Sault Ste. Marie — I was driving about 15 miles south of Mackinaw City a couple weeks ago and saw what appeared to be a cloud of snow on the side of the road. It was moving fast, so fast that it was passing me in my crossover SUV. It was a guy on a snowmobile kicking up so much powdery snow I could barely see him. I thought aloud to myself, “My God, how fast is this guy going,” looked down at my speedometer, and saw I was driving 60 mph.
“Insanity,” I muttered and marveled. 65 mph on a snowmobile seemed absolutely insane to me, and I guess it still does, but believe it or not there are levels to insanity, and 65 mph doesn’t even come close to the winner’s circle.
A few days ago I was further north, over the bridge and through the woods in Sault Ste. Marie, watching a gang of lunatics push 100 mph on their snowmobiles, racing around a track comprised of approximately three parts ice and three parts snow in the gray light of the afternoon, and later in the electrified night.
The Soo 500, officially known as the I-500 Snowmobile Endurance Race, began in 1969 and is the largest of its kind. Leading up to the grand race, which features 500 laps around the track completed over the course of a grueling 9 hours in the February cold, is a week of time trials, practice, qualifying rounds, and smaller races.
On Wednesday afternoon, the parking lot at the raceway was about 30% full with trucks and snowmobiles. There are no stands or benches at the I-500. Comfortable stadium seating and warm concessions available for purchase with Apple Pay are not a thing either. If you want to watch, you bundle up in the warmest stuff you’ve got, find a spot by the chain link fence separating the crowds from the maniacs on the track, and watch the races.
The infield was packed with trucks, trailers, guys in snowmobile suits milling around, and snowmobiles calmly sliding on and off the track. Young guys in snowsuits watched from the bridge over the track and into the infield with their elbows resting on the railing, heads peering over and down onto the track. American and Canadian flags raised on two poles, side by side, near the northern entrance. Neon snowmobiles speeding below.
On Wednesday night, the parking lot was fuller. The bluff by the bridge to the infield was more crowded. Most were in snowmobile gear, and quite a few carried cans of beer. Boxes of Coors Light sat in the snow next to groups of guys watching the race. Down near the finish line next to the parking lot were kids sledding down the hill toward the track, their sleds slowing in the deep drifts right before hitting the chain link fence. Some set up folding chairs on the slope, others stood around with their hands in their pockets. A little campfire burned in the corner near the lot.
The announcers called the race over a partially distorted speaker, firing off commentary with the speed of old-timey auctioneers. The high whine of snowmobile engines swooped in toward us, growing louder as they ripped down the straightaway, sputtering and quieting a bit as they rounded the turn.
As for the riders, it was almost impossible to see them clearly unless you have 20/20 vision, which thankfully, for the sake of this column and these descriptions, I have. They come into the turns real hot, leaning to the left and off their snowmobiles an incredible amount. They lean much more than I ever see down on snowmobiles in the wild. Probably because snowmobilers in the forest are going 35 and these guys are going 95. Though both skis stay planted on the snow, their actual bodies lean no less than those of the motorcyclists who compete in similar races. Crouched, leaning far, barely holding onto the handlebars, their butts nowhere near their seats, skis skidding over the slick dry snow.
The I-500 is insane. The guys who race in the I-500 are insane. The people who go watch the I-500, myself included, are insane. All of it is insane, and all of it is amazing. Insane doesn’t mean bad, after all. Insane means, or at least I am intending it to mean, shocking and unbelievable.
People marvel at race car drivers, but honestly, compared to the snowmobiles of the I-500, they are kind of lame. Tooting around in their cars with safety belts and steel bodies. Isolated from the elements, sitting on a seat with a leather back. Compare that kind of racing to the guys ripping around a track covered in snow at 115 mph in 13 degrees Fahrenheit with no safety belts and only a helmet for protection.
The I-500 is pure, unadulterated, unrepentant, unhinged Northern-ism. It makes no attempt to pretend to be comfortable. It’s not held down in the Detroit area where anyone or anybody can easily go. It’s tough, rough, gritty, cold, and Northern. If you want to go, buckle up and drive up to the Soo.
Pack your gear, grab a case of beer, stand by the chain link fence in the biting February wind, and watch the last vitalists rip around an icy track at 100 mph like there’s no tomorrow.
O.W. Root is a writer based in Northern Michigan, with a focus on nature, food, style, and culture. Follow him on X @owroot.
