Oh (French) Canada

There are certain times in life that you just have to sit back, smile, and say, “This is it”.
Wow, one sentence into this blog and I’ve already said the “life” word. Normally this implies that the following writing will be chalk full of spacy philosophical ideas I have no idea the meaning, with me banking the entire popular comprehension of the blog in only the false hope that someone else might understand more than I do. Let’s try to avoid that this time around.


Instead, it might be a refreshing change of pace to focus on the here and now. That’s all I really mean when I talk about sitting back and saying “this is it”. This is my second season living the life, traveling the circuit of a mountain bike racer, and it seems as though I’ve been walking a tight rope this entire time. I’ve been balancing the woes of defeat with the highs of success, the fears of my own insecurity with the expectations I place on my shoulders, and most of all I’ve been listening to the angel on one side fight off the devil on the other who will not shut up about eating ice cream. I haven’t given in yet, though with my work being about a five second bike ride from the Big Dipper (the local scoop shop) my restraints are wearing thin. When you begin to live a tug of war of personal desire against physical results life can tend to get sucked into a whirl wind of focus where the here and now seem to be displaced by the there and the someday. That’s how I was living until I came to Canada.
Like in most great stories of mental refreshment it takes an extended trip to the wilderness to find one’s self. Something about the deep isolation, the struggle for survival, and the mental vulnerability creates an environment that just exudes euphoric epiphany. I’m not sure if it’s the beautiful three story mansion USA Cycling has put us up in

 

or the fact that I’m surrounded by some of my best biker buds in the world,

but this Into the Wild scenario just doesn’t feel like quite the best analogy. Though after last weekend’s race at Mont Tremblant it seems the “struggle for survival” might be fairly accurate.
I remember like it was last weekend- the dark storm clouds unloading their liquid mass with the vigor of a squirrel after drinking an entire 7eleven big gulp. Oh how it rained and oh how the mud was made. And where there’s mud soon to follow is the ruts, the pot holes, the “why the heck did I where white socks” feeling (although this doesn’t really sink in until the next day when you’re pulling you’re race clothes out of the washer).

The sun was just peeking out from the haze, though it was quick to cover its eyes, as if it was afraid to witness of the carnage about to unfurl. We racers took to the line in nervous anticipation. After the shortest and longest moments of my life the gun sounded. That’s as far back as my memory goes. Remember in X-Men how Wolverine doesn’t remember anything from his past life except for brief snippets of pain and shock. Yeah, that’s a bit like what I’m going through. The only difference is that while Wolverine had his memory taken from him, or chose to lose it, or something like that (don’t hate me X-Men fans, but it’s been a while), I find it hard to remember what happened in the race because for 99 percent of it there was either A) too much mud in my face to have any idea what was going on around me, or B) my eyes were closed shut in sheer terror. Either way, the only thing I remember clearly is a voice following me around screaming “Don’t you die! Not here, Not now!” Looking back, I think it was me. I also remember with every rooted, rutted, drop my shorts becoming a bit more wet… Because of the rain, I’m sure.

That said, Mont Tremblant procured a certain feeling that few races can match. The kind of feeling that only comes from leaning back, jutting your elbows out, and slipping and sliding away from one’s comfort zone. The kind of feeling that comes when you cross the finish line and look into your competitors eyes and all savage competition melts away, leaving everyone with the common disbelief, “We made it. I’m still here… Where’s my ‘I survived Mont Tremblant’ tee shirt!”
So that leaves me here, sunk deep into the way to plush couch of our way to plush Canadian chateau

thinking about how I’ve changed. I’m not sure if I’m just getting older, wiser, or if my life flashed before my eyes a bit too many times on Tremblant, either way I realized one thing very important. There’s no telling what the future might hold, for any of us. We could be living normal one day and the next, well, things could change. That’s why it seems silly to me to worry so much about where I might end up, especially when the fun part is enjoying what’s happening on the way.
That’s one of the many lessons I’ve learned during my time in Canada. Another is that when speaking to a French Canadian, just because you say something in a French accent does not mean they will understand you any better. Learned that one the hard way…


Thank you so much to everyone who helped me get here, with huge shout outs to my family, USA Cycling, and viewers like you. Thank you.