About a hundred years ago some guy named Al Johnson used to tromp around these mountains on long wooden skis delivering mail to all the mining camps surrounding the towns of Crested Butte and Marble. And because of that, Im dressed like Chris Osgood in tele gear with fake blood splattered on my face.

Just after 11:00 A.M., Im heading for the Silver Queen lift. Its another scorching April morning in Crested Butte, CO. April 9, to be exact, the day of the 26th running of the Al Johnson Memorial Uphill-Downhill Telemark race. Al Johnson, the town's legendary mailman, was also the sickest skier this side of the Sierra around the turn of the last century.

Though Ive been in Crested Butte for ten of those 26 years, Ive never competed in the A.J. That streak ended yesterday when I ran into a couple of local rippers with rhyming names, Dana and Rana and suddenly found myself being recruited by the Detroit Red Wings to run the wrong leg of an uphill/downhill tag team. April 9, it turns out, is also the day of the last regular season showdown between the NHLs most bitter rivals. Every team in this event is created around a theme, creating a carnival-like atmosphere. In addition to our hockey themed team, other team themes included golf, cartoon, animal, movie and the just plain weird.

I run into my nemesis at the Silver QueenAdam Foote of the Colorado Avalancheand together we went to the bottom of the North Face Lift, the official start of the Al Johnson. Im given a piece of mail to deliver to my teammate up topa blonde, feminine version of Brendan Shanahan; Foote will be delivering to Patrick Roy. I look down, realizing that hockey uniforms dont have pockets, and shove the letter down the front of my shorts.

At the start, I squeeze in between Vijay Singh and David Duval. Down the line to my right I see a mountaineer wearing tights, a bearded man in a sundress and straw hat, and Pebbles from the Flintstones. To my right theres a bee, a cow, the Skippy peanut butter man, and one of those crazy rainbow wigs, like the one Bart and Homer glued to George Bushs head. On the starters cue, we all start charging around the first bottleneck turn and up a steep pitch. I pass the guy in the dress, get passed by a girl in a suit, and before long start struggling to breathe through my goalie mask. The climbing leg is a 15-minute sprint, and the leaders are wearing skate skis and sport risumis with major Nordic wins and NCAA scholarships. But theyre already out of sight. My main concern is staying ahead of Foote.

I huff my way to the top, pass the manky, sweat soaked letter on to Shanny, who skis off, narrowly avoiding a Patrick Roy cheap shot along the way, as I double over panting. I log that one into my memory for later, then watch as the rest of the tag-team race unfolds. Pebbles passes on to Bam-bam; A nun receives a letter from a priest; Vijay Sihng delivers to Fred Couples, who gets passed by Tiger Woods on the home stretch.

I take off my skins, and ski down to the finish for the end of the individual races. To cross the line, competitors have to tackle the 40-degree Last Steep, then hustle up a short climb. Or they can save themselves some work by pointing it from halfway down last steep and gliding up the hill. How you handle the straight-run can dictate how you finish, which Ginny Bullock illustrates nicely by crashing with a comfortable lead, and getting passed by two skiers on the hill. Ginny, the wife of Geo Bullock, who won both the mens individual and the tag team, would have otherwise secured a Bullock sweep of the 2000 Al Johnson.

For some, like the Bullocks, or local mad man Pat ONeil, who just won the 40-mile Grand Traverse race to Aspen, this is a competitive event where winning is the ultimate goal. For the rest of the field, its another chance, in a town full of them, to get a little weird. Dorothy still has Toto strapped to her chest as she rides Last Steep like a Kansas tornado. Ms. Pac Man charges down after a cherry, with four ghosts in hot pursuit. Al Johnson may have lugged a 25-pound mailbag around the Elk Mountains, but he never did it in a giant penis suit.

I, meanwhile, in my first attempt at the Al Johnson, am merely trying to live up to my role as a Red Wing. Remembering the cheap shot my partner took up top, I scour the crowd until I get my hands on Patrick Roy, and being the best Chris Osgood I can be, pummel her in the snow.