Call me old-fashioned, but I think a man should be able to support his wife.
So far, during my 11-year marriage to Jaqui, I’ve managed it. But now I’m in
trouble.
I’m staggering down the course of the 11th Wife-Carrying World Championships
at Sonkajarvi, Finland. There are 7,000 people cheering me on, but they’re
drowned out by the blood pumping in my ears and the ragged gasps of my
breathing. Then a voice cuts through the rest. It comes from my wife, who is
balanced painfully across my bony shoulders.
“What the hell are we doing here?” she yells. Well, it’s complicated.
EVERYONE ignores Finland. All around it there are sexy holiday destinations:
glittering St Petersburg, stately Sweden, hip Latvia and Estonia. In the
middle of it all, Finland sits there, stoical, unassuming... and, apart from
the annual rush of kids up to Lapland for Santa, virtually unvisited.
Which is puzzling, because Finland is fabulous. It has the sort of pristine,
wild landscape everyone schleps across the Atlantic to Canada for:
crystal-clear lakes, forests of birch and scented pine, rolling hills, huge
skies. The problem, arguably, has been the Finns. They don’t have a
reputation for being a barrel of laughs. The most admired virtue here is sisu
– strength in adversity. Honest, tough and reliable, they are. Sought-after
dinner-party guests, they’re not.
But there are signs they’re starting to lighten up. Over the past few years,
Finland has become the world capital of unlikely world championships. If you
want to reign supreme in mobile-phone throwing, swamp soccer, kissing or
pea-eating, this is the place to come. This makeover of the national
character seemed worth investigating.
There is, at least, a little history behind wife-carrying. In the 19th
century, burly locals made a habit of raiding neighbouring villages and
making off with their womenfolk.
Today, the rules of wife-carrying are simple. The wife can be your own or,
true to larcenous local tradition, you can nick someone else’s: any female
over 17 will do. The course covers about 275 yards (which is rather longer
than I’d bargained for), with two hurdles and a water obstacle. Dropping
your wife incurs a time penalty. The winner gets his wife’s weight in beer.
That’s it.
As with any competitive sport, though, there are tactics involved. The main
thing is the holding position. The easiest, technically, is a piggyback, but
it’s pretty draining. A fireman’s lift is an option. Or there’s the Estonian
position. It’s hard to describe – you end up sounding like More Joy of Sex –
but basically the wife hooks her knees over her man’s shoulders, drapes
herself down his back and peers forward at the world from between his legs.
Okay, she might drown if he takes too long in the water obstacle, but so
what? The ergonomic advantage is huge.
During our only practice session, the night before, Jaqui and I established
that the Estonian was beyond us. An old hand advised me that the fireman
approach would suit my scrawny physique. He had advice for Jaqui, too: “The
crucial things are, don’t laugh or fart.” Wise words.
Arriving at the stadium the next day was a bit of a shock. We’d assumed we’d
be making idiots of ourselves in front of a few dozen curiosity-seekers, but
Reuters was there. And Eurosport. And, on grandstands around a purpose-built
course, a huge crowd.
As the scorers prepare, the MC tells a Finnish joke over the PA. A modest
titter runs through the crowd. Intrigued, I ask a bystander to translate.
“It’s really very funny,” he tells me. “You see, an old man had to post a
jacket to his son. But it was heavy, and therefore expensive. So he removed
the pattern... and put it in the pockets!”
Now I know why the Finns don’t laugh a lot. But will they laugh at us?
AND THEY’RE OFF. It’s two couples at a time, racing against each other and the
clock. In a few minutes, we’re taking our place on the grid next to a
man-mountain and a willowy slip of a thing. We shake hands. His enfolds mine
completely. Hers, I can hardly feel. Crouching low, I heave Jaqui onto my
shoulders, straighten up with a gasp and consider our position.
Two things make a successful wife-carrying team. First, you need a strong, fit
man. I’m happy to admit we didn’t have one of these. And second, slightly
more delicately, you need a very, very light wife.
I’m biased, but I think any objective observer would agree my wife has a good
figure. To call her willowy, though, might be pushing it. She’s 5ft 8in tall
and weighs... I don’t know. She won’t tell me. But – and I’m not saying my
wife’s fat here, far from it – at this moment, it feels like quite a lot.
“Go!” shouts the starter, and we’re heading for the water.
The water obstacle, 3ft deep and 10ft wide, is about 50 yards in. The serious
competitors vault in from the edge and wade through without missing a stride
or dropping a bride. I try to do the same, but my knees are already starting
to give out. Instead, I totter to the edge and sort of slump in.
We half-wade, half-swim to the other side and scramble out. I squat, dripping,
for her to get back on my shoulders.
“Forget it until you put some meat on them,” she says. “Your bones are
torture. Piggyback for us.”
The other couple have almost finished, but we have more than 200 yards to go,
around a long, snaking course. I stagger on. And on. At the first hurdle, a
hip-high steeplechaser’s job, Jaqui starts to giggle, and what remains of my
rhythm deserts me. At least she hasn’t farted yet. Sweating, panting, bent
double like an old man with life-threatening haemorrhoids, I shuffle
painfully slowly towards the finish line, right in front of the packed
grandstand.
And, finally, the Finns have become animated. The world seems to be getting
darker, but from the corner of my eye, I see portly gentleman farmers and
stout matrons in flower-print dresses bouncing up and down, clapping,
shouting our names and waving us on. The roaring in my ears isn’t just my
blood, it’s the crowd – we’re getting the biggest cheer of the day. Our
pathetic, desperate efforts have melted that flinty Nordic reserve.
The Finns, it seems, love a trier, and even as I drop Jaqui unceremoniously at
the finish line and collapse, I love them right back. WE CAME 39th. Out of
40. I’m pleased I got round without dying, or dropping Jaqui on her head,
but I can’t help feeling a failure. As we sit that night outside a romantic
lakeside restaurant, I worry: will she leave me for a strapping Finn, a man
who can carry her the way she deserves? I am tentatively considering asking
her thoughts on this subject when a fellow diner wanders over.
“You were in the contest, yes?” We nod. “Why?” Good question. “We wanted to
understand Finland,” I reply with a shrug.
He breaks into a broad smile. “Finland is sisu,” he says. “You
have sisu. You understand now?”
Indeed. Finns may not give out as many smiles as some, but when they do,
they’re worth having. As Jaqui and I watch the sunset, I’m happy. I can
support my wife – just.
Travel brief: this year’s Wife-Carrying World Championships take place
on July 7; www.sonkajarvi.fi.
Finnair (0870 241 4411, www.finnair.com)
flies via Helsinki to Kajaani, 40 miles from Sonkajarvi, from Heathrow,
Manchester, Edinburgh and Dublin. Europcar (0845 758 5375, www.europcar.co.uk)
has two days’ car hire from £85. Most competitors stay at the Hotel
Koljonvirta (00 358-17 192 6000, www.sokoshotels.fi),
which has singles (no doubles left) for £46. Or try the spa hotel Runnin
Kylpyla (17 768751, www.runni.fi; doubles
from £52).
