In all my years of racing on the World Cup circuit I would guess that I have raced in Heerenveen — the Mecca of speed skating — at least twenty times, perhaps more. The Netherlands is the one place on earth where the genes of the people of have evolved to the point where speed skating has actually been implanted into their DNA (this has been scientifically proven). The sport is in their blood, their brains, and their hearts. It is in their very essence of being. The country has a long history of speed skating racing. In the early days it was all played out along the endless canals that meticulously cut throughout the countryside and stretched from town to town. There is one famous race called the Eleven Cities Tour, or "Elfstedentoch". When it gets cold enough in the winter for all the canals to freeze, there is a one-day marathon race through eleven small towns and the winner is fantastically celebrated. One man won the race twice in a row and became so famous he had to move his family to a small town in rural Alberta to resume a normal life.

With such a rich history and culture of speed skating, the Dutch are naturally among the very best in the world. Many would argue that they are categorically the best speed skating nation on the planet. In recent years the nature of the sport has changed there, such that all of the top skaters are now members of professional teams, with mega salaries, mega resources and, according to some, mega egos. They are incredibly successful, talented and nationally celebrated superstars, much like our NHL hockey players are in Canada. When they race in Heerenveen they are on fire. They are dramatic (some might say melo) and intense. One could argue that there is at least a small amount of eye rolling from other nations when witnessing these theatrics, but when you consider the market for the sport, it is only natural that the best in the world will play it up for the frenzied home crowd. They skate to win, end of story.

Needless to say it is not like this elsewhere in the world. There are no pro speed skating teams in Canada. We have an open sponsor spot on one leg — unheard of in the Netherlands — and we have it good. Many countries have even fewer funds and resources, relatively speaking, to compete with the big Dutch machine. In spite of that, there are a great many talented champions from other nations that regularly give the Dutch a run for their money. However most of the sponsors of the World Cup events are Dutch, as are the media partners and suppliers. The highest ratings of televised speed skating competitions undoubtedly come from the Netherlands. No matter how you slice it, the lifeblood of the sport is entrenched in the Dutch psyche.

Regardless of the latest gossip 'du jour' or the most recent scandal in the news, it is always a thrill to race in Heerenveen. The fans know and understand the intimate details and rules of engagement of the sport so thoroughly they respond en masse with the slightest gasp or deafening cheer to any and all events that unfold before their eyes. The very best and most dedicated fans fill the stands around the corners of the rink. The corners are just concrete steps and there are no actual seats; it is standing room only. They line up for hours in advance to get the best spots closest to the ice. When the doors are opened they pour in like a flash flood. Up to five thousand people can fit into one corner and the rink is at capacity with about fourteen thousand people. They stand for hours on end cheering on not only their Dutch skaters, but also every skater from every nation. They cheer when a skater achieves a personal best. They cheer when someone falls and gets up to finish the race. They make signs for their favourites, dress in bright orange and wear funny hats. They do the wave, they sing songs and they never, ever let up. They also do it right: with a beer in one hand and a Netherlands flag in the other.

For all the occasional grumbling we might do about the Dutch and how good they have it, we cannot live without them. The sport would not survive on its otherwise obscure existence in other countries. I recently experienced the great thrill and satisfaction of winning the overall World Cup title in the 1500m — meaning I finished the World Cup season with the most points in the 1500m, my first ever title! Only in the Netherlands would they organize a grand and elaborate victory ceremony complete with confetti, music, giant trophies and the best of all, a victory lap for all title winners around the track on the back of a Harley trike. Not one fan left the building, opting instead to stay and cheer on all the winners, even me! Nowhere else in the world would this have happened, and for that I tip my hat to the Dutch: to the skaters, the coaches, the fans and their heartwarming obsession with my chosen sport.

December 2007

Memories of my first trip to Moscow in 2005 for the World All-Round Championships did not leave me hankering to visit again. From what I remember the diesel fumes on the bus ride through traffic were overwhelming, we ate fish heads for breakfast, the hotel played host to late night 'call girls' and I had cabin fever like never before. We spent one afternoon touring the city, which gave us a taste of the good things the city has to offer: spectacular subway stations, the Kremlin, fur, tasty pastries, and borsht! Unfortunately traveling to a city for a speed skating competition leaves little room for meaningful cultural experience and this short tour was just a tease. Further horror stories from a World Cup last year that I conveniently missed only served to justify my dislike for the city. So when I heard that we were going back this fall I braced for the worst.

The day before we left we learned that the roof at the oval in Moscow was structurally damaged and there was a possibility that it could collapse. I am ashamed to admit that when I learned this news I let myself hope that it might be postponed, or moved, or cancelled! When it was decided that the competition would be moved to another oval in a small town 120km southeast of Moscow, Kolomna, I figured at least now there was the possibility that the trip might not completely suck.

The bus ride to Kolomna took about three hours. It was dark and late as we settled in for round two of jet lag. On two occasions the bus driver stopped on the side of the road for a cigarette. The second time he stopped for about fifteen minutes. It was close to midnight. When he started driving again we reached the hotel about four minutes later! This is the way things are done in Russia! We learned then that we weren't staying at that hotel and only one Dutch skater got off. We continued on and realized that we were heading out of town, into the boonies. It was pitch black and we could see nothing of the countryside. As the bus turned down smaller and smaller roads, a large bright building slowly emerged in the distance. We eventually ended up on a small, snow covered dirt road that led to our "hotel". It reminded me of the movie "The Shining", a connection I regretted making when, jet lagged and lying awake at 2am, I listened to footsteps traveling up and down the hallway outside our door.

We were met with a group of World Cup volunteers who were very organized and had us fed (no fish heads!) and in our rooms in no time. The rooms had all been recently renovated and were surprisingly nice! It was rather peculiar however that there were no phone lines in any room or anywhere in the hotel. Theories and rumours as to what exactly this place is/was began to fly. It was an insane asylum, a rehab facility, an old hospital, or an orphanage... Either way its remoteness and oddities were a source of entertaining conversation.

Morning light and a bus ride into town revealed our surroundings. We really were in the middle of nowhere! It didn't take long for the many books I have read about Russian history to come to life in my mind. It seemed desolate, barren and endless. Colourful houses built long ago that had shifted to tilt at seemingly impossible angles peppered the side of the road. In Canada houses like that would have been abandoned or torn down. But I saw signs of life inside and I couldn't help but wonder about the people who lived there. What did they do? What kind of lives had they had? Were they happy? Somehow I could only imagine that it had been a tough life for many. I imagined hardship and suffering during the cold harsh winters under the old communist regime. Is this really how things were? I thought of this often on the many bus rides to and from the rink.

In Moscow we were often met with rudeness and an unwillingness to help. In Kolomna it was different. Everyone was very kind and welcoming and they very much wanted to make sure that we had everything we needed. They took great care in preparing the ice and ensuring that the competition ran smoothly. The volunteers were plentiful and kind. My heart began to soften and I felt guilty for having so callously judged this big country.

There was one volunteer in particular that caught my attention. He stood quietly at his post, a security checkpoint, for endless hours each day. He stood out to me because he had the kindest, gentlest face I have ever seen. I must have walked past him thirty times. He was maybe sixty years old, had dark grey hair and wore a nice dark suit and shoes. Again I found myself wondering what kind of life he'd had, who is family was, if he was happy. Once when I walked by he was leaning against the wall, bending over to give his back a stretch after standing for so long. I caught his eye and we shared a little chuckle.

I very much regret that I did not have a small gift to give him, a Canada pin perhaps, to somehow show my appreciation for his help. The lack of a common language and a bit of shyness prevented me from doing anything other than giving him a nod and a smile as I walked by. I wished I had made the podium that weekend so I could have given him my flowers for his wife, if he had one. Maybe that is trite and sappy, but I guess I like to think that there are people in this world we cross paths with, for some reason other than chance, that make us happy to be alive.

We left Kolomna at 3am, on a rather chilly city bus and encountered a considerably uncooperative gaggle of check in agents at the airport. Our team paid nearly eight thousand dollars in excess baggage fees - 15 Euros per kg over the allowed 20kg per person. Must be the mob! After much haggling and insolence and nearly missing the flight, we ended up 'home' nearly fourteen hours later. It was enough to make me loathe Russia all over again. Thankfully now, as I bask in the comparative luxury of my new surroundings in the Netherlands, the thought of this man's kind face is enough to bring a smile to my face and erase even the most vicious of Russian travel days.

He lived his last days quietly at the modest castle that had been his home for the last nine years, the Varsity Estates Villas. When the white light came, he yielded gently, courageously and graciously to the imminent death that awaited him. He did not suffer, nor did he fear. It was a noble death. He was rolled gently to rest at the Royal Pick & Pull graveyard, next to his parents, the late great King Camry and his wife, Queen Corolla. He is survived only by his sister, the Princess Yaris.

King Herman, who was affectionately known throughout his kingdom as the Herm, lived a long and storied life as the dutiful servant of his country, Groverland. He was borne into a long line of great kings from the royal Toyota family. His acquisition of the throne came at a time when Groverland was experiencing a tremendous growth phase and his arrival afforded the kingdom a new and exhilarating sense of freedom.

The Herm was an unlikely king. He was homely to some, downright ugly to others. He was old, slow, outdated, unsafe and according to some, well past his prime. His early performance in crash test ratings was decidedly sub par. He suffered from a birth defect; a missing neurotransmitter that prevented him from learning the FM language, although he did manage to master AM without any problems. He only had four levels of government whereas the newer kings had an impressive five. But despite his many perceived shortcomings, the Herm was a great king, if not the greatest king that Groverland had ever had.

In the early days he was a practical, efficient, trustworthy, suitable and, above all else, dependable king. On no occasion did he ever fail to serve his kingdom, even in the dead of the cold, prairie winter. He was well taken care of and appreciated of by the inhabitant of Groverland, primarily due to the implementation of a low tax rate, lack of infrastructure or maintenance costs and ability to burn fuel efficiently.

In later years his health began to deteriorate rapidly. His royal upholstery was left to crack and split under the harsh sunlight. His skin began to peel and became discoloured in many places. He did not have his annual medical check ups and went over two years without an oil change. One person in Groverland even let him go without food for so long that he simply quit working from sheer exhaustion right in the middle of the busy freeway. His eyesight weakened considerably as he suffered from cloudy vision and also had cracks in his eyes. He became lame after a slow leak led to a permanent limp and although his leg could have been repaired, he was considered to be too old for an operation. He also suffered a mild stroke, which left him paralyzed on the left side of his body. He regained some function, but his left arm never recovered and as such all entries and exits had to be made via the passenger side. In spite of this he managed to maintain a remarkable record of service and continued to perform at a level that exceeded well beyond Groverland's expectations, and even the expectations of surrounding kingdoms.

The Herm was an extremely generous king and this generosity will continue long after his death. Many of King Herman's viable organs were donated to worthy and waiting patients on the organ donor list. Undoubtedly he contributed to saving the lives of many other great Kings.

His many years of service will never be forgotten. He will long be remembered for his unwavering values, having been raised to honour duty first and self second. His unimpeachable performance and undying dedication to the kingdom will live on forever in the hearts of all Groverlandians.

May he rest in piece(s).