them in various states of excitement and concern. Then she craned her neck down to assess the damage of the trailer. It was minimal, but there was no mistaking a Bea-sized dent in the side of Mason’s Menageries. Bea smiled in smug satisfaction. She went up the mountain to make her mark and, quite on the nose, she did.

Beatrice Nelson took second again in the baking contest, and nobody cared. They were all buzzing with the first-place finish, a course record, and the 35th bone to be broken at the Nordingham Winterfest’s Annual Sledding Contest.

The second-place trophy Bea won that year sat in a lineup of over a dozen other trophies behind Bea’s bakery counter. They marked a series of professional wins over the years, and a consistent standard of excellence she had set for herself. The sledding trophy? That was displayed prominently in the window of her shop on its own for all to see.