Last Saturday was the big ride.  My brother, Daniel, and I competed in the Kluane Chilkat International Bike Relay, from Haines Junction, Yukon, to Haines, Alaska.  Teams broke up their members to ride the eight stages of the 240km race.  We didn’t have much organizing to do in this area since we had each decided to compete as a team of one.

In my mind I had pictured a start somewhat like the one we’d experienced in Vancouver when we did the Sea-to-Sky Grand Fondo.  In that race there were thousands and thousands of cyclists, over six thousand the year we competed.  In this race, the teams were plentiful, but the soloists …. not so much.  Less than twenty women competed solo this year.  Undaunted, we lined up at the start, with the goal of finishing the event before the cutoff time.  This race has a strict cutoff put into effect after Stage Seven.  Any rider not leaving Stage Seven by 7:00pm would not be counted.  We did not want to be in that group.

It's very hard to accurately describe both the challenge of this race and the beauty found in it.  The race follows the Haines highway, a road that connects the small village of Haines Junction, Yukon, and Haines, Alaska.  The road travels up over mountain passes, overlooks gorgeous mountain lakes, opens up to snow covered mountains, follows both fast- and slow-moving rivers, has no services or homes, travels through Yukon, British Columbia and Alaska, and is quite simply breathtaking.  Passports are required to gain entry to the United States shortly after the sixth stage, for the final 70 or 80km to the finish.  Riders competing solo must provide all their own support, there is no help in the form of food, water or supplies along the way for them.  It was only after completing the race I heard this lack of support was on purpose; they were trying to discourage unprepared riders from taking on the challenge.

We were lucky.  We had Jim, his truck, endless peanut butter sandwiches (my fuel of choice) cut into quarters and in sandwich bags containing two quarters – just the perfect size to fit into the right side pocket of my jersey or riding jacket, ice cold water, a treat of coffee infused coke for Dan and a raspberry iced tea for me at kilometer 140 (from there, we figured we’d have it made:), warm dry clothes just in case, spare tubes and a pump, and anything else we might need. 

Parts of this journey were pure bliss; winding down mountain passes after steep climbs, cruising toward the spectacular Alaskan mountains, feeling the warm sun on our faces, and being in the moment we’d dreamed of for so long.  Other parts of the journey were difficult; many climbs more than 15km long, challenging road surfaces in mountainous Stage Four, isolation, fatigue, pesky thoughts taunting us, and the mental fortitude needed to manage the sheer length of the trip.   When I found myself thinking about distance and altitude, making the journey much more difficult, I reminded myself to look around, to take in the beauty, and most of all, to pedal on. 

So too with life.

In life too, it is hard to accurately describe both the challenges and the beauty we face.  In life there are moments so absolutely beautiful we dare not pinch ourselves for fear we are dreaming.  There are moments of such contentment and peace it’s all we can do to keep the tears from our eyes.  There are moments of satisfaction and success prompting us onward.  There are moments of friendship, understanding, love, compassion, and camaraderie that make the pedaling so effortless.

There are also those other times.  The times of disappointment and hurt, of heartbreak and loss, of illness and challenges, of unfulfilled dreams and dashed hopes.  There are times of such deep grief, we don’t think we could possibly pedal another round.

I was reminded of some important things from our spectacular adventure in the North: 

We do not need to get through hardship before we can appreciate joy.  I believe that even as we struggle, there is    beauty to be found.  We simply need to raise our heads, look around ourselves and take in the beauty surrounding us.  And we need to keep pedalling.

Help comes to us from unexpected places.  On Saturday as we faced yet another mountain, suddenly from out of nowhere, in the vast Yukon and Alaskan wilderness, came the sound of a trumpeter, playing the soundtrack from Rocky, as we approached.  No aching legs and burning lungs were a match for such unexpected support.  We wore broad smiles as we crested the top of the hill.  And we kept pedalling.

We can do much more than others, or even ourselves, may think.  There were many surprised faces when we crossed the finish line in legal time.  We were both older than ninety-nine percent of the other riders.  I believe I out-aged the next female soloist by at least twenty years.  Most people thought I was crazy to attempt the race to begin with.  I thought I would be crazy to give up this chance for adventure with my brother.  I am reminded I am limited only by my own self-doubts.  I just need to keep pedalling.

All journeys are enriched when shared with others.  I took every opportunity I could, along this long road, to pedal a few strokes alongside of others we encountered and to offer encouragement and support.  I breathed in the support of others.  I waved or smiled at those cheering me on, and thanked every volunteer who spent their day making the course as safe as possible.  Sometimes I tucked into the protection of the wind behind Daniel, accepting his help as we managed a tough section.  Sometimes I buffered the wind for others.  Through it all we kept pedalling.

We don’t need to wait to live until we have ….  There will always be a better house, a better job, a better time, a better bike.  My sturdy road bike, perfectly sufficient but not nearly the top of line, saw me through no less beautiful scenery, than one worth thousands more.  I just needed to keep pedalling.
Life is designed to wind us up mountains, glide us down hills, weave us past rivers, and challenge us to our fullest.  It will make us doubt, believe, wonder, and weep.  It will crush us and give us opportunities to flourish. 

Pedal on.

My Challenge for you this week is, 'Pedal on.'
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Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups and has expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to find out how to pedal on.

Jim and I are heading to Yukon next week.  This idea was well thought out, but that was over a year ago, and perhaps I forgot to re-read the plan before agreeing to it this year!  Several years ago, my brother, Daniel, heard about a bike race in Yukon that sounded crazy, but fun.  Its the Kluane – Chilkat International Bike Relay.  Competitors in this race cycle from Haines Junction, Yukon, to Haines, Alaska, a total distance of 240km.  The race starts at 8:00am, and the cut-off time for the finish is 9:00pm.  On the same day.  The route takes the cyclists over two mountain ranges and finishes at the Pacific Ocean.  Most competitors will race as a part of a relay team.  The race has eight stages, and teams can be comprised of two, four, or eight members.

Or one.

That’s the crazy part.  The part where my brother and I will ride together but each compete as soloists.   The idea of doing it solo sounded epic last year when I thought I was fit and ready.  Unfortunately, at that time, several Indigenous Nations located along the 240km race route, were concerned about Covid, and the possibility of their Nations being impacted by all the visitors, so the race organizers chose to cancel the 2022 event.  We understood completely and comforted ourselves with the thought that we’d have an extra year to prepare.  After all, 240km is a long way to ride in one day.

Sometimes it seems like all I have to do is make a plan and the universe starts to chuckle.  Chuckle she did.  When I would normally have started my outside training in early spring, not only did Mother Nature extend winter, but I managed to pick up two viruses that had me housebound for close to eight weeks.  By the beginning of May, I was starting to doubt my chance of any possible success at this race.  However, not one to be put off by a bit of adversity, I hopped on my bike as soon as I could and forced myself to not go too far, too soon.  But with less than six weeks until race day, I needed to get at it!

So here I am, seven days away from race day, hoping to heaven I’ve done enough, and at the same time knowing it’s all ok no matter what.  Jim will drive our support vehicle and if the proverbial wheels fall off, I can always hop in the truck and enjoy the magnificent scenery from there.  For now, I’m going to concentrate on packing my bag, and my equipment.

I have a love/hate relationship with packing a suitcase.  I dislike trying to remember every single thing I’ll need, every little cream, and clothing for every situation and weather condition.  I also have a bad habit of standing in my closet as I begin to pack, seeing an article of clothing I haven’t worn for years, and somehow thinking I’m suddenly going to love wearing it on my trip!  At home when I need something I can just grab it, but on a trip if it isn’t in my suitcase, I’m out of luck.  My other small problem is while I have a very nice suitcase, with plenty of perfect compartments, I often find myself with too much stuff and not enough bag.

On the other hand, what I love is that once my bag is packed and closed, I don’t have to think anymore.  For the duration of the trip, I don’t need to choose between outfits.  The deciding is already done.  I’m not sure if it’s for better or worse but the whole thing is within my control.

Throughout this spring, Jim and I have navigated some of the ups and downs of life.  We’ve marked some ends, beginnings, and milestones, each giving me an opportunity to think.  Each of us gets exactly one trip through this wonderful life.

And one suitcase to pack.

Our bag is empty when we enter the world.  If we are very lucky, others begin to fill it for us before we can do so for ourselves.  Like we do for Ben and Andy, and like we did for our own children before them, we carefully place love, security, belonging, encouragement, hopes and dreams inside.  As we grow and begin to take responsibility for our own lives we start to add to our own bag.  We develop survival tools that must be packed.  We have experiences that inform our choices for what to put into those tiny compartments.  When we take risks and experience success, we learn to pack bravery.  When we experience shame, or failure, we may decide to pack caution.  When we are surrounded with security, we add love.

In our suitcase, we get to choose what we put in every single nook and cranny, in every zippered pouch and even in the secret compartments.  We can fill them with our worries and guilt, our insecurities, and resentments, with the tools that no longer serve us well, with our fears and with our arrogance.

Or.

We can unload some of those heavy objects and replace them with optimism and hope, courage to try new things, bravery to expand our dreams and our circle of friends, curiosity, excitement, compassion, and grace.  In those little hidden compartments, we can pack gratitude, appreciation, kind words and love. 

As I head to Yukon this week, my suitcase will proceed me.   It will leave a few days before me with my brother, traveling in Jim’s truck, our support vehicle, maximizing the chance for it to arrive on time and in one piece.  Jim and I will go by air.  On the way home, we’ll take the scenic route in the truck and my brother will fly.  This of course means I need to think about packing now.  The clothes for this trip are easy.  Bike shorts, jersey, helmet, gloves, water bottles and supplies for my favourite fuel, peanut butter sandwiches.  The other bits may not be as easy to find and pack, but they will likely prove to be equally as important.  I plan to pack confidence, grace, humour, joy, determination, resilience, humility, and gratitude.  I’ve seen fear try to weasel its way in, but for now, I’m not making room for her.  I am going to make room for a few memories, ones I’ve already made reminding me of past challenges I took on and was able to achieve, and new ones from this trip.  I have a few little spots left in my bag.  These I will fill with the well wishes and positive thoughts of my family and friends, who, although they think this to be a bit crazy, send their best thoughts for my success and safety.

I won’t be able to post a blog next week.  But I have a feeling I’ll have plenty of time to think of one for the following week, as we roll along the Haines Highway, watching for moose and bears, and praying for unexpected downhill stretches of road.  

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What is in my suitcase?’
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Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups and has expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to find out how to pack your suitcase.
 

When I was a young teenager, our front pond was the setting of many a hockey game.  Most often the teams had only two, at most three, people on them.   We organized our teams based on how many of my siblings came outside to play.  Since we often only played in the evenings, after chores and homework were done, Dad ran an electrical cable from the house and set up a flood light for us.  With no equipment other than sticks, and only one net, still we thought we were in the big leagues with that light!

I haven’t held a stick or touched a puck since then. 

The truth is I like hockey, but I’m not an avid fan.  I love when my team, the Calgary Flames, make it to playoffs.  Those games I never miss.  But once they are out of the running, I am too.  It’s possible I don’t even know who’s vying for Lord Stanley’s Cup this year.

This past week I flew to Ottawa.  My long-time, dear friend, Louanne, called early one morning last week.  Before I picked up the phone, I saw who it was and feared she might be calling with news of her husband who is in palliative care.  I was so wrong.  Her youngest adult son, Eric, had unexpectedly passed away in his sleep.  I could not comprehend what she was telling me.  It just would not sink in.

Louanne and I have been friends forever.  Her dad and my dad were best friends, as were our mothers.  She was born five months after me.  We’ve been friends our whole lives.  All our siblings were friends too in those early years.  We camped together and picnicked together and grew up together, and though we live in different parts of the country and though our lives have taken different directions, we’ve stayed friends ever since.  Not knowing what else to do, to Ottawa I went. 

My brother flew down with me.  It was so good to be together for this.  When we arrived at the church for the funeral, arriving in the parking lot 35 minutes before the service was to begin, the large parking lot was already almost full.  Entering the church, we saw what can only be described as a wall of hockey players, all dressed in their finest black suits, filling pew after pew of the right-hand side of the church.  It was overwhelming to see all these young men, some who had played with Lou’s oldest son in the NHL, some with Eric in the league just below, all sitting together in respectful support.  We later estimated there to be at least one hundred and fifty of them.

I couldn’t help but hope (and pray) the service wouldn’t let them down.  I was raised Catholic, and I wish I hadn’t been to so many Catholic funerals, but I have.  Let’s just say sometimes to those not familiar with the formal nature of the Catholic funeral mass, these events can feel cold.  Often, people do not know the prayers or hymns, cannot relate, find the service less than personal, and leave feeling disappointed rather than comforted.  I knew how much these young men were suffering in their grief, as were the rest of us, and I really hoped they would find some comfort at this service.

Maybe it was my praying that did the trick, but I doubt it.  As soon as the mass started, I felt my shoulders begin to relax.  The officiating priest was beyond incredible.  I have not ever heard any priest manage to reach an audience the way he did.  He knew his audience and he had gone to considerable effort to make his words relevant to all who were in attendance.  In my opinion, he scored a winning goal.

As he spoke about moving forward in our grief, he reminded us to continue to be willing to take risks on love.  It would be easy he said, to try to protect our hearts by not exposing them to hurt.  But we would be missing out on so much possibility by doing so.  Then he added, ‘Keep your head up and your stick on the ice’.  The chuckles rippling through the church indicated he was speaking in a familiar language.

He told all of us what good advice this was.  We need our heads up, we need to look around, so we can see the big picture of our lives, to plan ahead, and to dream.  And we need our stick on the ice, so we are ready to engage in life as it presents itself to us moment by moment.

This is the secret.  It’s the beautiful dance between being and doing.  Of noticing the long game while living in the moment.  When we master this, we create a life where magic happens, just like players on a hockey team make magic when they see the possibilities around them, while focusing on the details of the immediate task, or possibility, in front of them.   Both things matter.

These men, all dressed in their finest could relate.  They already knew this concept of head up and stick on the ice.  In fact, from everything I heard that day, they’ve been practicing it since they were little boys.  They’ve all had their heads up.  They had big goals, made sacrifices, and could see the big picture of what they needed to do to get to where they, as individuals, wanted to be.  They also somehow managed to see the big picture of friendship.  At the same time kept their sticks on the ice, at the ready for everything coming their way.  Last week, an unwelcome puck came to them from a most unexpected place.  Somehow, they knew just what to do in this most critical moment.  They gathered and demonstrated unfailing support, even in their moment of unthinkable grief.    

We filed out of church in two lines, one from the right and one from the left.  I walked beside one of these men, tears streaming down both our faces.  I couldn’t help but think to myself, we all need to be on a hockey team.

My challenge for you this week is, ‘Keep your head up and your stick on the ice’.

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups and has expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how keep your head up and stick on the ice.