From Mommyhood to Team Canada

Contributed by: Amy Moss-Archambault at www.trimom.ca

I'm like most people. Actually, I'm probably a lot like you. I started competing in races late in life. I love sport, I'm absolutely passionate about triathlon but I didn't come from some incredible athletic pedigree. I was never on the varsity anything team. I never competed for my school - at least not in sport. Most of the time I had my face stuck in a book. But that's what is so amazing about triathlon. No matter how old you are, no matter what your background everyone has a shot at competing at the highest level possible - the World Championships!

Three years ago I was standing at the edge of Guelph Lake and competing at the world championships was the furthest thing from my mind. I had just squeezed into a wetsuit that had fit 2 weeks prior and was now too small because I was 5 months pregnant. But I was racing that day. Was I little crazy to be racing my first try-a-tri pregnant? Without a doubt, yes. My doctor had monitored me the entire time and I wasn’t racing to win, I was racing because I could. If you had met me 10 months ago you would know how impossible that seemed. With hindsight would I have still raced that morning? Yes! That day started a whole new chapter in mine and my family’s life, full of endless possibilities.

After I had my baby girl, I was determined to go back to Guelph Lake and compete in the same race. I wanted to see what I could accomplish without any limitations. My husband and now three children cheered me on as I finished fourth in my age group. I’m not sure who was more impressive that day; my husband, who had an eight month old in a snuggly, a two and three year old in a bike trailer running from vantage point to vantage point, or me laying everything on the line.

I’ve raced about 8 triathlons since then. All sprint distance which means I swim 750m, bike 20km and run 5km. It’s the perfect distance for me while my kids are little. I struggle as it is to find time to train. I’ve always marvel at people who have these nicely written training plans that build their training volume, peaking at just the right time. My training has always been based on the YMCA schedule. I fit my swims in around when there is babysitting or children’s programs. Until we bought a trainer my riding time was a spin class that coincided with a program for 3-5 year olds while there was babysitting for the baby. My runs would mean the two youngest in the bike trailer turned jogging stroller and my eldest on her bike next to me. When that didn’t work my friends stepped in to help.

Every time I raced I would see a few Team Canada race kits. At first I was in awe and then I became more and more curious. The idea that an age grouper could compete for their country just seemed so .... tangible. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t an amazing athlete. I was decent. I would always finish in the top half of the pack. I had great sections but I hadn’t figured out how to put all the pieces together yet. Still, the more I saw the team kits the more I realized that anyone can race for Team Canada, you just have to try.

This year I decided I wanted to try and qualify for the team. I found out what races were qualifiers and analyzed each race. I figured which course I was best suited to and wrote out a training plan. I knew my haphazard approach to training wouldn’t cut it. My kids were a little older (6,4,2) so I had a bit more flexibility. My friends filled in any gaps so that I could stick to my training plan. I’ve always said it takes a village to raise your kids, it also takes a village to train to win.

I raced the qualifier and came in third. There were two spots up for grabs that day and I earned one of them. I will be racing in London, England 2013 at the World Championships. The next time you see me I’ll be sporting the Team Canada kit and I hope someone looks at me and says I can do that because the truth of the matter is that  potential is in all of us, you just have to try.

On Cycling The Great Divide

Contributed by: Ryan Correy

In 2009 I learned of an underground race known as the 'Tour Divide'. It’s a 4,418 km solo mountain bike epic from Banff, Alberta to Antelope Wells, New Mexico. My interest peaked a year or two later after watching a documentary on the event called 'Ride the Divide'. Check out the trailer at www.ridethedividemovie.com. But be warned, this film is very much the romanticized version of what to expect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The race surges over relentless mountain passes (nearly 200,000 feet of elevation gain), totally exposed to the elements, 24-hours a day. Riders haul all of their own food, spare parts, clothing, and camping gear. As for the rules, they’re simple – stay on track, respect the intended solo nature of the event (no outside support), and the first person to the border at Mexico wins. There is no entry fee and no prize purse. It is a true adventure in every sense of the word.

And I should know…

My cycling story began at age 13 when I cycled across Canada with my father. Since then, I have become the youngest Canadian to complete the Race Across America, have cycled 25,000 km from Alaska to Argentina, represented the national team, ridden a stationary bike for nearly seven days straight, and more.

I saw the Tour Divide as a way to get back to nature. There was also an added draw of having to fend for myself, to be nature’s guest. It had been awhile since I had not depended on a support crew, was spurred on by watchful eyes, or drove towards something other than a shiny medal. This time it was personal.

On June 8^th I lined up at the YWCA start line in Banff with approximately 100 riders kitted out with custom ragtag bikes, and varying eccentric/ loner personalities. Other than a few handshakes and a group photo, this would be the last time that I would ever see any of them. From the word “GO!” I was determined to do well…so says my video blog entry. But like anyone, of course I wanted to win. 

Within the first 20 miles a rock slashed the sidewall of my front tire and I limped to stay within the top ten. Day two and three saw us hike-a-biking over 27 miles of snowy mountain passes through Montana. It would be a relief to walk a little if I wasn’t always soaked. At the bottom of a decent, I remember trying to light a fire to calm my shivering but couldn’t coordinate the effort with my fingers. The only option was to get back on my bike and speed up the next pass.

Concerns for grizzly bears and snow were soon replaced by fatigue and nagging injuries. For me, it was Achilles pain and blood blisters on both of my big toes. Word down the line was that one rider had rocketed off a cliff and busted up his bike, another was in hospital for fluid accumulating in his lungs. Others appeared to be dropping out because of mythical injuries, probably more related to exhaustion, mixed with intimidation for what lay ahead. But none of us were out there to judge.

The difficulty of the ride often extended into the night. Rain and wind would pelt my bivi sack. And when it didn’t, there was always the challenge of trying to calm my body down from the altitude – elevated heart rate and a persistent cough being the main symptoms. A few times I felt inclined to bring my Spot GPS tracker into the sack with me, my finger on the SOS button just in case. A few others have already had to use it, I told myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The course doesn’t let up much through the flat sections. The route crosses a 189-mile area known as the ‘The Great Basin’ in Wyoming where there are no services. I survived off of a couple of gas station burritos and the hope that I would stumble across a water source. The lack of water becomes an increasing challenge through Colorado too. Riders have to be resourceful. One humbling moment saw me digging into a muddy field filled with cows. I dug until I could filter some murky water through a handkerchief. The possible nightmare of Giardia loomed heavy the next few days. But it was not to be, for me. 

After 21 days, the mountain climbs cease and all that is left are 130°F temperatures and a desert dash to the border My tires were worn thin by this point, puncturing often from cacti needles scattered along the road. Thankfully, signs soon started appearing for the border. I’m almost there.

The tiny outpost appears like a mirage. Secretive black military helicopters and fighter jets circle high above, no doubt cautious of my approach.  I walk across a painted line on the road and shake the customs agent hand in Mexico. He speaks something to me in Spanish, though I have no idea what. I signal to him that I am turning around and going back. He is understandably confused.

On the other side, a U.S. border agent asks if I would like my picture taken. “Sure,” I tell him. Gazing around at the small cluster of buildings, I reaffirm that there is nothing here. I’m going to have to hitchhike back – over 100 miles to the next town. Whatever, the hard part is over.

I have never felt so proud.