The first natural disaster of note to this post is the volcano in Iceland that kept hundreds of thousands of flights and passengers earthbound last month, including little ol’ me. Funnily enough, I was oblivious to Eyjafjallajökull’s shenanigans for the first three days of flight groundings, because I was happily and heedlessly enjoying some quality time with friends at my family’s cottage in Naramata, training on the fast and flowy Three Blind Mice Trails during the day, and sleepily sipping local vintages in the sunshine in the evenings.
Our cottage, I should add, does not have internet, telephone, or TV, so it wasn’t like I just had my head in the clouds. It was finally Melissa, who after listening to the news on the car radio during the drive over, told me of the happenings.
Melissa is forever the optimist, however, and comfortingly parenthesized the news with, “But I’m sure it won’t affect your flight.”
Eyjafjallajökull, though, was in no mood to be optimistic, and continued to spew jet- engine-destroying ash into the atmosphere, resulting in the cancellation of my flight to England on April 19. After waiting on hold with Air Canada for eons, I was finally able to reschedule for arrival on April 26 – the day after World Cup #1 (very useful). I was told that as flights started to go and airlines added extra flights and larger planes, I was bound to be bumped up in line. I therefore called Air Canada every day at least twice a day only find that planes were still not flying, would-be passengers were piling up, and April 26 was still the earliest available flight… to ANYWHERE in Europe. (Believe me, I had considered flying to Rome, like National Team mechanic, Scott, and U23 athlete, Cody, who then took a train ride of over 1,500km to Brussels, rented a vehicle there, and drove another 700+km and over 8 hours to England.)
When the ash cloud finally dissipated enough for flights to resume, I called again. And again. And again. Nothing new. April 26 was still the day to go. The frustrating thing, however, was that almost all of the other athletes were getting on earlier flights and slowly arriving at Dalby Forest with time to spare before the big race. I felt stranded and frustrated. Why wasn’t I getting on these early flights? I soon learned that I had been Tier One’d – a term we (all of us yahoos on the National Team Project) developed to describe when someone with higher “status” (be it elite Aeroplan status or Tier One National Team status) waltzed to the front of the line and scooped up an earlier plane ticket, the last pastry at the bakery, the final massage of the day, or the National Team’s Ford Focus fun car. Being Tier One’d is just a fact of life, I suppose. I’m just looking forward to the day I’m on the good end of the deal. 
Finally, when I wasn’t on a plane by Thursday, I realized the World Cup at Dalby was out. I did make the best of it, however, by getting in some quality training at home and spending time with friends, including one last BOC at Local Ride Bike Shop. Ah, good times!
The second natural disaster to affect me in Europe was the failing of my body in World Cup #2 in Houffalize. Yes, I did finally make it to Belgium. Everything went off without a hitch, I slept most of the way across the Atlantic, and was met at Brussels airport by Amanda and the rest of the team. I prepared as best as I possibly could in the short time before my race (I slept a tonne, ate well [waffles and Nutella - yum!], trained smart, and spent a lot of time focusing and recovering).
My race detonated at the start. My legs felt heavy and slow (like big hands were gripping my quads, squeezing and pushing them down – try pedaling like that!) and I felt like I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. By the time I reached the top of the start climb (a 3-minute 19% mother also used in Liege-Bastogne-Liege), my vision was going black around the edges and I was trailing near the back of the pack. My World Cup experience and Frogger savvy allowed me to bound ahead a little once the 125-woman field hit singletrack (which meant “everybody off your bikes!”), but once we all remounted and actually had to pedal, the hands were back on my quads and it was all I could do to move forward. To make matters worse, a cold rainstorm before the race had soaked me to the skin, hindered my warm-up, and made the Houffalize course a slip-slidy mess. Zinging out-of-control around corners did hold an element of excitement, but the steep open climbs (with which organizers decided to replace fun, rooty singletrack ascents from years past) were not-so enjoyable.
