Kristina Groves2013-05-19T07:00:35-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=kristina-grovesCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Kristina GrovesGood old fashioned elbow grease.Wake up and Smell the Coal Alberta!tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29637642013-03-27T11:24:12-04:002013-03-27T16:53:40-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/report released this week is any indication, we Albertans have happily, if unwittingly, kept the wool pulled down over our eyes when it comes to acknowledging the primary fuel that powers our lives. To wit, fully 64 per cent of the electricity generated in Alberta comes from burning the most inefficient and dirty of all fossil fuels: coal.
Only one third of Albertans are aware of this fact. One third!
Traditionally, Alberta gets a bad environmental rap for its oil sands development, and rightfully so. Recently, renowned Canadian scientist David Schindler finally got the federal government to wake up and take notice with his irrefutable findings that high concentrations of airborne and waterborne pollutants, such as mercury and thallium, found near oil sands mines are generated by oil sands production, and not naturally occurring as the oil industry claims.
But, and this will be news to about two thirds of Albertans, pollution from coal-fired power plants is responsible for nearly an equal amount of greenhouse gas emissions as the oil sands (as well as a slew of other toxic air contaminants, like sulfur dioxide, nitrogen oxides, mercury and particulate matter), 43 megatonnes worth. The cost of climate change impacts from coal-fired power range from $1.1 to 4.5 billion annually.
Newsflash Alberta, we don't have just one dirty little secret, we have two.
The Pembina report highlights the extensive, significant and largely ignored health and environment related costs from burning coal for electricity, in the order of an additional 3.6 to 5.0 cents per kilowatt-hour. This effectively doubles the cost of production, and that's on the low end of the scale, it could be as much as an extra 13.7 cents per kilowatt-hour. Guess who's not paying for that? The coal industry! Guess who is? We are - with our tax dollars and our health.
The pollutants from coal can cause many health problems - toxic injury to the fetal brain caused by mercury, increased respiratory and cardiovascular mortality caused by particulate matter, nervous system and reproductive dysfunction from lead, a possible increased risk of cancer from probable carcinogen hexachlorobenzene, to name just a few. A high price to pay indeed.
True, Alberta has an abundance of cheap coal, in fact the highest reserves in the country, and we burn more of it than all other provinces combined.
But you know what else Alberta has an abundance of? Wind and sun. They're both clean, readily available and, as far as I know, they aren't the murdering kind. In fact solar potential in Alberta is enormous, having the biggest capacity in Canada, greater even than Rio de Janeiro and Rome. We also have an abundance of natural gas, which burns 50% cleaner than coal. All we're missing is a glut of leadership.
A few weeks ago I attended a town hall meeting on the future of energy in Alberta. The panel included a politician, two academics, an environmental lawyer and a TransAlta executive. There was much talk of the future: emerging and economically viable renewable energy technologies, using natural gas as a bridge fuel to renewables and the real potential for a clean tech revolution. It was utterly inspiring.
And then TransAlta took the mike and effectively said it was too hard, too expensive and that they merely provide what the consumer wants: cheap energy. This from a man with more power to drive change than anyone else in the room combined. It broke my spirit.
Given the choice, do you think the consumer really wants to pay for the extra 700 trips a year to the emergency room and 80 hospital admissions caused by airborne pollution from coal? Does the consumer really want an estimated 100 premature annual deaths and 4000 asthma attacks? We are on the hook for an additional 300 million dollars a year in health care costs that are not paid for by the producers of this cheap energy, not to mention the additional 1.1. - 4.5 billion in climate change impacts. They profit, we die.
I'm a consumer and I can tell you emphatically I don't want this and I don't think you do either. We think we don't have a choice, but we do. This will not change without a massive groundswell of protest demanding change. If you're concerned that your electricity bill will increase, well, don't worry about that, you're already paying the price. The true cost of electricity from coal is 10.2-20.3 cents per kilowatt-hour. The cost of solar? 10-15 cents per kilowatt-hour and dropping.
Los Angeles is feeling the heat, recently the American city pledged to phase out coal. Even Ontario, while blessed with abundant hydro and somewhat risky nuclear, will be off coal by the end of 2014, thanks in part to a huge investment in solar and wind. Australia, Denmark, Germany... countries the world over are divesting from dirty fossil fuels and thriving because of it.
The barriers to change in Alberta are not technological, economic or even political. They reside solely within the debilitating confines of the human mind. We are loath to admit this, citing instead endless reasons of why we simply cannot do it - it's too expensive, we don't have the technology, we're a resource-based economy... Baloney.
I know a thing or two about achieving big goals that appear to be out of reach - often told I would never get anywhere in my sport, I went on to compete at three Olympic Games and win four Olympic medals. Henry Ford wisely said, "If you think you can or you can't, you are probably right." Humans are highly capable of achieving seemingly impossible things, just look around at what we've managed so far.
While ignorance may be bliss, it is also reckless. We all breathe the same air and, thanks to industry leaders and politicians who steadfastly refuse to chart a new course, we are slowly killing our future and ourselves.
Now, before you write me off as just a has-been athlete banging a publicity drum - consider instead that I'm an increasingly concerned and informed citizen of Alberta whose lungs are susceptible to the same harmful contaminants as everyone else's. My goal here is to help wake others up to the fact that coal is not fit for human consumption. Just look at the numbers.
We've been in the dark about coal for far too long. The proverbial pot of water is heating up and we frogs are ignoring the heat! The question is, do you want to jump or boil to death?]]>What Drives an Athlete?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.22538252012-12-07T08:06:23-05:002013-02-06T05:12:01-05:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
The recollection of these few superb races is made all the sweeter when I look back down the long road I took to earn them. Unquestionably it was longer than most and yet, when watching the television broadcast of a 2004 World Cup 3,000m race in Norway where I won my first medal -- a gold -- I was utterly offended when the commentator said, "You have to wonder if Kristina ever thought she would win a World Cup race."
My indignant offense aside, it was in fact quite a reasonable comment for him to make considering that very long road. I raced World Cups for seven years before I won that first medal in Norway. Seven years. Many people have since asked me why I kept with it for so long without ever winning. They would say, "How could you just keep plugging away, never winning, for seven years?"
Jean-Philippe LeGuellac from Shannon, Que. may find himself facing the same questions now after he stunned the biathlon world last week, capturing his, and Canada's, first ever World Cup victory after nine years of racing on the national team. His own road long and winding, LeGuellac is back this season from a draining bout of mono following a promising sixth place finish at the Vancouver Olympics.
I can't speak for Jean-Philippe, but I never once asked myself such a question. It simply never occurred to me that seven years was a long time to wait. The joy I felt skating did not emerge from victories, but rather from pursuing them. It took long enough to learn even that but now, looking back, I marvel at my patience.
LeGuellac has his own story and long journey to the top but I can absolutely relate to the supreme joy he must have felt when he learned he'd earned that first win. That it took longer for him makes all the hard work seem especially worthwhile and the satisfaction all the more sweet. Patience is indeed, a virtue.
What is it that makes some athletes persevere while others give up? What drives an athlete at all? Given sufficient physiological and technical capacities, the ability to persist over time eludes some but not all. It's of course impossible to know if an athlete will 'make it' until they actually do but, in my mind, the root of this perseverance is planted in four simple things: a love of the sport, the desire to improve, being satisfied with small, incremental improvements and patience. In a word -- grit.
The time it takes to become the best can seem like an eternity. From the outside it appears unfathomable that someone would voluntarily subscribe to such a life. It takes a special kind of attitude to find the simple joys and appreciate small steps forward within the endless struggle to the top. Those who have it don't find patience difficult at all.
Today we live in a world of instant everything -- food, career, money, victory, happiness -- we want it all now. The concept of working towards something for several years and overcoming seemingly endless obstacles to achieve a goal is not as pervasive as it once was. It's a sad truth and it makes LeGuellac's victory all the more impressive.
In sport, as in life, we don't always learn much about ourselves when things are going well or when they come too quickly. It is through the long struggle that we emerge stronger, smarter and wiser. Things rarely go the way we hope but finding those simple joys within the daily toil softens the bumpy road and keeps the wheels rolling.
Countless athletes have won early in their careers, with little understanding of why. Some continue to win, while others fade away when the results do too. But those who climb slowly, stubbornly, patiently, they arrive simply when they are meant to arrive, no matter when that happens to be.
And so, I tip my hat to Jean-Philippe LeGuellac, his historic first victory in biathlon and the mountains of patience it took for him to arrive. One day he will close his eyes and float amid the hundreds of races he's done in his career and easily remember this beautiful, stunning first victory -- it is now carved into his heart for life.]]>We Need More Tough Coaches Like Mike Spracklentag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19519252012-10-09T14:11:50-04:002012-12-09T05:12:02-05:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
I don't claim to know one single thing about what happened between Rowing Canada, Mike Spracklen and all the rowers he coached but from what I can tell there was little to no consensus among those involved. Central to the issue, it seems, were his style, methods and standards. By all accounts, it was not an entirely agreeable decision to let him go.
This all got me thinking about the regard we have for toughness -- and tough coaches -- in Canadian sport. What does it say about a system that caters to the chirpers and prodders who didn't achieve what they wanted, instead of propping up the ones who got the results?
Reaching the pinnacle of sport, especially in aerobic power-based sports like rowing, tends to require a commitment to pursuing extremes: physical, technical and mental. It can be downright masochistic: the self-inflicted life of hard training and intense pressure to perform command a colossal personal investment but they are essential to achieving excellence in sport.
It is a monumentally difficult task to become the best in the world at one's chosen sport. The prerequisite characteristics -- good genes, mental fortitude, technical aptitude and a high tolerance for pain are a relatively uncommon combination. This is what makes sport so spellbinding -- we are in awe of rare athletic perfection.
There are some athletes who can achieve this feat on their own, driven by some otherworldly inspiration that even they cannot explain. They can go it alone, reach their own limits and push to their own extremes. But they are the exception -- most athletes need a system, a guide, a teacher, a boss -- they need a coach.
There are a lot of good coaches out there who are passionate, skilled and experienced. They are certified, well-educated and respected within their sport. They work hard and they get results.
But the best ones are different. The best ones are also unyielding, exacting, themselves driven to extremes and, above all else, exceedingly tough. They tend to be unpopular because they do not offer mountains of praise or tolerate complacency. They do not compromise, they tell the hard truth to your face and they push you when you think you cannot take another step, another breath.
But, with your permission, they will also reach down deep into your very soul and unearth a potential you didn't even know was there. They inspire resilience and independence. And they don't just teach you your sport, they teach you how to win. Then, when you do win, they simply smile and nod quietly in the background, out of the spotlight, pleased with a job well done.
This is not always a bucket of laughs. The coach-athlete relationship is a fickle beast. It can be rewarding, difficult, pure magic or completely toxic. Usually it's a combination of all of these things at one time or another but if absolute trust and respect are established, and the athlete buys in, magic things can happen. Relationships like this are as rare as the athletic feats themselves and the variables contributing to their success vary wildly between coaches and athletes.
These coaches come along once in a sport, once in a generation. If you're lucky, you might get the chance to work with one of the best. This optimal combination of a master coach and a willing pupil is when the real magic happens. It's not magic like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, it's magic like synchronized, calculated, determined and uncompromising work towards an extraordinary goal.
For the last eight years of my career I had the great pleasure of finding that coach-athlete magic with my coach Xiuli Wang. I got to work with one of the best, although admittedly it wasn't always pleasurable. She broke me down and her standards were exceedingly high but I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would have accomplished next to nothing without her.
Xiuli had a reputation for being exceptionally demanding and many younger skaters were terrified of her and her program. I found this perplexing because in my mind, she was the best speed skating coach in Canada. She hounded technique relentlessly and was very short on praise. She was totally inflexible and never wrong. I often felt like a terrible skater but I wanted to be the best. I thrived in that environment and improved, a lot. Eventually, even though it was considered unlikely by many, I won.
Not everyone could handle Xiuli or her program and some left the group. Few, if any, went on to improve. It should be noted that she has produced three Olympic medalists who have, collectively, won eight Olympic medals and several more World Cup and World Championship medalists.
Every athlete has a point at which they will crack -- a moment where they finally give in. It is a coach's job to coax the athlete to that point, based on logical, periodized, science-based training. The ones who crack, who give in to the struggle, sooner than others, simply do not have what it takes, either physically, technically or mentally.
Athletes often think they know what's best for them (including yours truly) and they will prod and chirp and tweak until the powers that be let up, relent and back off, not necessarily because the athlete is right, but because the coach or program is weak. This is completely backwards. The best programs and coaches will foster the development of athletes who are resilient, professional, independent and tough through the uncompromising implementation of a very demanding program.
Paramount to this system is effective communication, respectful discourse, efficient physiological monitoring and the like, but at the end of the day it is the athlete's job to put their head down and simply do the work. If, after all that, the athlete doesn't make it because someone else is better, well, then they've come face to face with the beast that is sport -- at least they know they did everything they could. Athletes who instead blame bad performances on coaches and programs for being too tough, too hard and too demanding simply don't have what it takes and chose the wrong profession.
Which brings me back to Mike Spracklen and his recent departure from Rowing Canada. Undoubtedly it is no easy task working with him. Winning an Olympic medal is no easy task either. All I have to say about this is if I had been a rower, I sure as hell would have wanted Mike Spracklen to be my coach.
Tough coaches beget tough athletes and tough athletes win.
We need more coaches to be as tough as Xiuli Wang and Mike Spracklen.]]>Chanelling Randy Starkmantag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.17119912012-07-28T14:47:19-04:002012-09-27T05:12:05-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
We'd all grown to rely on Randy for his insight, inside scoop and eloquent storytelling of Olympic Canadiana, and it seems unjust, and impossible even, that in London his voice will be silent and his written words absent from the media landscape he painstakingly carved for himself, and for us.
Now, instead of opening my browser and checking his site automatically, I find myself seeking and reading blogs and articles in the paper written by the athletes themselves, current and former alike, telling their stories with their own voices; personal dispatches from the field. Adam VanKoeverden, Clara Hughes, Jenn Heil and so many more have taken to the written word as a way to express and share the truth as they live it.
With Randy's memory in my heart I will attempt to do the same -- use my voice to spread stories from the Games, albeit from a distance, and offer unique perspectives and insights into the awe-inspiring events that are about to unfold. If anything, Randy's legacy, while obviously felt most strongly among the media he influenced so profoundly, can also be found in what I suspect he would have been most proud of -- the large pool of talented writers among those athletes he once cared so much about.
I feel growing excitement and anticipation for what is to come. This will be my first authentic armchair Games experience, now just a former athlete myself -- a veritable has-been! In the three Olympic Games I competed in, I never had the experience of finishing competition early enough to become a spectator towards the end of the Games, and watching the summer games as an athlete was always tempered by my intense training regimen. Now I can watch everything I please with a clear mind and soak up the beauty that is sport.
Even as my own life inches farther and farther away from the world of high performance sport, I still get goose bumps, lumps in my throat and tears in my eyes as I witness the world's greatest athletes put their hearts on the line. We are powerless to avoid seeing little parts of ourselves within these sporting heroes and submit easily to the joy and heartache they experience on the field of play.
Sport is one of the world's greatest capacities for human connection. From it emerge the most gripping and compelling moments that remind us how powerful simple, peaceful competition and the pursuit of excellence can be. Amidst the worldwide hardships and conflicts, the Olympic Games offer a respite from the bad news overload and an excuse to celebrate the coming together of the best athletes in the world, if only for 16 days.
Over the next two weeks, I wish for London, and the world, to absorb and enjoy the games to the greatest extent possible -- to be inspired, awed and overwhelmed by what is sure to be a memorable and captivating Olympics.
That is what Randy would have wanted.]]>How the Wildrose Part Tamed My Hearttag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14506532012-05-04T19:04:05-04:002012-07-04T05:12:04-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
I'm not pleased with how I voted, and I can guarantee I won't do it again. Voting with conviction is much more empowering, even when you live in a riding where there is little hope that your vote will make a dent, or a difference. Democracy is not about avoiding what you don't like; it is about confidently supporting what you believe in.
No doubt my fear of the extreme right overrode my natural inclination to support the left, or centre left. I was, like many other Albertans, terrified of the Wildrose party, and the potential for political time travel a few decades into the past. For weeks I was baffled by the polling results predicting a Wildrose majority, and wondered who could possibly support such a backwards-leaning ideology.
In the final two weeks of the campaign, I'm thankful that enough layers were peeled back to expose the radical views held by many Wildrose candidates. I'm particularly relieved that those true colours led to a dramatic shift away from the party, not towards it. These views were well contained early on, but in my mind, purposely vague answers on contentious social issues are really code for, "Yes, we are anti-gay, anti-abortion, and anti-climate change but we wouldn't dare admit it because then no one will vote for us." Exactly.
I get annoyed when Albertans are painted with a giant stroke from the same wide brush, when it is assumed that we are all extreme right-wing radical rednecks. When I travel outside of Alberta I am often questioned about why on earth I live here. My reason for moving to Alberta was purely pragmatic -- it's the only place in the country with an indoor speed skating oval. Politics are irrelevant when chasing Olympic dreams.
For whatever reason, a lot of people seem to have a passive aggressive disdain for Calgary, and Alberta, even though most of them have never spent any measurable amount of time here. It's true that it is not perfect, but you will find fault with nearly every spot on the planet, if you look for it. Just because it leans farther right than I do doesn't mean it's a terrible place to live. There are plenty of examples, big and small, of progressive change happening here. I prefer to focus on the positive, and do my part to work on improving the negative.
Which is precisely why I feel like I let myself down. At the exact moment it mattered most, I bailed on my own values and gave into the fear.
Up until that last moment, I honestly didn't know whom I would vote for. My brain said "go strategic;" my heart said "go with your heart." I went with my brain, and my heart regrets it. The lesson for me here is one that applies to every aspect of our lives as human beings: The heart knows what it knows.
I can educate myself, and get the information I need to make an intelligent, informed decision, and in the end the right choice is the one that best aligns with your values, and who you are. Going against what you truly believe is a slight to the principles of democracy.
We all get one vote. In a world where, in so many countries, democracy still struggles to take root, it is a shame to waste that vote on foundations of fear, rather than using it to celebrate the privilege of using your voice. The beauty of a democracy is that we are free, and encouraged, to choose the people we feel best represent ourselves. When they win, we are happy to be heard, when they lose we know they will do their best to uphold, and defend our beliefs through the power of spirited debate and discourse.
I know this all sounds pretty, and ideological. Forgive me my naïveté. But I learned a valuable lesson this time around. I gave in to the cynicism of fear rather than trusting the strength of my individual voice. That is not the way I live my life, and it should not be the way I vote. I won't make that mistake again.]]>One Car-Less Girltag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14684832012-05-01T17:02:48-04:002012-07-01T05:12:24-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
So when my grandfather passed away and I found myself with a small sum to spend on whatever I wanted, I set out to find a good, small, reliable, used car.
I settled on a light blue 1985 Toyota Tercel hatchback. It cost me $1,350. At the time the price of gas was 44 cents per liter, and I could fill it up for $17. The tank would last me a month. Grocery shopping was a dream; I could go hiking in the mountains or toss my bike on the roof and ride wherever I wanted. I still rode my bike a lot and didn't rely on my car too much, but just having it was akin to freedom.
I became rather attached to that little car -- Herman, as my friend Dave named him. We took to calling him "The Herm" for short. He was cute, practical and would dutifully start, unplugged, with just one turn of the key on frigid winter mornings in Calgary. He seemed to have some personality, and in some odd way I felt like he reflected mine -- practical, efficient, understated, humble, and at the time, frugal. He also represented my becoming an adult and reaching the threshold of making my own responsible decisions about what I wanted in my life.
I kept the car in good shape, although it rarely needed work. When it did I would take it to a local high school where I knew the automotive teacher and they would fix it up for a dime. I ran out of gas a couple of times, got a couple of flat tires and once broke the windshield wipers after a heavy snowfall, but year after year he just kept on going, doing his job of keeping me mobile.
I drove that car for almost nine years. Near the end there were a few issues that made it somewhat unsafe, like the driver's side door no longer worked and I had to get in and out of the car on the passenger side (I did this for nearly a year), and it got to the point where a) my Dad didn't want me driving it anymore and b) I'd saved up enough money to replace it with something better.
There was a tinge of sadness in my heart as I said goodbye to The Herm. I dropped him off at the junkyard for scraps and in return received a voucher for $300 toward a new bike. This eventually became my touring bike, which I christened The Herm Reincarnate.
That spring of 2006 I went to a car dealership and bought a brand new Honda Fit. I once swore I would never buy a new car, but I easily broke that rule by justifying to myself that I would do it once and drive the car until the end of time.
I tried to think of a name for it but nothing ever came to me. This car had zero personality. And while it had a nice stereo, with FM radio no less, air conditioning and power steering, it felt boring and utilitarian. Meanwhile, Calgary continued to expand at a blistering pace, and sitting in traffic was increasingly common.
Six years went by before I topped the 35,000 kilometer mark on the odometer. My boyfriend and I had moved in together, and both of our cars were sitting in the parking lot 95 percent of the time. We started biking more and discovered the benefits of public transit. Increasingly, the justification for keeping my car weakened.
I no longer felt that this car reflected who I was, that instead it represented all of the things I didn't want in my life. It drained my hard-earned dollars and left me feeling like a caged animal stuck in the now-routine Calgary traffic jams. It was the opposite of what I wanted -- it was stifling, expensive, inefficient, and unnecessary.
After some contemplation, like nearly a year's worth, I finally made the decision to sell the car that had no name. I got about half of what I paid for it six years ago, and I put every penny into a huge lump sum mortgage payment. I will save $90 a month in insurance and $45 in gas. That adds up to saving $1620 a year.
This time there was no tinge of sadness as I watched the new owner drive away with my car. I will admit to a few moments of panic when I irrationally suspected that the bank draft he gave me was forged (it wasn't) -- but no sadness. It was more a feeling of relief, like my life had just become simpler.
The best part about having one car less is that in many instances it eliminates choice. I can no longer choose between bike and car, my only option is bike. It's no longer possible to cop out and resort to the "easier, faster" option (although that is mostly a fallacy) of driving. It's odd how I feel the same sense of freedom now that I did 15 years ago when I bought that first car.
While we are not car-free we are one car less. It will require some creative planning from time to time, but for the most part I don't think we'll notice the difference. Unless you count less time sitting in traffic, more time outside on our bikes and more money in the bank. We might notice that.
For more on mindfulness, click here. ]]>Randy Starkman: Big Heart, Big Resultstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14320792012-04-17T14:10:50-04:002012-06-17T05:12:01-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/Big Heart, Big Results." When I think of Randy and what he meant to me, to Canadian Olympic athletes and to the entire amateur sport community, the one word that comes to mind is: ditto.
Randy had an enormous heart filled with such passion and care for Canadian athletes that he proved by tirelessly carving out a niche for all of us in the giant media landscape so dominated by professional sport. That we are indebted to him for the impact he has had on Canadian sport is an overwhelming understatement.
The shocking news of his death yesterday was so devastatingly tragic. But I just spoke to him three weeks ago -- this can't be true, I just spoke to him.
I'd turned the tables on him and called to see if he would cover a story about a trip I was doing with Right To Play. "Grover!" he said. "It's so great to hear from you!" That I am comfortable calling him for a story (he's the only reporter who has my personal cell number) and calls me by nickname is a testament to the trust and respect I have for him, his work, his integrity and his commitment to not only covering sport, but also celebrating it. His enthusiasm and support for my trip was a given, that's why I'd called him. I knew he would care.
His Olympics blog is the first bookmark in my browser. His blog is my daily go-to for all things Canadian sport and I check it religiously. I'd get impatient with him if he didn't post often enough. I wanted to know what was going on and I knew he would deliver the goods. I thought it was strange that he'd been so silent over the last couple of weeks but chalked it up to him saying he was already crushed with his work preparing for London. After our chat a few weeks ago I remember thinking to myself, "He sounds tired."
The thing about Randy is that he didn't just file the facts. He didn't rely on web searches for information and he never asked basic, superficial questions. He took the time to get to know every single athlete and developed a relationship with them far beyond the call of duty. What made him tick was finding out what made us tick. He told my story and the story of so many athletes in Canada. He wasn't just there to get a one-line quote and meet a deadline. He was there to give us a voice and highlight the real and human story behind the faces and the names. I've never met another journalist who cared like he did.
The last interview I did with Randy was the day I retired from speed skating. Doing an interview with Randy was always fun and interesting and he never failed to ask me intelligent questions that really made me think. That day he used the words "the little speed skating engine that could" to sum up my career and me. When he told me this I laughed and marveled at how perfectly he could capture my life in seven words. He seemed pleased that he'd hit the nail on the head so squarely. He did because he knew me and cared about what I'd done.
Whenever I did a post-race scrum and I saw Randy in the crowd I felt at ease. He's the only one I would recognize because he was always there. I naturally gave him a big hello and would stay on longer than I wanted to just to talk to him. He transcended the world of media to become friends with those he cared about most.
He happily encouraged me with my own writing and I'm proud to say he holds the naming rights of my little blog, The GrovesLine. He was jokingly annoyed with me for starting my blog as he had been using me as a guest writer on his own site and figured he'd have more work to do without my periodic contributions. When I asked him for advice about publishing he was so supportive and offered any help he could give. He was one of the very best and I'm so thankful I had the chance to know him and to be his friend.
The world has lost a gem in Randy Starkman. Canadian athletes have lost their voice.
It is incomprehensible to me that he is gone from this world.]]>Mind Shift: Your Daily Commutetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14011842012-04-04T17:27:00-04:002012-06-04T05:12:02-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
Other times, when I am commuting on my bike, I secretly laugh at all the poor souls stuck in their cars and wonder why they don't know just how liberating and wonderful it is to commute by bike. I relish the wind in my face, the efficiency of my bicycle and the dollars that remain in my pocket as a result. And I particularly enjoy realizing that for many destinations in the city, door-to-door commuting times by bike are often on par with those achieved by car, especially once you consider finding and paying for parking, then walking from your car to the door. I always feel glad when I take my bike instead.
But alas, I've lived in Calgary for 15 years, and have sadly fallen prey to the myth that cars provide freedom and that one needs a car to survive in this city. I'm not the only one -- this is a city driven by cars, and by the attitude that a car is the only option available to transport oneself. And yet I don't know a single person who loves, or even likes, driving around the city, but we all seem to do it without question.
Why do we mindlessly accept what is deemed a necessary evil when so many have discovered otherwise? Sure there are status, social norms, personal choice and comfort to consider but the notion that cars equal freedom is a grand illusion.
I will admit, that in a land as vast and ambitious as Calgary -- in fact, its land mass covers over 5,000 square kilometers, making it the single largest metropolitan city in North America -- it is necessary to have a car in many circumstances. Getting to the airport, for example, or to the mountains, or to some obscure specialty shop tucked away where no train or bike path goes. But if you simply change the way you think, you will realize that in the grand scheme of your busy day, there is more than one way to get from your usual A to B.
A couple of months ago I took the train to an elementary school for a presentation that was way down south. It took almost one hour to get there. During that hour I read the news on my phone and read a chapter of my book. At that time of day, in traffic, it would have taken me at least 45 minutes to drive. But I also would have spent at least 15 minutes in the morning reading the news online at the kitchen table. The end result was the same -- I reached my destination and read the paper in a total of one hour, only how I got there had changed -- no stress, no traffic jams, no parking to find or pay for.
In fact, I've often driven somewhere in this city only to realize when I get there that I could easily have taken my bike or the train instead. Too often I've let myself slip into the city-made trap of believing that taking my car is faster or better.
Even though I happen to be fairly environmentally conscious, what I'm advocating for here isn't radical environmentalism or activism or trying to save the planet. But rather a mind shift in how we live our lives and that an alarmingly simple change in the way we structure our time can drastically improve our quality of life. Save money, get exercise, reduce stress, have fun, be outside, simultaneously! How can anyone convincingly argue against that?
Of course there are so many reasons not to do it... kids, distance, weather, lack of bike skills, too hard, not enough time, getting sweaty, looking like a geek... There will always be reasons not to do something, even something as simple and efficient as riding your bike to work. It's a shame that we get so sucked in by convention as opposed to common sense.
A few months ago, I met an optometrist who lived less than a 10-minute walk from his office. He chose to drive to work every day, even though it took him longer than walking, for the sole reason of not wanting to leave his expensive car sit unused in the garage all day. I cannot think of anything more ridiculous than that, including me showing up to an appointment in spandex shorts and cycling shoes.
It's true that I look like a geek in my cycling gear, even more so when I stop at the grocery store on the way home and walk around with my helmet on. But you see, I spent 23 years racing on long blades in a full spandex suit with a hood, so obviously I don't have a problem with looking like a geek. Somehow I'd rather look like a geek than waste an hour of my day sitting behind the wheel of a fabricated illusion of freedom, only to go park it at the gym and sit on an indoor stationary bike under the pretense of time well spent.
Of course I still drive places, but a lot less often than I used to. It's not always easier or faster to take my bike, and it does require a little bit of extra preparation. Riding up the steep hill on Home Road into a headwind is tough, and sometimes I grit my teeth to make it to the top. But life wasn't meant to be easy, it was meant to be good. And good is about shifting the way you see things to discover that getting from A to B on two wheels can mean gritting your teeth and smiling at the same time.
For more on mindfulness, click here.]]>My Most Meaningful Skate Wasn't at the Olympicstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13814302012-03-30T17:20:46-04:002012-05-30T05:12:01-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
We either do not believe or support what we hear. We are loath to admit that this is the reality in Canada, our Canada, that Aboriginal children are reaching suicide rates substantially higher than elsewhere in Canada and the world. It seems unlikely to us that they receive significantly less funding for healthcare and education, that some have no school at all, and that their parents still struggle to overcome years of trauma at residential schools.
I will admit that I have been, while not unsympathetic to the issue, at least embarrassingly uneducated.
So when I found out that Right To Play, for whom I have been an athlete ambassador for several years, was working in Ontario with Aboriginal youth I immediately felt the urge to visit and learn more. I wanted to go and see if Right To Play could have the same positive impact there as they have had in so many other places around the world, using sport and play as tools for development for hundreds of thousands of disaffected youth. Maybe this would finally be a bit of good news for the First Nations people of Canada.
On the first night of the trip, I was honoured to sit with the Assembly of First Nations Grand Chief Shawn Atleo at a dinner organized by Right To Play. I asked him what was the greatest difficulty facing Canada's Aboriginal people. His answer surprised me. It was not alcoholism, drug abuse, suicide, education, healthcare, or unemployment, but rather the very root of all of these problems -- a systemic lack of self-confidence.
The basic premise of the Right To Play First Nations Promoting Life skills in Aboriginal Youth (PLAY) program is the development of youth leadership, and by extension, confidence, through local community mentors. The youths themselves identify the needs of their own communities and then work together to implement new ideas and activities. There has been a steep learning curve. I learned about the challenges they've faced in just getting kids to show up, to speak, to engage. These are early days, but there are already plenty of successes to celebrate.
And then comes me, an Olympic athlete with weird skates and shiny medals, hoping to share and teach and learn. I'm not sure what I expected, but what I encountered was a sort of chaos: kids running around yelling, not paying attention, playing silly games. To the staff this was a thing of beauty -- kids running, playing, yelling!!
Amidst the chaos, while attempting in vain to teach some of the kids to skate, terrified that one of them would fall and hit their heads, I wondered to myself if I had made a mistake in being there, talking to kids about the Olympics and trying to teach them to speed skate when they had little hope of understanding my life, in much the same way I had little hope of understanding theirs. I was doubtful that a connection could be made, in so short a time, across a gap so wide.
After the community feast in Sheshegwaning First Nation, as we were preparing to drive back to Sudbury, one of the girls I met asked me if I was ever coming back. I replied that yes, maybe one day I would make it back there for another visit. Still unsure of my impact, I asked the girl why she wanted me to come back. And she said, "Because nobody ever comes here."
Her reply made me feel good and sad at the same time. I helped make a difference, even though it was small, but who else is ever going to go there just to see them? I visit schools in Calgary all the time, where the kids are accustomed to special visitors and presentations. In Nipissing and Sheshegwaning they are not so lucky. But in Nipissing and Sheshegwaning, so I hear, the kids are still buzzing about my visit.
In the end, I understand more intimately how little I actually know about the complexity and scope of the history of First Nations. I am more empathetic to the Aboriginal people of Canada and inspired to continue supporting Right To Play in their efforts to make a difference.
I can only speak to what I now know I don't know. I saw the beginnings of positive change; I saw smiling kids who were excited to play, use their voices and even perform traditional dances just for me. I saw the seeds of confidence being sown and the potential of a new generation begin to sprout. It's new growth of good news -- and that's good news to me.
]]>Life Is Wonderful, Life Is Strange, Life Is Hardtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13651712012-03-21T11:36:17-04:002012-05-21T05:12:01-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
Regardless of where I am sitting now however, I am not entirely the same person I was a week ago, as we all are not, having lived through another seven days and evolved, to a greater or lesser extent, into someone just a little bit older and wiser, for one reason or another.
For me, that reason is the experience not of visiting a parallel universe, but rather witnessing my own little universe expand exponentially, as I move farther away from the confines and structure of high performance sport.
My week began with three days of surprisingly intense work at the CBC, preparing and then calling the races from the Short Track Speed Skating World Championships in Shanghai. This is still high performance sport -- yes -- but television is a planet unto itself, on which I often feel like a visiting alien.
Thanks to the date line and time change I could watch all the races beforehand, analyze in advance and prepare notes so as to hopefully sound smarter than I actually am when the time came to go air. Even still, live-to-air is pretty stressful and the hour whizzed by in a snap.
That early morning was scarred by the tragic news that another Canadian skier had died from a crash at a ski cross World Cup. While the world of television scrambled to adjust the programming, I found myself struggling to comprehend what had happened and mourning the loss of someone I didn't know. Knowing that my good friend, and high performance director of the Canadian ski cross team, Dave Ellis, was in the throes of a great personal and team tragedy made it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.
Dave's best friend -- my boyfriend Scott -- grew up skiing at the Craigleith Ski Club north of Toronto and was coached by Nik Zoricic's dad Bebe for many years. He remembered a little Nik ripping around the ski hill, he and his friends knowing back then that Nik would one day be a world-class skier. This personal, albeit distant, connection to Nik's death and the raw, inexplicable circumstances of the crash made me feel so sad.
I hate it when people say 'the show must go on', but that day I had to get out of my own head and do my job. After wrapping up the Sunday show I rushed to the airport to catch a flight up to Sudbury for a whirlwind four-day field visit with Right To Play to learn about the new PLAY (Promoting Life skills in Aboriginal Youth) programs that began six months ago in 39 First Nations communities around Ontario.
When I found out that Right To Play was working in Ontario with Aboriginal youth I immediately felt the urge to visit and learn more. All we tend to hear about First Nations communities in Canada is bad news, most recently with the plight of the people from the Attawapiskat First Nation - and with good reason -- it is a national tragedy that has been ignored for far too long.
But I wanted to go and see if Right To Play could have the same positive impact there as they have had in so many other places around the world, using sport and play as tools for development in hundreds of thousands of disaffected youth. Maybe this would finally be a bit of good news for the First Nations people of Canada.
In four short days I learned a lot about a lot of things, which, to sum up, doesn't amount to much. I learned that you cannot learn about the complexity of an issue like this in four days. If anything, I was simply exposed to a tiny snapshot of the history, tragedy, desperation, opportunity, resiliency, and now hope, of the First Nations people in Ontario.
I talked to Aboriginal youth in Nipissing and Sheshegewaning First Nations about the Olympics, my experiences as an athlete and tried my hardest to teach them how to skate. I was stressed to the max watching these kids rip around the ice without helmets (a cause that I failed miserably to implement) and optimistically tried to get them to do speed skating drills when all they wanted to do was not do speed skating drills. I was inspired by the few who were keen to learn, and confused by those who were afraid to. Amidst the chaos I wondered to myself if I had made a mistake in being there, talking to kids about the Olympics and trying to teach them to speed skate when they had no hope of understanding my life, in much the same way I had no hope of understanding theirs.
After the skating session in Sheshegwaning was over I felt unbelievably relieved that no one had fallen and cracked open their head. And I was totally unsure of what I had accomplished, if anything at all, by being there. When the Right To Play staff later debriefed about the events that day I was surprised to hear how positive they were and that the kids had been so amazing. From where they had started in October last year, it was a giant leap forward that the kids had shown up at all, that they had paid attention for ten whole minutes and that they had gotten on the ice to skate. It made me realize how unrealistic my expectations had been, and just how challenging it has been to get this program off the ground.
A trip like this one deserves a great deal more than what I've written here and I will soon give it its due. But for now I am simply digesting the week that was, the one that was eye opening, heart crushing, heart-warming and world expanding; where I lived through a stressful job, the death of a fellow athlete, and a glimpse into the complex lives of Aboriginal youth in Ontario. It was a week where I learned that life is not just going in circles as I've often joked it is. But rather that it is constantly expanding, as is the infinite universe we inhabit, and that through this expansion we simultaneously experience all that is wonderful, strange and hard.
]]>From Schedule B to Schedule Metag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12611442012-02-08T16:37:59-05:002012-04-09T05:12:01-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
Schedule B is a list of athletes, determined by each sport in Canada and submitted seasonally to Own The Podium, who are deemed to be medal contenders in international competition. The list is used to allocate resources and funding for various things like training camps, physiological testing, travel and equipment etc. The athletes on the list have earned the right to be on Schedule B through podium performances and as such have a solid proportion of resources directed at keeping them at the top as long as possible.
When I decided to retire I unwittingly removed myself from the famed Schedule B, although, as I've mentioned, I had no idea of its existence or that it bore my name for many years. To know that I could be simply deleted, from a life of 23 years in sport, with the touch of a button was, well, sad, funny and strangely cathartic. Nothing is permanent in this world, not the least of which was my place on Schedule B.
In the months since I've retired, I've had to move on to Schedule Me. After over two decades in sport, where I was, in a nutshell, given a fairly strict schedule nearly every single day (which I did follow voluntarily of course) I have come to recognize the importance of my long-dormant time management skills and the relatively new concept of taking initiative. I had heard people talk of such things in the 'outside world', but the realities are somewhat less tangible inside the insulated sporting bubble.
So what exactly am I doing with my time? On Schedule Me at the moment is a great deal of skiing. To date I've skied 19 days this winter, both cross-country and telemark (side note -- I feel pain in my legs when telemark skiing that far exceeds anything I ever felt in speed skating -- and I trained hard). In the 16 years I've lived in Calgary, I doubt I made it to a total of 19 days of skiing. And I really love skiing.
That is of course a luxury that cannot be sustained infinitely. That I have the luxury of skiing at all, let alone as often as I have recently been, is one I'm careful to appreciate and cherish. But after a few months of being a ski bum the urge to earnestly pursue new challenges with renewed purpose has emerged and I find myself excited, and a bit overwhelmed, by the possibilities that lay before me.
Thankfully Schedule Me has quickly filled up and my days are increasingly crammed with meetings, school visits, work for the CBC, athlete mentoring and a myriad of other interesting things. Like say, skiing. But with training no longer the main priority in my life, some days I struggle to fit in the bout of exercise that my body craves. You can take the girl out of sport, but you can't take sport out of the girl!
On this fine day, Schedule Me necessitated an early morning run, as it was the only time I would have to get some exercise. I left the house at 7 am (on an empty stomach no less -- something I never would have done on Schedule B!) just as the first morning light began to sneak into the receding night darkness. It was a crisp, chilly morning but calm and quiet, I was alone in my thoughts.
As I crested the bluffs overlooking the mighty Bow River, I turned, as I always do, to take in the unobstructed mountain view. It being dark of course, I could not see the mountains I usually see. Instead I gasped, and was stopped in my tracks, as my eyes feasted on the sight of the most beautiful moonset I had ever seen.
An enormous, golden yellow orb filled the dark sky, just above the horizon, and in the time it took me to run across the bluffs and down to the river I watched as the moon sunk slowly behind the dark silhouette of the distant Canadian Rockies, until it was but a speck of reflected light and then just... gone. How lucky it was that I happened upon such a sight. I could easily have missed it had I left a minute or two later, or not turned to look that way, but instead I saw it all and it made me feel so happy.
I continued on as the sun began to rise, marveling at the ever-changing hue of the dark sky cover, from black to mauve to light blue and pale yellow. It was quiet down by the river, and I felt glad I had the chance to start the day this way. Back into the bustle of the day and on with my busy thoughts, I'm heartened just a bit by Schedule Me.
I get asked a lot these days what I'm up to. To sum it all up, Schedule Me is a pretty random mélange of work, play, fun and change. I appreciate little things that I didn't always notice before, like moonsets and busyness. I will admit to feeling a small pang of sadness that it really is all over when I saw Christine Nesbitt shatter the 1000m world record a couple of weeks ago. I now fully understand that I will never have that amazing race feeling ever again.
But the pang went away, kind of like my name from schedule B, the darkness of the night, and the moon behind the mountains.]]>Shaken Heads and Heads In the Sandtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.11957512012-01-10T11:08:40-05:002012-03-11T05:12:01-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
I do, however, love watching Olympic hockey. I confess too, that my heart was aflutter even last weekend as the Canadian juniors made an epic, albeit unsuccessful, comeback seem possible during the third period of the semi-final game against Russia. That was exciting.
And like most people who tuned in to watch Sidney Crosby make his spectacular return to the ice a couple of months ago, I felt relieved, and happy, that he seemed to be back to his old self, scoring goals with ease, getting in the mix, and generally being awesome. It seemed as though, for a moment or two anyway, that his triumphant return instantly made everything better, as if somehow concussions were no longer the pink elephant in the room, that perhaps the great Canadian game wasn't broken after all.
Unfortunately, just a short time later, that fragile veneer seems to have shattered into a million tiny pieces. Night after night, star player after star player, hit after hit, grown men, giants, heroes, the invincible ones, are reduced to mere shadows of their former selves. And Crosby, out again indefinitely. His future in hockey, and in life, remains a disquieting mystery to us, and most frustratingly, to him. And for what, exactly? Love of the game? Glory? Honour? Profit?
All of this leaves me feeling rather conflicted about this country's passion for hockey. Over the Christmas holidays I went to my first ever Leafs game. Surprisingly, they won. I cheered when they scored and truly enjoyed the entertaining ruckus of it all. But the highlight video at the beginning of the game showed only hits and fights, much to the delight of the rabid fans. And when the crowd leapt to their feet in barbaric anticipation of an impending fight I felt sick to my stomach -- and it wasn't because of the sausage on a bun I got on the street before the game.
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I'm a little confused, but not at all fooled, by what is meant by the term 'concussion-like' symptoms. In the absence of actually hitting your head, what else is there that can give you 'concussion-like' symptoms? Perhaps there is another ailment or accident that can lead to random, sudden loss of consciousness, short-term memory loss, feeling dizzy, nauseous, and confused, an inability to withstand loud noise or bright light and ongoing severe headaches that we, and medical doctors, are not yet aware of. That seems plausible.
Lately, both media and pro-teams alike have taken to frequently using the term 'concussion-like' symptoms to describe how an injured athlete is faring. While I'm not a doctor or expert in this area I'm pretty certain that 'concussion-like' symptoms are actual concussion symptoms. Regardless of how teams or athletes like to spell it out for the media, when you hit your head and feel lousy you have a concussion.
Are we meant to feel less concerned because the real truth is being masked by a more palatable (read: marketable) expression? Is it for our sake that official concussion diagnoses are spared, so as to limit the damage to our collective psyche -- that of concerned but emotionally removed fans -- lest we stop buying tickets? Or maybe it is for the sake of the player's ego, future viability, and likelihood of signing a new lucrative contract, that he not be branded as 'concussion prone'.
Regardless of whether symptoms stem from something 'like' a concussion or are from an actual concussion and whether or not they are severe or mild is, at this point, moot, in my humble opinion. That long and growing list of athletes, particularly hockey players, is not characterized by anything other than the fact that its occupants have suffered permanent, and in some cases repeated, life-altering brain damage and are facing an uncertain future in the wake of a concussion epidemic the likes of which the NHL has never acknowledged before.
Much like a deer, frozen in space and time at the blinding sight of oncoming headlights, the NHL seems paralyzed and incapable of taking any meaningful or measurable action on this issue, even as the nightly exodus of injured players continues and the list of players with 'concussion-like' symptoms expands endlessly.
There is little to be gained from denial except, I suppose, money. But sadly, there is so much to be lost. From the outside, as a casual but concerned observer, it appears to me that the NHL is content to remain frozen, inactive and mum on the issue. When Gary Bettman publicly denounced the overwhelming scientific evidence that concussions can cause permanent brain damage the response should have been one of outrage. Instead it was mentioned in passing, almost casually, during the nightly highlights, in much the same way the latest players to be sidelined by a concussion are nonchalantly announced. It's hardly news anymore, after all.
Stories of players purposely denying or hiding symptoms, lax suspensions for devastating hits to the head and denial by coaches, players, pundits, and commentators alike, speak volumes to the depth, breadth and scope of the problem. Oh wait; it's not a problem right? And yet the lack of respect that players have for one another, and the positive reinforcement they receive from those who employ them, indicates to me an appalling systematic failure to uphold the values of sport we all claim to hold so dear.
The NHL can keep their heads in the sand as long as they like -- who am I to tell them what to do? Meanwhile, their stars, their raison d'etre, are losing their futures, and in some cases, their lives. The rest of us, stalwart fans and bandwagon jumpers alike, are beginning to tune out. So too are the kids who were once the future heroes of the great game.
]]>Sidney Crosby and Me: A Concussionary Taletag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.11062752011-11-22T14:00:33-05:002012-01-22T05:12:01-05:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
Nov. 21, 2011 marked one year, to the day, that I fell and hit my head at the World Cup in Berlin last season. What a calamitous circumstance I found myself in at that moment: concussed, confused and already considering retirement. Some difficult months ensued as I slowly navigated through a long recovery and eventual (but unrelated) decision to retire.
Now, almost simultaneously, I've ended up on the other side of both a long, wonderful career in sport and an unfortunate, unwelcome (of course) head injury. Obviously I would rather not have experienced eight months of feeling lousy, but the only acceptable conclusion I can make is simply that life has its ups and downs and I'm thankful to have made it through.
Interestingly, much like the symptoms of concussions themselves, the issue of head injuries and their enduring repercussions has remained prevalent, albeit somewhat quietly, in the media for some time now. That the topic came to light at all is surely no mystery, given the number of high-profile hockey players and athletes who have fallen prey to an ill-fated knock on the head. Its staying power, though, has been remarkable and oddly encouraging, in that the significance and impact on those affected are slowly gaining mainstream acceptance and are establishing widespread concern among those capable of doing something about it.
But the announcement that Sidney Crosby has returned to action has sparked a new flurry of commentaries and opinion pieces in the media about whether the concussion issue really has led to definitive change and action on the part of the powers that be to crack down on headshots and malicious hits. I've followed these stories with the kind of interest that only those who have lived through a head injury can have: the natural desire to never think about or experience one again, tempered by the inescapable connection to all those who have ever lived, or will live, through one.
One piece I read lamented the usual 'slippage' that said crackdowns invariably face as tough talk and action slowly recedes and things simply return to normal (read: dangerous). Brendan Shanahan sure made some harsh calls in the pre-season but where is he now? I'm sure Daniel Alfredsson and Ryan Miller would like to know. Historically this is the way things are dealt with in the NHL, and somehow no matter how many times the issue returns, it always seems to slip away again without any sense of meaningful change.
Alternatively, other commentary I've heard is convinced that the recent concussion debate has led to concrete change for the better and an increase in awareness that just wasn't there before. Maybe this is true, maybe it's not. I'm certainly not deep enough in the know to make any sort of informed declaration one way or the other. But based on the ongoing media reports, I'm encouraged that there is heightened awareness, education and action regarding head injuries throughout all levels of the sport community. Unfortunately their frequent, ongoing recurrence and subsequent ignorance at the top is akin to a nasty wart that just won't go away.
But who am I to spoil a party? Sidney Crosby's return to the field of play was certainly a moment that will be long remembered as the heralded homecoming of one of the game's greatest. We all, undoubtedly, held our collective breath and braced for that first check into the boards, and all sighed with relief as he went on to spin a miraculous play, the very kind he is especially known for.
I don't claim for one minute to understand the weight of expectation that now sits heavily on his shoulders. I can however empathize, along with everyone else who has ever been through it, and probably even those who haven't, with those inevitable enduring thoughts he will have about what might happen if he ever has to go through it again. That lingering risk is not something easily forgotten.
I am particularly aware of the issue on this day, it being my one-year concussionniversary. I find myself thinking a great deal about the past several months and the impact the injury has had on my well-being. It would, however, be un-human of me to despair.
Concussions are indeed a tough blow and have inflicted silent suffering on far too many. But human beings also have a great capacity for recovery and are inherently driven to succeed at that which conspires to inspire them. If Sidney Crosby, and anyone else who has ever overcome a time of great hardship, should forever be remembered for anything, it is most certainly that.
]]>The Spark Is Gonetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9744952011-09-22T13:17:05-04:002011-11-22T05:12:01-05:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
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 it was 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 23 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 11-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.]]>Norway Is Beautiful/Norge er Skjønntag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9104482011-07-27T11:37:59-04:002011-09-26T05:12:02-04:00Kristina Groveshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristina-groves/
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 number three 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 May 17, 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 doubling 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?) But a tragedy in Norway, innocence lost in a beautiful place, and a saddened people forever changed, has not only saddened me but also made me rethink what home really is.
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