March 11, 2010 (Canmore, AB) – I’ve delayed writing this for exactly one week. The competition that took place last Sunday (Feb. 28) was the one of the best races of my sporting career (if not my best). No question. Yet, it continues to be the hardest loss to deal with mentally. I understand that to be 4th or 5th at an Olympics is outstanding. I know that in placing 4th and 5th during one Olympics is phenomenal – and I am still shocked that I was able to have races like the ones I just had: especially during the two weeks when every athlete wants to have their career best races.

I can’t stop thinking of some of the famous “near misses” in the sport of track and field (a sport I love dearly and follow closely). The ying/yang emotions ever present for all to see in Kevin Sullivan (5th in the 1500m in 2000), Leah Pells (4th in the 1500m in 1996), Gary Reed (4th in the 800m in 2008), Steve Prefontaine (** ok, Pre’s was definitely all “yang” with his 4th place in the 5000m in 1972), Kenny Moore (one of my favorite authors – 4th in the Olympics in 1972 in the marathon) faces, and interviews after their race. They affected me deeply, but I just never understood fully what they were saying. To me, they were some of the best in the world, in the worlds most competitive sport (after soccer).

Never would I have planned or guessed that I would have a similar experience to those track and field greats, in the grueling and infamous Olympic 50km.

I’d only done three 50km races in my life prior to last weekend. The first two were years ago as a young senior, on the fabled and historic Holmenkollen racecourse in Oslo – which I bombed.

After racing both a classic and skate 50km in Oslo, I moved away from the longer distances, and focused more on the shorter, more explosive events that Nordic skiing offers.

Before last year’s 50km classic in Trondheim, Norway (where I was 7th and Alex placed 3rd), I hadn’t done a 50 in years. Going into last years’ race I didn’t know what to expect at all, and I was so shocked to have raced so well in it. I had only entered the race because it was a life’s dream of mine to race an Olympic 50km at least once in my career – and Vancouver was fast approaching (and I wanted to race my maiden championship 50km to happen there). I didn’t want to go into the 50km in Vancouver having never done a mass start 50km internationally, coupled with the knowledge that my last 50km was 5 years prior where I barely made the finish line because of inexperience and exhaustion.

The 50km at the Olympic games is always the final event. It’s the marathon of the winter Olympics, and has a rich history and lore of being a huge battle.

I desperately wanted to race it. I knew I had already competed 4 separate times – the last being my miserable/embarrassing 4x10km relay I skied only four days before the 50, yet I was pulled by my desire to achieve that dream of racing such a fabled race, along with wanting desperately to erase the memory of that 10km classic from my brain. It couldn’t be the last race at our home games.

Still, desire alone isn’t enough – and I knew that. I was nervous about my body. I was nervous about my energy reserves, and I was nervous about the conditions (I really struggled with the conditions during the relay – and my confidence in the wet coast mountains snow/rain stuff was low).

I also had mixed emotions about my teammate Brian McKeever, who on Saturday afternoon (the day before the race) was told he was to be the odd man out – missing out on an opportunity to make history (for being the first Paralympic winter sports athlete to compete in the Olympics), because Alex, George, Ivan and I got the nod to start.

The decision for the coaches was obviously a tough one to make, but seeing how all of us (Alex, George, Ivan and myself) had been racing at an extremely high and historic level during the Olympics – they felt that we should be given the opportunity to keep that shape rolling. How can you say no to 4 athletes fresh off top 10 finishes at an Olympics?

Yet, even though I knew we all had been racing so well, it was hard to see how shattered Brian was. It was also hard getting nasty emails (which Alex, George, Ivan and myself received) soon after the announcement was made public. Some people obviously do not understand our sport. The whole situation was less than ideal.

I went to bed Saturday night before the race with no expectations and a head full of questions.

Thankfully upon waking up Sunday morning the questions, doubts and apprehension, were nothing but a distant memory. Once I finally fell asleep, I slept soundly and I woke up with a clear mind.

Getting to the race site, the day kept improving. The conditions were stable – meaning finding grip wasn’t going to be an issue. I was genuinely excited to race, and honored that I’d been given the chance to race in the last race of our home Olympics – and the knowledge that I’d be able to do just that in conditions I have good confidence in was a great feeling.

My race plan was painfully simple. Stay relaxed, focus solely on technique and efficiency, don’t lead (which I have a really bad habit of doing too much of, and feed well.

The race gun went off, and I was quick to slide into a trance-like state, focusing solely on the process and the present. Our team’s skis were stellar, I was executing my plan perfectly, my body was feeling great, and I knew I was going to be mentally strong.

I just let things flow. The kilometers started to tick by, and because I was so present and “in the moment” the race felt like it was moving along quicker than normal. I had one botched ski exchange at 40km that got the adrenaline pumping, but other than that it was going better than I could have hoped.

With 800m to go, the group had thinned out. I still felt good. I attacked along side a mass of bodies and willed my body to the impending finish line. I had no clue what my result could be, instead I focused so hard on efficiency right to the end.

That is until I saw that the red line in the snow was below me. My focus widened, and I saw that guy in the red suit 5m in front of me lift his hands in air with elation. It was over. I got beat.

Glancing at the scoreboard I looked for my name. 5th. 1.6 seconds from Northug. 0.6 seconds from that white suit I was battling to the line with – Olsson of Sweden, the Olympic Bronze medalist.

I couldn’t believe it. In that moment I knew the 2010 Olympics were over. It would be 4 long years until I’d get another crack at it. I was completely exhausted, and as a result of the hard physical and mental effort I was crumbling slightly.

All I could think of was Ivan bawling his eyes out at the end of the 30km pursuit a week earlier (he was 5th, about 6-7 seconds off 3rd in that race). When I asked Ivan what was wrong, he looked at me with his drained, emotion filled, haunting eyes and said, “Devon, what happens if that’s the closest I ever get to an Olympic medal?”

I didn’t understand him all week. I kept telling Ivan that 5th was his best result ever at a major championship. I was thrilled for him. To be in that elite company was an amazing achievement. Why was he so disappointed, shattered almost? I did not understand.

Yet, in my soggy, tired state I was starting to understand. And fast. Within seconds of the 50km ending I knew. I knew everything Ivan was trying to tell me with his eyes after his 30km pursuit. I understood first hand. I understood what all those athletes with “near misses” was actually feeling after their competitions.

When you are that close it hurts. I still cannot believe it. Yet, there is some comfort (note: some) knowing you executed your race plan to near perfection. It was also great to know that our preparations leading up to the Olympics were the best they could have been. It was an amazing race, it was my best effort – I wouldn’t have changed anything (except that botched ski exchange!) if I had another chance. I do take pride in that. I’m excited about that. The fact was, I got beat by 4 guys that were faster than me on that day. Simple. I controlled what I could have controlled – and lost. And that is something I have to be able to live with.

I guess the hardest part is that while I got beat by 4 better men last Sunday, it was just so painfully close. Someone told me Northug was only 0.0002% better.

I’m so proud of what our entire Canadian team did. It was historic. The Canadian cross country ski team raced better than ever before. We’ve had individual successes within a team in the past – but never the consistency we accomplished over the 16 days up at the Callaghan Valley.

The show goes on.

I’m now in Oslo, Norway preparing for the last two World Cup weekends of this 2009/10 season. It’s surreal and weird to think that the big competition I’d been dreaming about for years is passé. Four years of preparations start now. That’s weird to think of now too.

You never get another chance in this game. There are no “gimmes,” do-overs or mulligans. I was 4th and 5th at the games. That’s the reality.

I’d like to extend a HUGE thank you to everyone who cheered me on. I’ve received hundreds of (positive) emails, and it’s so humbling. Thanks Canada – these 2010 Olympics were historic – not only for our cross country ski team, or entire Canadian Olympic Team as a whole, but it was a success on a much grander scale. I feel as though these Vancouver Games did something that is so much bigger, more inspirational and magical than any Olympic Gold Medal. It united, and electrified a nation. As Canadians we should all be proud of what we accomplished together. Without question the next generation watching and dreaming either live, or through their tv screens will benefit from the experience. I feel so fortunate to have been a part of it all.

Devon.