suck it towards me again, another attack inevitable. I played well, taking the ball off some of the forwards with my agility and reflexes. Their team had huge guys, and I made a save when one of their biggest had an open net from the penalty spot. Diving completely sideways, lying flat-out, I took the ball straight in the gut. He left the box shaking his head in disbelief. I had been following these guys and their careers and was elated to be able to hold my own. After the game, the coach of the Hibernia team was quoted as saying, “He’s agile with good reflexes and a quick mind.”
That same team extended an offer for me to get into the development league for them. It was my chance to go pro, and I was being seriously considered. While the idea of playing soccer professionally was certainly tempting, there were other factors to consider. Injuries are a big part of any sport, and I was no different. Standing in front of a soccer ball travelling at high speeds, as well as players pummelling towards me, meant I got hit or hit the ground quite often. My fearless style of playing had led to a few concussions by this point, and with one concussion the next comes far more easily. Injuries were one factor; size was another. I had never been a big guy. For the majority of my amateur career I could get away with being small—my quick speed and anticipation, for which I was well-known, helped me out in that regard. But the higher you go in any sport, the more all the other players have those attributes as well—and size. Being only 5'8", it was a tough field to crack.
In addition to Hibernia, I went down to the States for an open-trial camp for the newly developed indoor pro league. Because I was an international player, they told me it would be tough—they only had so many international slots available on the roster. Instead, they recommended I go to the New York Cosmos, then the home of Brazilian soccer legend Pele. But I didn’t go.
If injuries and size were factors, there was one other significant factor. My faith had been growing over the years, and in the context of amateur leagues it was not a difficult thing to do (though being an elite athlete in a competitive environment at the same time as being a Christian is not an easy thing). But moving up to the professional level would bring with it all kinds of lifestyle temptations that I wasn’t willing to bend on. That, and the fact that back at home there was a special girl who was starting to become a bigger and bigger part of my life. If I wanted to spend more and more time with her and invest in our future as a couple (and hopefully a family), being across the ocean would not be beneficial. And so I decided that it was time to make a change and to consider the long-term future.
I would stay in Winnipeg.
If soccer wasn’t going to be my career, something else would have to be. After graduating from high school in 1975, I went to the University of Manitoba. I enrolled in the education program. I figured if I liked sports so much, I may as well do them for the rest of my life and get paid for it—so I wanted to be a gym teacher. There was also a good incentive: joining the U of M soccer team. The season started before the fall semester began, and I loved playing. It ran into the autumn, and I could barely think of anything else.
* * *
Shortly after classes began, I realized that I loved sports but had no interest in teaching sports. I only wanted to participate. Most of the classes were bearable, but there was one that I just couldn’t take. The minute I walked into the classroom I knew I was out of my element. There were mats on the floor, with some soft music playing in the background. I felt more uncomfortable than if I’d shown up on the soccer field naked. The teacher was wearing some extremely tight shorts and shirt, and I had to look away from him. Some of the students filing in were averting their eyes as well. The class was called “Movement Education,” and it was about to make me throw up. There was a sign-in attendance sheet, and I scribbled my name as if I was being treasonous and wanted to get out as fast as possible.
When the teacher started talking about the fact that we were going to be teaching kids how to move to music, I almost threw up my lunch. The last time I had danced was—never mind, I think I erased that memory from my mind. There was no way I was dancing in front of a group of adults, never mind teaching kids to dance. This isn’t gym! I wanted to scream. And then the teacher dropped the biggest bombshell of them all.
When he moved to the front of the class, leaning over to stretch his body in his bright leotards, I tried to hide behind the other students so he wouldn’t even know I was there. It wasn’t easy, as everyone kept bouncing around like the floor was on fire.
“Class,” he started, “welcome to Movement Education. As we’ll be dancing and stretching in this class, it is strongly encouraged that you buy some spandex or Lycra to feel comfortable.”
Comfortable? I thought, Who can possibly feel comfortable in clothes like that?
While the rest of the class snickered or nodded, I snuck out the back door and didn’t come back. There was no chance I was going to be in that class. As I walked away, I distinctly remember thinking, Like I’m ever going to be seen in spandex!
“If you can touch it, you can catch it”
Fearless in pursuit of the ball
Newspaper article highlighting Arvid’s game against Hibernia
5. The Fat Years: Post-Soccer, Pre-Cycling
I had decided against pursuing soccer as a career, and spandex and Lycra scared me away from being a gym teacher. I showed up at enough random classes to not get thrown out of university, but I quit after the conference finals of the soccer season. Palliser, the furniture company where my dad and older brother Art worked full-time upon arriving in Canada, was not hiring, but I was convinced I would be able to get a job. It was November, and I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity. After all, the Christmas turkey gift from the company to its employees required that the employee be working prior to December 1st.
The smell of sawdust that I’d grown accustomed to when Dad came home from work was strong as I walked into the office of Mr. Reimer, the general manager. He looked up from his desk, knowing who I was but not interested. He asked me a few questions, knowing that he didn’t want to hire me and didn’t need me. I wasn’t even sure he was listening, but I answered them honestly.
“Listen, Arvid.” He finally looked up at me, putting the pencil down on the desk with a noise that nearly made me jump. “The truth is that I don’t need any employees right now.” He rubbed his temples, clearly at a loss about what to do. “But I know your family, and they’ve got a good reputation around here. They’re diligent, and they don’t complain.” He got silent again, and I decided this was my time to jump in.
“I want this job,” I said. “I will do anything you have. I’m prepared to work hard and will work my way up this company.” The words felt strange and strong coming out of my mouth, completely masking the mess of nerves that I was underneath.
He looked back at me, recognizing my commitment to what I was saying. “I respect your family,” he responded. “And I know what you’re saying is true.”
With a nod I was hired.
I left the office with a start date of December 1st—I had a job, and I had a turkey for Christmas. I began just like many begin at a large company, working as a general labourer and doing whatever mundane, repetitive and seemingly mindless task they gave me. It wasn’t long before I had moved up the food
