Kristina Groves

Over the years I’ve written, and spoken, ad infinitum (ad nauseum?) about the moment I first discovered my Olympic dreams. You know – the torch, the ’88 Olympics, Gaetan Boucher, speed skating – that whole bit. If it is possible to pinpoint the one little moment my heart started beating for skating, then I guess it would have to be when we stopped at that Petro-Canada to fill up on gas and I saw the poster advertising the 1988 Olympic Torch Relay. Similarly, I can pinpoint the one little moment my heart stopped beating for skating too.

Typically, when approaching the end of the season, I would feel excited about racing the year’s biggest races but I would also anticipate the rest that was in store after the final lap was done. It was a paradoxical mix of feelings, wanting to race, and race well, but looking forward to the end of the season and the heavenly rest that came with it too. Up until the very instant my blade crossed the finish in line in my final race of the year I would remain incredibly focused and intent on racing my best. But then, at that one little moment when my blade clipped the line, I would feel… relief.

I liken the feeling to how, at the end of summer, there is a day or two when it begins to feel like fall. There is a new crispness in the air, a slight chill to the wind and the leaves start to turn. Then one day you wake up and suddenly all the leaves are on the ground and it’s officially fall. Crossing the line in the last race of the year is like all the leaves have fallen to the ground and it’s time to go dormant for while.

The racing season usually culminates with the World Single Distance Championships, but because they are essentially the same format as the Olympic Games, in an Olympic year that competition is not held. As a result, the World Cup Final and the World All-Round Championships are pushed to mid-March, after the Games. It’s a tough way to end a long season, with the big races already done but with more still to do. It’s like the leaves have already fallen to the ground but summer unexpectedly returns for a week or two before turning to fall again for good.

So, after the Vancouver Olympics I went back to Europe for the World Cup Final and the World All-Round Championships. I was so exhausted and at the time the last thing I wanted was to go back on the road and race again. I remember having to do a couple of solo on-ice workouts in Calgary the week before going back to Europe and it was some of the worst skating I have ever done – my leaves had begun to turn! It sounds ungrateful, but I loathed every moment I was one the road. The hotel, the food, the weather, the same-old-same-old… it was driving me nuts.

However, despite feeling less than inspired off the ice, being on the ice was decidedly different. With the pressure of Vancouver behind me, skating became simple again and I found myself enjoying it so much. When I was on the ice I was so happy to be there. Conversely, at the dark hotel, under the dark skies with the dark circles under my eyes, I felt, umm, differently.  But the skating, I felt I could go on forever.

With another big competition to peak for after already peaking for the biggest competition of my life, with waning motivation to boot, I managed to pull out some awesome races. I finished the season with another World Cup title in the 1500m and came second overall at the World All-Round Championships. I also finished the season without the sense of relief I had come to expect for so many years. Strange.

The moment I believe my heart stopped beating for skating came when my blade crossed the finish line after the final lap in the last race of the year and that sense of relief did not follow. Instead, I was overcome with an overwhelming desire for the season to continue on forever. Even though it was already the longest season of my life, I crossed that line and immediately wished so much that I could just keep skating. I felt sad that the season was done, which surprised me because I was so used to feeling that wave of relief wash over me.

Looking back now, I view this moment as the one when my heart quit skating. It seems contradictory, I agree, that I identify this moment, where I wished the season would go on forever, as the one where I unconsciously retired from skating. It happened because I no longer felt the need for the rest required to embrace another season – there was no need for another season. It was the last one and that was the last race. It was my last real race because it was the last one where my heart, gut and mind were working together, striving in concert to skate the fastest time. In the weeks and days leading up to my decision to retire, I slowly realized that without my heart, gut and mind beating in harmony towards one goal, I would never feel truly immersed in pursuing another fast race.

It is true of course, that my last official race – the last one on the books that is – is the one where, several months later, I fell and injured my head. But I don’t really consider that a real race because during that race, and during every other race that season, my heart wasn’t in it. I just didn’t believe it at the time. Besides, don’t they say you’re supposed to go out with a bang?

I don’t regret that it took so long for my gut and brain to catch up, I’m just glad they did. I also don’t regret that I didn’t, at the time, recognize the significance of how I felt at the end of that last season. That’s just the way it went.

The fall colours this year are lovely. Warm days and cool nights combined with cloudless blue skies have led to some breathtaking fall sights this year. We spent last weekend in Fernie, B.C., visiting friends and hitting up the colourful mountain bike trails. I will admit, despite my claim of no regrets, that while floating down a smooth, rolling, insanely fun descent on my mountain bike, smiling ear-to-ear as the red and yellow leaves blurred passed me, for one brief moment I thought to myself, ‘why the hell didn’t I quit sooner?!’

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I remember clearly the first real speed skating race I ever won. It was at the North American age class championships in Lake Placid, New York circa 1991. It was a long track 800m mass-start race and I won it, surprisingly, beating a group of girls who, until that point, beat me handily nearly every time we stepped onto the ice to race.

I can still feel the raw disbelief, excitement and thrill of that feat as if it were yesterday. My whole body: heart, gut and mind, simultaneously merged at that glorious, fleeting instant and my insides just smiled all over. Although a globally insignificant event, it was, at the time, extraordinarily huge in my young mind. Until then I didn’t even know that I wanted to win or that I could win or that the best way to pursue winning was to not pursue it at all.

I treasure that memory now, where I first realized that maybe I had some real, albeit distant, potential to match my oversized Olympic dreams. Still, I didn’t think much about winning when I was a young skater, probably because I didn’t do it very often. I won enough times to feel that perfect rush but seldom enough to learn how hard I had to work to do it again. Looking back it’s clear to me that I stayed true to those first lessons on winning.

When I think about my career I think about the incredible amount of hard work I did to realize that distant potential. I think about the uncanny patience I maintained while slowly, methodically, and consciously working towards my goals. And I think about those brief, outstanding moments when my desire to win united with that perfect balance between intention, execution and focus, where the end result was actually winning.

Sport at the highest level is often regarded as being about winning, but over the years I found myself gravitating towards a philosophy where, to me, it didn’t always mean a gold medal. I learned I could achieve that elusive ‘perfect race’ feeling without being at the top of the podium. In fact, extricating myself from the pressure to win and seeking instead that awesome feeling is what fuelled my motivation for so long and led to so many great races.

Because of that it never occurred to me that there would come a time I might not want to do this anymore. It truly never did, not once in twenty-three years.  I always thought I would want to do this until the End of Time. So it came as a shock, and a hard truth, as, over the last few months, it slowly dawned on me that I really didn’t want to do this anymore.

Which begs the question, when is the right time to retire? For me, it turns out, the right time is when that urge to win/be my best has gently dissolved into something softer; into a less explicit and more fluid aim, where the goal is no longer to skate fast, or to be the fastest, or to be my fastest, but rather to simply enjoy skating for skating’s sake.

So there it is. I’m retiring from competitive speed skating. I’m not retiring because I don’t love speed skating or can’t fathom doing the work or can’t skate fast anymore, it’s simply because I feel fulfilled by what I’ve accomplished and am no longer inspired to strive for the same thing; my heart is full. I should not be surprised that I have changed, even though I am. Isn’t that just life, as they say? It would be more surprising, really, if I didn’t change and was driven to continually achieve more of the same.

It was difficult to make this decision for one main reason: I know I could go back. There is no doubt in my mind that I could regain the level I once achieved, maybe even surpass it (or not!). True, it would take a while and a further inordinate amount of hard work to get there but I think I could do it.  The crux of it is this: seeking the same reward has lost its luster. Knowing that I could go back but choose not to makes it that much harder to walk away, but it is also likely to be one of the most powerful decisions I’ll ever make.

At first it really bothered me that the little spark was gone. I had trouble admitting it to myself, believing that I was done. I felt like I was letting myself down. The truth is I love training, I love training hard, I love racing, I love travelling, I love the people; I love everything about being an athlete. So the fact that the little spark was fading away seemed impossible to me. But when I think about the reason I started this in the first place and that little eleven year-old girl who’s dreams were sparked by others’ Olympic stories, it would be unrealistic of me to think it could last, unchanging, forever.

So letting go became the challenge and eventually I came to realize that hanging on because I like the lifestyle and can make a decent living would be a slight to the sport and the ideals of the Olympic movement I worked so hard to uphold. Sport at the highest level commands commitment, focus, discipline, intensity, integrity and most importantly, my good friend, Little Spark. In my mind these requirements are inextricably linked, and while I suspect I will be an athlete of sorts for the rest of my life, missing one or two of them is not an option when seeking to perform at the highest level.

It wouldn’t be fair to those who support me or to my coaches and teammates or, most importantly, to myself. It took some time away, a healthy dose of brutal honesty and a heap of self-awareness for me to admit that and although I’ve second-guessed myself a number of times, no matter how I slice it I always come back to the same thing: it is quite simply, sadly, happily, the end.

A few months ago I was scouring the Internet, as we are wont to do these days, looking for a magazine subscription. Quite by accident I came across a random quote in cyberspace. Unexpectedly, these words crystallized precisely, in written form, how I feel about retiring. These words reflected back to me the clear and honest truth. The quote read,  “From the strain of the doing into the peace of the done.”  Isn’t that just lovely? It was as if a huge sigh washed over my body and I could finally let go of the strain and take hold of the peace.

Here, in the peace of the done, I now cherish every single damn thing I’ve ever experienced in this sport. To say that I’m grateful for the opportunity is the understatement of the century.

From where I started to where I finished: from losing to winning and learning to living, what a gift.

P.s. the concussion has nothing to do with my retirement.

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I’ve been singing this song a lot lately. I can’t even look at the words without singing it in my head. It pretty much sums up the last two months of my life: summertime and the living is easy.  Every once it a while I randomly belt it out at the top of my lungs… fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is hi-iiigh… Can’t you just hear it? I really like to draw it out, make the words last forever. I don’t think Scott appreciates my singing as much as I do, but that’s his problem.

Powderface Ridge, near Bragg Creek, AB.

In case you hadn’t heard, we got summer here.  Here, as in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. It’s true! It was a little late in coming, but once it finally came, it came full on.  It’s still here in fact. Today is September 9th and it’s 29 degrees, nary a cloud in the sky.

I’m not sure if it’s the first time I’ve simply noticed the summer weather in a while or if it really has been an exceptionally good summer.  Probably a little bit of both. Instead of doing lowwalks with my head down all summer I actually did fun summer things this year like camp, ride my shiny new mountain bike, hike, pick strawberries, make jam, cruise on my Dutch Oma bike for ice cream and jump off the dock repeatedly at the cottage, and somehow the whole time the sun never seemed to find a cloud to hide behind.

That makes it sound as if I didn’t like lowwalks very much, which isn’t exactly true, but lowwalks are really really hard, not to mention hard on my back! I did enjoy them in a masochistic kind of way, but in all honesty the respite from such a difficult, not to mention strange looking, speed skating exercise has been good for my summer.

Scott and me hiking up to Picklejar Lakes

Also, I’m happy to announce the following: I feel better.  This is cause for celebration because I can now ride my bike, go for a run, have conversations longer than ten minutes, read a whole book and even turn on the blender.  Maybe that’s why I had a great summer, because I could do all those things without feeling like a big pile of garbage. Not feeling like a big pile of garbage has allowed me to get out and really enjoy summer as opposed to observing it from underneath a big pile of garbage. I realize it’s difficult to imagine what it feels like to feel like a big pile of garbage but the gist of it is that it feels really bad. If you can avoid it, please do.

I still have the odd day where I feel like a tiny pile of garbage, like maybe just a banana peel and some coffee grinds, but generally, thankfully, I feel like my concussion days are behind me. That doesn’t speak much to what kinds of days lie before me but let’s save that for another day.

This summer I discovered that I really love mountain biking. I’ve tried it before but never did it often enough, or for long enough, to get past my complete lack of skill or fear for my life and limbs. I’d also never ridden a bike with rear suspension, which, it turns out, is a bit of a game changer. I suspect that twenty years of road riding all summer has left me looking for a change of pace, but choosing its riskier sibling, mountain biking, after sustaining a concussion in November, is probably not the wisest thing I’ve ever done.  Thankfully, I also discovered that there is no shame in walking.  If I can’t do something or feel it’s too risky, I just get off my bike and push it.  As my skill level has increased, the fine line I walk between what is risky and what is not has blurred ever so slightly, but fortunately my ego can sustain the forgoing of a big drop on a gnarly descent because I remember all too well that big pile of garbage.

Climbing up the beautiful Powderface Ridge

Alpine meadow wildflowers flanked by a really fun singletrack

Every year for the past number of years we’ve been invited to join some friends on a mountain biking trip in the Chilcotins. For the uninitiated, i.e. me, the Chilcotins are well known in the mountain biking world as one of ‘the’ places to ride. The Chilcotins are a mountain range in the B.C. interior, about an hour west of Lillooet, laced with endless single track trails in alpine and sub alpine terrain. Each time we were invited I’d have to decline (note the switch from ‘we’ to ‘I’… Scott could have gone every year, but I would always be deep in the throes of intense, and un-missable, summer training).

But this year was different. Now past the concussion and taking a break, I jumped at the chance to finally whet my mountain biking chops (or lack thereof) in the Chilcotins. I’d been sufficiently primed for the difficulty of the trails by Scott’s friend Dylan, and while excited about riding, I knew I would be in a little over my head. Turns out I wasn’t half bad and by hour five on the big Windy Pass ride I felt like I could fly on two wheels. Letting go of my fear, tempered with my increasing skill level and the sheer beauty of my surroundings, led to the most liberating sensation I’ve felt in a good long while.

Windy Pass

I think that’s why I keep going back. While my road bike gathers dust in the basement, I choose to hit the trails instead, whether out to Bragg Creek and the beautiful Powderface Ridge or just down the street from my house to the bluffs along the mighty Bow River. I love the challenge of doing something new that I’m not very good at and the sense of accomplishment from simply riding up a hill that before I had to walk up. I’ve had my fair share of ‘holy sh*t’ moments, enough to maintain a strong sense of fallibility, and enough that I signed up for a skills course this weekend at Canada Olympic Park. The forecast? Sunny and 25 all weekend.

It’s been a luxury for me to have this time to do all the things I’ve sacrificed for so many years. The past two months the living has been easy. I’ve probably done more little adventures in the last two months than in the last five years combined. I’m free to do as I choose on what has essentially become a months long vacation. Of course the last 23 years have been one giant adventure too, but this unexpected hiatus, while initially unpleasant and unwelcome, has breathed a flush of fresh air into my life and rejuvenated my spirit.

It’s true, and inevitable, that this glorious summer will end sometime, even though today it feels like it will last forever. I’ve packed in as much as I could but soon it will be time to put the bikes and tents and sleeping bags away for the winter. Today though, I still hear the words of Summertime floating melodically, repeatedly, through my mind… One of these mor-niiiings you’re goin’ to rise up siiiiing-ing…then you’ll spread your wiiiiiings and you’ll take the sky-yyyyy…

A nice way to start the fall, don’t you think?

A beautiful July day hike up to the unexpectedly stunning Smuts Lake

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If you’re in town this weekend and looking for something fun to do come check out the Bow River Flow!

The Bow River Flow is an urban festival of human-powered transportation that celebrates healthy and resilient communities. Through citizen-led programming that incorporates cycling culture, local music and art, a kid’s zone, participatory processions, fitness activities, and an appreciation of the Bow River, this event inspires Calgarians to contribute to our dynamic city.

It is Calgary’s version of an event which emerged in the 1970s in Bogota, Columbia: Ciclovia.  Roads are re-purposed during under-utilized periods for biking, walking, and family festivities. Similar events have emerged in cities all over the world, from Winnipeg, to New York, to Melbourne.

These events allow cities to re-envision how public spaces, the largest of which in the city are roads, are regarded and used. It’s about getting communities active and out celebrating local culture. They also connect to how we transport ourselves and allow an opening to acknowledge alternate forms of transportation.

This is a non-commercialized, non-motorized festival which opens Memorial Drive to all forms of active transport, encouraging Calgarians to share the road and allow excess lanes to be enjoyed in a safe, car-free environment.

Join us on Sunday, August 21 as part of a world-wide renaissance of cities built for people!

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I was in the midst of writing a silly blog post about how I’ve been rather reluctant, loath even, to call myself a Calgarian, even though I was born in Calgary and have lived here for the past 16 years, and about how I still feel like a transplanted Ottawan, having spent my entire childhood and formative years there, when I first heard about what happened in Norway.

I stopped writing it because it seemed rather stupid all of a sudden to pit Cowtown versus O-Town and dissect which one felt more like home and why.  It is true that I’ve always identified more strongly with Ottawa, and Ontario, for a myriad of reasons, (family, cottage, childhood nostalgia, hot summers, Gatineau park…) and to that end, it still feels like home to me.  It is also true that I’ve occasionally been at odds with Calgary for a different set of reasons altogether (sheer geographical size, traffic, short summers, no lakes, politics…) and because I only moved here for sport it doesn’t always feel like home.

It seemed stupid because in reality one can feel at home or at odds with any place given the right or wrong circumstances, and ultimately I should feel grateful that I have two places I can call home.  And it seemed especially stupid when I heard about what happened in Norway.

Norway is like home #3 for me.  My mother was born in Norway and lived there until 1969 when the pull of a certain gentleman in Vancouver drew her to this great country.  Leaving her country, her language, her life and her entire family behind to forge a new life in Canada was a leap of faith, and love, that made it possible for me to exist.

We traveled to Norway many times when I was younger; to visit relatives, explore the country and experience new things.  I loved going there.  We went hiking, camping, and cloudberry picking.  We skied in the winter.  My uncle Olav made us beautiful little crafts out of wood and birch bark in his workshop.  The sun stayed up almost all night during the summertime.  I fell in love with heart shaped waffles and homemade strawberry jam, Firkløver chocolate, vanilje saus, reindeer stew and even boiled potatoes.

Norwegian culture, language and life were threads woven through the cloth of my Canadian childhood; at Christmas we celebrated ‘little Christmas Eve’ on December 23, we ate peeled shrimp for dinner and kromkake for dessert, and we received gifts from Jul Nissen too.  We celebrated the 17th of May, the Norwegian national holiday, and planted Norwegian flags in the garden.  Sometimes we had fish balls from a can for dinner (if you weren’t careful you might mistake one for a boiled potato on the other side of your plate).  My mother made fresh bread, weekly.  We never had store bought bread.  She also knit us Norwegian sweaters and mitts, the envy of all my friends.

In later years, when I began traveling to World Cups, it was a treat that we raced frequently in Hamar, Norway, the site of the Winter Olympics in 1994.  Friends and family would travel to Hamar to watch me race and after racing I would inevitably get invited to dinner and they would always serve fruit salad with my favourite – vanilje saus.  I used to buy boxes of the stuff and bring it home to Canada.  I drove my teammates nuts by raving about the superiority of all things Norwegian.

At some point Norwegian television caught on that I was half Norwegian (I’m pretty sure one of my relatives made an anonymous phone call) and every time I raced they would announce this at the rink and on TV and I would get an extra loud cheer.  On TV they would sometimes say that I merely had Norwegian ancestors, which drove my relatives batty.  “Nei nei!” they would cry, “Henne mor er Norsk!!”  They wanted me to skate for Norway.  I could have too; I have Norwegian citizenship and could live there if I so choose.

I feel a palpably strong connection to my Norwegian roots.  I love everything about it and feel so lucky every time I get the chance to go; it feels like home too.  The news of the horrific events of last week pierced my heart with a devastating blow.  Images of places I’ve been, now destroyed, shocked my senses.  Listening to the updates and learning new facts about the attack and its motivation left me saddened and heartbroken.  How could this happen?

It was doubly shocking because of what I know about the Norwegian people and their society.  Norway is a peaceful country, home of the Nobel Peace Prize, ever-present at NATO and global peace negotiations and has one of the lowest crime rates in the world.  The standard of living is high, health care and education are major priorities.  They are open to those who come from war-torn and poverty stricken nations, offering a better life.  For someone to attack them for being this way is beyond me, and thankfully beyond pretty much everyone else of sound mind.  It is a beautiful country and a beautiful place to live.

I am heartened, proud even, of Norway’s stalwart response to the attacks.  “We will not be broken, we will not retaliate, we will not be afraid.”  That they will strive to become even more open, free and accommodating speaks to their strength and their belief in democracy.  It’s no wonder people want to live there.

It’s easy for an idealist like me to get disillusioned by the endless problems we seem to face these days.  Local, global, social, environmental, political, economical…  A tragedy such as this paints a bleak picture.  How are we going to fix this?  Thankfully I’m reminded of the capacity for change: by idealistic youth in Norway, motivated to create a better future, some tragically killed by a misguided madman, survived by others who vow to continue their work.

Whenever we discuss any sort of geographical subjects, my boyfriend Scott likes to remind me (often) of the minor in Geography he earned in university.  He told me once they learned that Norway is like a little Canada; they share similar geography and an abundance of the same natural resources.  I like to think it goes beyond the physical; we also share similar social values like democracy, education, health care and open arms to others seeking a better life.  And for me, it’s personal.  I share a love of both and feel at home in both too.  That I have three places where I feel at home is a blessing.  That two are in Canada and one is in Norway is luckier still.

Truth be told, there are a lot of things I do like about Calgary (chinooks, mountains, the new mayor, Kensington, farmers markets, long summer nights, friends…) and some things I don’t like about Ottawa (winter slush… is that really all I can think of?)  I’ve lived in Calgary as long as I have in Ottawa.  I’ve never lived in Norway.  But they all feel like home.  Somehow a tragedy in Norway, innocence lost in a beautiful place, and a devastated people forever changed, has not only saddened me but also made me rethink what home really is.

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