77 weeks ago Jay and I packed everything we owned into a rented RV, threw a few cats in just to make things interesting, and drove 3,739 km in order to (as was my mantra for those beginning months) "move to a town I've never been to, for a sport I've never done, on a track that doesn't exist."

Well, 540 days later (no, I didn't actually sit there with a calendar and count the days. Although, I suppose that wouldn't offend my sense of normalcy...), I have been to the town, tried my hand at the sport, and, finally, seen the Whistler track with my very own baby blues.

I am not allowed to slide on the track yet, since it just officially opened last week, and only the Canadian World Cup teams are training there this year. Oh, and also because it is only my second year in the sport and I DON'T WANT TO DIE. But I did manage to wheel and deal and volunteer myself to video tape some of the training sessions so that I could at least get a peak at the place I eventually hope to call my home track.

And what do I think?

Hmmm ... well ... I think that the Whistler Track can properly be summed up with one word: FAST.

Some of the guys were clocking 140 kph this week. In comparison, I am pretty sure the little planes I fly fall apart when they hit that speed. Also, does anyone remember what happened last time I tried to break landspeed records at COP?

I also hear that it is a pretty technical track, meaning tricky. There are plenty of spots where you need to steer against the natural pressures and tendencies of the track, or they will naturally tend to slam you into a roof or into a wall. I certainly saw some bruises that rivaled my first year bouts with corner nine in Calgary.

In the end, it doesn't look nearly as terrifying as I thought it was going to. Of course, I haven't yet stood at the start line, clad in spandex and clinging to my helmet, and stared into this abyss: