Hey Nancy,
You left us on March 29th, 2010, off on the next leg of your great adventure. You came laughing into this world on June 30th, 1954, and forever changed it for the better. Constantly exploring, whether by paddle, foot or pedal, you never stopped. This will be too short to capture the true breadth and meaning of your life. The craftswoman and potter, the barista extraordinaire… you made everything from dog food to curtains, a true do-it-yourself spirit. As a cryptic crossword queen, truly uncanny you were. You were the consummate film buff and the lifeblood of local theatre. With no children of your own, your greatest achievement was as a second mother, sister, aunt, teacher, confidante and friend to so many kids in so many places. Even at the end, you made sure to take care of all of us.
From the get-go, you set out to live your own life, and in the process affected so many others. From Simcoe, Goose Bay, the Bend and Pancake Bay, to the little schoolhouse or the Caravan Farm Theatre, and a thousand places in between, the echo of yours, always the loudest of laughs, will remain with us forever.

Rapid Decompression

It's fairly odd, seeing something you took for granted from the outside. Being at home, in my office/ bedroom working on punk rock essays and sorting out my life while all my friends are in Whitehorse doing what i've done for years takes some getting used to. i can't help but find myself questioning the validity of something i only recently held sacred, but that in itself feels like a betrayal. i'd like to say that self doubt ceased when i left behind what it was i was doubting, but that would be a lie. it never goes away and, as paralyzing as it can sometimes be, i don't think i'd want it to. it was always there when i was racing, i was just afraid to give voice to it. now that i have it's forcing me to explore exactly who i am and what i want to do....something i've been putting off for 5 years.

what's more odd is that everywhere i look i see parodies of my life; the more accomplished ski racer/ writer who quotes Kerouac, the roving journalist who stands up for her captors human rights, hell even the super-spy who works in a department store seems to be a reflection of the places my life could go (minus the gun slinging and helicopters). it's scary having things so wide open, it's like my underbelly is exposed.



White Crosses....hmm. Funny how i'm personally offended that Tom Gabel went in a new direction given that i'm about to do the same. maybe i should give the disc a few more spins, and get over my anxiety of change. all this is coming so fast, this rapid decompression from my old life.

In which we encounter our true selves...

"We bring a better way, a handshake crushing bone."

It's funny, the raging patriotism of the past few weeks making headlines across the country and the world...and now this. Euphoria doled out in perfect accord to the prescription, and then snap back to the real world. Canada was on display as the perfect, shining example of fairness, respect and equality; we were the embodiment of the Olympic spirit. Well, some of us, anyway. Turns out that some of Canadians are simply more fair, more respected and more equal than others.

Did anyone notice how even our inclusion of First Nations into the Games was more a parade of pets than a celebration of our family? "sure, you can be part of the opening ceremonies, but we'll tell you how to dress, how to act." For all the armchair O'Riley's who decried the Games, even they failed to pick up on our collective paternalism. The Indian Act? Even the name is disgusting, and reflective of how backward and repressive we still are. We saw how we're willing to treat those with something to offer us. Look at how we still treat those we've taken everything from.

http://www.cbc.ca/canada/story/2010/03/10/native-status.html

Canmore World Cups

Wow…race day nerves…and I’m not even racing. Maybe that’s how you know you’ve outgrown something, when you no longer get nervous about it; when you don’t get butterflies on the start line, when she walks in the room. If that’s true, then I know two things. First, I know that I’m still very much in love with her. When she knocks on my door, even though I'm expecting her I still get a little twinge of excitement. Second, I know that, for the moment at least, I’ve outgrown skiing. When I look at my skis, I don’t get excited; when I smell wax remover I only get light-headed.

As for this writing thing? Well, it’s after midnight and I’m sitting at my desk, mind on overdrive, writing something no one is likely to read unless I get the nerve to post it in the morning. I’m nervous about writing tomorrow and so I’m writing tonight. It’s always been a nervous habit of mine, writing. How many pre-race plans did I scribble over the years, how many letters to Sara that I never got the nerve to send? This growing up business is tough, and at 23 I’m only just getting started.

Tomorrow will be good. Once the clock starts, and I’m committed there won’t be time for all this thinking, just acting. Hmm, did that last line come from a ski racer or a writer? Maybe both? We’ll find out eventually.

February 6th, 2010

It feels weird, this much free time on my hands. Wandering the halls and spinning the streets around this school where I could very well find myself next year is an odd experience…hell, even scribbling by hand with a pencil just to kill time is odd, something I almost never do any more. Still, after my impromptu meeting with Gene (full title already forgotten), I’m pretty encouraged. I think I’ll like it here.

Linnaea’s class is nearly over, and so consequently, is my anonymous wandering. That’s a little too bad, it feels like I’m giving up a very short-lived life as a spy, or some other mysterious persona. No one knows me here; my skiing past seems all the more humble for it. Riding around the campus grounds aimlessly, weaving in and around the crowds of students, I realize the glaringly inconsequential nature of our lives. Here, in this huge city, no one really matters. And yet, we each matter all the more because of that. My life is open ended as far as these people are concerned; my story could be anything I chose. I got hit by that truck I just so narrowly avoided, people would be in shock, at least until their phones buzzed and summoned them back to their lives. That makes my friends and family seem so much more important to me. What truly matters in this life is not the reaction of strangers to your presence, but that of your friends. How hollow that must feel who can fill a stadium with strangers, yet not his living room with friends. Will these presently nameless people one day soon fill my living room? I don’t know, but I do know it won’t be at the cost of those already there.

January 10th, 2010

Empty condos, vacant save for a pathetic collection of tetra-packs and other recyclables: our meager attempt at saving the world. Empty hotel rooms bother me. All that went on, all the good times and remember-whens are exposed by the rumpled sheets and hastily collected garbage; shown to be as fleeting and insubstantial as the race results that bred them. A series of last checks, once-overs to make sure nothing that doesn’t matter is left behind, for all that matters is. What defines a racing trip? All that happens in the condos and hotel rooms, jokes and laughs, the shared stress and pressure. People don’t reminisce about the time you took that left-hand corner perfectly, or the time you won. They remember seeing you in your boxers, laughing as you tried to force the lock on your own bedroom door, your best friend holding the latch on the other side. Are those things cheapened when denied the filtered lens of the contest? Are simple things made better, sweeter, by the fact that we pay it no outward attention, claiming in all honesty that we are here for the race and nothing more? The echo of laughter, the unmade beds and hasty departure reveal our true intentions: to better know each other. If you take away the people, a race loses it’s meaning, and isn’t meaning what we’re all after anyway?

January 8th, 2010

Is it possible to live entirely without regret? To “live each day to the fullest”, as we are so oft told to do? If each day is full, how do we find time for ourselves? Within this madcap world, the challenge seems to be more of finding that rare unfilled day to do with what you will. “Spend your youth on poetry, and spend your cash at play”…perhaps this is where the answer lies? That seems so frivolous, and yet we never have time for frivolity, we spend too much of it worrying about being happy. Worrying about being happy? What a useless thing, to spend energy fretting about fun, to be so obsessed with that ultimate pleasure that in the end we deny ourselves the very thing which we so dearly covet. Am I happy enough? Is my life fulfilling enough? Who the fuck cares? What’s the point of living without regret if we can’t even figure out if we do or don’t regret life at all? Am I wasting my time pursuing a sport with which my relationship has become increasingly complicated? I wonder if Dan has any regrets. 15 years spend having fun, but was it enough fun, was it worth the sacrifice? Was it actually a sacrifice at all? If the best-spent youth is the one you throw away, how do you justify the loss? Nihilism may be full of righteous exuberance, but it won’t protect you from the cold, comfort you when you realize you’ve got nothing. Then again, neither will a fast 10k time.