THE LONG WAY AROUND It Took Everything to Get Here By Jack Cook This isn’t a résumé or a list of results. It’s the story of where I’ve been. From a small farm on Howe Island to racing on national teams. From moving house more times than I can count to finding stability in training. From chasing finish lines to building resilience that lasts. This is the path that built me — shaped by places, people, and lessons I still carry into every race. I’m not sharing it because it’s extraordinary. I’m sharing it because it’s mine — and because the miles we carry shape us just as much as the finish lines we chase. A NOTE BEFORE YOU READ I started writing this because, even at 58, I still carry regrets — and questions about what I might have done differently. Over time, I’ve come to see that we all do the best we can with what we know at the time. Writing became a way to lay that weight down. I chose to share these memories so the next generation knows there is always a way forward — even when life feels heavy. I haven’t found closure, but in writing, I’ve found peace. These stories are drawn from memory, and like all memories, some details may have blurred with time. Dates, timelines, and results may not always be exact. But the feelings, the lessons, and the people who shaped them remain clear. These memories aren’t perfect, but they are true to how I lived them. When I stepped away from Fast Trax, I finally slowed down. I trained, went to the office, trained again. I spent time with myself, just trying to be present. But even in that stillness, there was an itch I couldn’t ignore: the urge to build something again — and to finally tell my story. At first, I wasn’t sure what form it should take. A book felt too big. I built websites, toyed with ideas, drifted on and off social media. Nothing fit. Quietly, though, it kept building. It began as notes on my phone — fragments, memories, moments. Over time, those fragments became something more: a story I was finally ready to tell. The road here hasn’t been simple. It’s been full of turns, setbacks, and second chances. Some parts are heavy, some are wild — all of them are real. So buckle up, maybe grab some popcorn, and come with me. This isn’t a straight line or a highlight reel — it’s a story of persistence. There are chapters of triumph. Chapters of struggle. Moments where the weight pressed heavy, testing how much I could carry. But there is also resilience, community, and a belief that even when things burn down — literally and figuratively — you can rebuild stronger. What follows is the long way around — full of twists, false starts, and second chances. Long before finish lines and podiums, before skis and running shoes, there was a small island on the St. Lawrence River. That’s where my story begins. PROLOGUE The Start Line. The start corral is louder than I expected. Music echoes through the arena, bouncing off the concrete walls of the convention centre. Athletes move around me — some pacing, some stretching, some staring quietly at the floor, already somewhere deep inside their own race. I stand still. Decades ago, standing on a start line meant something different. Back then the energy felt electric, almost overwhelming. My mind would race ahead of my body — splits, tactics, the thousand small calculations that come with competition. Now the feeling is different. Quieter. I take a slow breath and look down the course where the first run will begin. Beyond it waits the familiar sequence of work: SkiErg, sled push, sled pull, burpees, rowing, carries, lunges, wall balls. A circuit designed to test everything an athlete has. But the race in front of me isn’t just about strength or speed. It’s about the long road that led here. For most of my life endurance sport defined who I was. From the quiet roads of Howe Island where I first learned to run and ski, to the national team years chasing performance at the highest level, to the decades spent building Fast Trax — a shop that became more than a business, but a gathering place for a community built around movement. For most of my life endurance sport defined who I was. From the quiet roads of Howe Island where I first learned to run and ski, to the national team years chasing performance at the highest level, to the decades spent building Fast Trax — a shop that became more than a business, but a gathering place for a community built around movement. Along the way there were victories, setbacks, injuries, reinventions. There were moments when I thought the best racing days were behind me. But endurance has a way of teaching patience. It teaches you that progress isn’t always linear, and that sometimes the most important lessons only arrive after the original goals have faded. That’s how I found myself here again. Not chasing the same things I once chased. But chasing understanding. The clock above the arena ticks down as the announcer calls the next wave of athletes forward I step toward the line. After all these years, I know something now that took a lifetime to learn. Speed doesn’t come from force. It comes from clarity. It comes from patience. It comes from trust. Calm is fast. The horn sounds. And the race begins. ROOTS & RISE Early Life: From Toronto Streets to Howe Island I was born in downtown Toronto, spending my earliest years in the neighborhoods just off Queen Street, not far from the Beaches. Life there was lively, but it carried its risks. One afternoon, my mother sent me to the corner store for milk, but on the way, a group of local kids stopped me and took the money. That moment changed everything. My mother decided the city wasn’t where she wanted to raise her son. Soon after, we left it behind for a very different kind of life. We moved to Howe Island, just outside Kingston, where our family raised and trained quarter horses. Farm life was work from dawn to dusk, and being the smallest meant I drew the job of breaking in the horses before they moved further in training. It was dangerous, bruising work, but it taught me persistence and grit in a way no classroom could. Still, I began to wonder if all that energy might be better spent training myself. By eight or nine, I started running — not far, just short loops here and there — but it was a spark. The beginning of something that would shape the rest of my life. Looking back, Howe Island wasn’t just where I left the city behind. It was where I first began to discover who I was becoming — and how sport would anchor that story. Howe Island School Days Life on Howe Island was simple. We had a one-room schoolhouse where every grade learned together, and organized athletics were rare. The one highlight each year was the track and field day, and I trained on my own so I’d be ready when it came. Outside of school, adventure was whatever I could make of it. I rode my bike for hours along the island’s quiet roads, stopping in to see friends, pushing farther each time. Once, on a long downhill, I let the speed get away from me. I crashed hard, blacked out, and was eventually found by family friends who carried me home. Looking back, it was likely my first concussion — a harsh lesson in risk. But instead of slowing me down, it sharpened my curiosity about limits and how far I could go. Family Ties on the Island

For As long as I can remember, I had a special bond with my grandparents on my mother’s side. Their visits to the island were the highlights of my childhood. A few times each year, I would ride my bike down to the ferry dock and wait eagerly for their arrival. Eventually, their connection to the island grew so deep they purchased a trailer and kept it on the farm year-round. With our farmhouse being small, it gave them their own space — but it also meant they were never far away.

Those years were defined by family. My mother came from a family of six, and the island became a gathering place where everyone seemed to pass through. My aunt Wendy, the youngest of the girls, even chose Howe Island for her wedding. My uncles Alex and Rick both worked on the farm — Alex drawn to the horses, Rick always ready to lace up and challenge me on a run. My uncle Fred didn’t spend much time at the farm, but when I stayed with my grandparents, I often watched him at the piano — patiently honing his craft, showing me what quiet consistency looked like.

Each of them gave me something. Alex taught me discipline and care as we loaded horses into trailers and prepared the paddock for the track. Rick gave me the thrill of testing myself, of seeing what I could do. Wendy and Beth, with their kindness and warmth, gave me comfort and the feeling of being supported. Years later, I was honoured to stand in both Alex’s and Rick’s wedding parties — a reflection of the deep ties that held us together.

That bond with my grandparents never faded. I remember speaking at my grandfather’s funeral, calling him my hero — and he truly was. My grandmother was equally important to me, but sadly, I was unable to attend her funeral. Still, their presence has stayed with me all my life. It was a time when family was ever-present, and the rhythms of farm life and family life blended into one.

Cracks in the Picture Life on Howe Island wasn’t all sunshine and open skies. At an early age, I began to notice the tension money troubles brought into our home. More troubling were the signs of my mother’s drinking — something I didn’t fully understand then, but later came to recognize as alcoholism. What had once felt steady and secure slowly began to unravel. We left the island and returned to Toronto, moving in with my grandparents. For a time, their home provided stability, but change soon followed. In grade four, I was pulled from school altogether. As a family, we piled into the car and drove south — all the way to Miami. To me, it seemed the purpose of the trip was my father’s attempt to make his fortune betting on the horses — the “ponies,” as he called them. Whatever the plan, it didn’t work. We came back no richer, and I had lost nearly a year of schooling. Missing most of grade four left a gap in my learning that followed me for years. A New Start in Shelburne After returning from Miami, we lived for a time with my grandparents before moving to Shelburne, just outside Toronto. It was my father’s next big idea — starting a mink farm — while he continued his one steady line of work, selling clothing and accessories from the trunk of his car in Toronto. For me, Shelburne felt like a second chance. I was back in school, regaining what I had lost during that missing year, and I started running every day. One moment at school stands out even now: a substitute teacher decided our class should run five miles — an unusual choice, but one I thought was pretty cool. I finished strong, and afterward he came over and said, “You might have something.” It was the first time an adult outside my family had recognized a spark in my running, and it stuck. Life in Shelburne was good. I laced up daily on the country roads, joined hockey, and even tried downhill skiing. My grades improved, and the mix of farm life, open roads, and school success gave me a sense of stability I hadn’t felt in years. Mississauga: Football and Hard Truths When the mink farm in Shelburne failed, we moved again — this time to the suburbs of Mississauga. I kept running, but my father encouraged me to try football. I had a good arm and quickly found myself leading the team as quarterback. It was a different kind of athletic test — strategy, teamwork, responsibility — and I thrived in the role. But life off the field told a different story. One evening, I walked home from practice to find our house surrounded by police cars. Confused, I stood on the sidewalk until my mother emerged and spoke with the officers. After tense discussion, it was decided I wouldn’t be taken away but would go to my grandparents instead. And so, I walked from my house to theirs — cleats still dusty from practice — carrying with me a new understanding of the shadows behind my father’s “unorthodox” approach to making a living. As a kid, I’d assumed his work was simply unusual. That day, I realized it was something more serious. Cobourg: Finding My Stride After a period of uncertainty in Mississauga, we moved again — this time to Cobourg. As it was explained to me, part of the “deal” was that we needed to leave the city. Whether it was an arrangement with the authorities or just circumstance, I never fully knew. What I did know was that Cobourg marked a new chapter. I kept playing football, but the real gift of school there was access to a proper running track — the first I had ever trained on. I loved it instantly, especially the 1500m and 3000m, where I discovered the rhythm of middle-distance racing. Still, my fascination with endurance stretched beyond the oval. One day in class, restless and curious, I walked out and decided to run home — 40 kilometres away. Somewhere along that road, my love for long-distance running took root. Life in Cobourg had its balance of ups and downs. I did well in school and bonded with my father through work on the farm and in the shop, where we built furniture together. My restless curiosity also showed up in other ways. Once, I wrote a letter to Nike, pitching them an idea: adding an air bag to the sole of their running shoes. For my prototype, I carved a hole in a pair of Nikes and slotted in a cut-up bike tube. I suggested they refine the idea and send me a commission. To my surprise, Nike replied with a polite thank-you, noting they already had something in the works. A few years later, Nike Air was born. From an early age, I was always tinkering, always adapting. But behind these bright spots, the storm clouds gathered. My father’s frustration often boiled over into bursts of anger. The power and phone — still a party line in those days — were cut off when bills went unpaid. One summer, while using a blowtorch to strip paint, the house caught fire. We dragged furniture onto the lawn and watched as firefighters battled the flames. To my shock, my father popped champagne while the house was still burning, calling it a fresh start. We had lost everything. That moment changed me: setbacks don’t have to break you. When the house was rebuilt, the hardest blow came. I came home from school one day to learn my father had left us. Just like that, it was me and my mother alone. Without him there to buffer the worst of her drinking, I had to face her alcoholism on my own. It was a heavy burden, and it marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another — one where resilience would become less of a choice and more of a necessity. Picking Up the Pieces Those years were difficult — not just for me, but for my mother as well. She was one of the smartest, sweetest, most beautiful women I knew. But having married straight out of high school, she had little work experience to fall back on, and with her predisposition to alcoholism — which I’ve come to understand as a disease, not a fault — she struggled deeply with our new reality. Life became unstable, uneven, anything but steady. Eventually, we returned once more to my grandparents’ house, a place that always seemed to catch us when we fell. That period shaped me in ways I didn’t recognize at the time. It was the beginning of my minimalist streak, and of becoming highly skilled at moving house. Packing, adjusting, letting go — those became second nature. As for my father, he was not a bad man. Quite the opposite: kind, creative, a dreamer. I see much of that in myself. But his refusal to accept a conventional nine-to-five job left him untethered, always chasing the next idea, the next possibility. A man like my dad was better suited to working alone, but it meant he could never provide the stability our family needed. When he walked out, it wasn’t out of malice, but out of struggle. Still, the absence was sharp. I wouldn’t hear from him again for more than two years. Back to the Beaches In time, we settled in the Beaches, just west of downtown Toronto. In some ways, it felt like coming full circle — my grandmother had grown up there, and it was close to where I had first lived as a baby. I entered Grade 10 at Malvern Collegiate, eager to find my footing again. I picked up football, quickly catching the eye of the head coach with my throwing arm. At the same time, I joined the cross-country team, where I met Dan Howat — a pivotal figure in my life. From the first practice, he took an interest in me, seeing potential not just as an athlete but as a person. I remember him once saying, “With everything you’ve been through… if you get out of this and accomplish your goals, you should write a book.” It stuck with me — and maybe, in some way, this is me finally writing it. But football was tied to my father, and with him gone, it lost its pull. I was also tired of being driven into the turf by defensive linemen. My strategy had become simple: count to three and throw, whether anyone was open or not. Eventually, I let it go and focused on running. Life outside sport was far less steady. Schoolwork slipped — distractions, parties, and no accountability at home. Living with my mother meant mostly living alone. She was rarely there, and when she was, she was hungover. We moved often when bills went unpaid, but I managed to stay at the same school. Running was up and down. Some weeks I won city championships; other weeks I barely scraped through qualifiers. I trained hard with the Toronto Olympic Club, but instability at home seemed to seep into my results. A nagging back injury didn’t help. Years earlier, when my father was renovating a lake resort, I’d fallen from a ladder and landed badly. Medical care had been limited, and though little was explained at the time, the injury lingered. It flared in hockey, then running, and later skiing — undermining me just as I was pushing harder. Eventually, life with my mother became too much. Barely scraping by in school, I reached out to my father, who was then living downtown. He took me in, but it didn’t last. His need for independence outweighed any sense of family ties. In his own way, he cared, but living together wasn’t something he could sustain. He gently suggested I move in with the Howats and even offered to pay them board. Dan’s parents refused payment and welcomed me into their home. Their generosity allowed me to stay at Malvern, giving me the stability I desperately needed. Had I gone back to my grandparents, it would likely have been fine, but it would have meant yet another new school. Instead, I was given a place where I felt safe, supported, and able to keep moving forward. It was also at Malvern that I was introduced to cross-country skiing. I joined the school team almost on a whim, but at one of my first races, I was spotted by provincial coach Larry Sinclair. He became another mentor, opening a door that would define the next stage of my journey. By the end of Grade 12, skiing had eclipsed everything else. I dropped out of school and moved north to Barrie, determined to train at Hardwood Hills and chase this new path. Summer Jobs and City Lessons While at Malvern, I picked up a string of summer jobs, each leaving its mark. I worked downtown at a bar — first as a busboy, then waiter, eventually cook. I loved the creativity of plating dishes with care, until the manager pulled me aside and told me to tone it down — the food looked too good, and it was cutting into margins. Even then, my creative side sometimes outweighed the practical outcome — a tendency I still carry today. I also worked construction, renovating older homes in Toronto for a friend of my father’s. It was hard, hot labor, but it taught me the value of showing up and grinding through. One summer I landed in a stranger role — driving for a man I later realized was either a small-time mob boss or a drug dealer with a big ego. I picked him up each morning and ferried him around the city. The pay was good and it beat swinging a hammer in the July heat, but when my father discovered the man was dealing drugs out of the car, he told me to quit. I did — by then, summer was nearly over anyway. Part of the reason I got that job was because I knew Toronto like the back of my hand. Another summer, I had worked as a courier, zigzagging across the city making deliveries. I thrived on finding shortcuts and learning every side street. At one point, I even managed to get my mother hired. She did well at first, while I rode with her and navigated. But when I moved on, the company quickly realized her efficiency had been mine. Not long after, she lost the job. Barrie and Hardwood Hills Moving to Barrie was an escape — from family turmoil, from my mother’s struggles, from the absence of my father. By then, even the idea of a “family house” felt more like burden than comfort. I left before finishing Grade 13, though the truth is I wasn’t showing up much anyway. My grandparents were unhappy, but my uncles backed me: “A man has to do what a man has to do.” I rented a basement room in the house on the Hardwood Hills property. Back then, Hardwood was little more than a small lodge and the owners’ home, where Kim and Dave Viney lived. Shortly after I arrived, the Ontario Ski Team held a camp there. A few days in, my coach Larry Sinclair pulled me aside. “Do you have a plan? How are you going to pay rent, cover expenses?” I didn’t. Within days, Larry had found me work at Hardwood. Dave and Kim had big expansion plans, and I was hired to help cut new ski trails and build the chalet. The first time I was handed a chainsaw, I smiled and said, “Certainly, I’m familiar.” Truth was, I had no idea what I was doing. If YouTube had existed, I could have saved myself the scar on my leg from coming too close to losing it. Dave would mark the trails with tape, and I would follow, cutting an eight-foot swath through the forest. One of those climbs would later be named Cook’s Climb — a small reminder of those long, humid days carving trails out of the Ontario woods. I worked on the chalet too, just me and a contractor in the relentless summer heat. It was backbreaking work, and balancing it with high-volume ski training was a constant struggle. Some days, I crawled into bed at lunch just to escape the exhaustion before lacing up again. In many ways, I think of those long, silent hours like watching my uncle Fred at the piano when I was a kid. He would repeat the same passages until they were flawless. That image stayed with me — the patience, the discipline, the idea that mastery comes from showing up even when no one’s watching. Out there on those trails, I was doing the same thing. Hardwood Hills was rough and raw in those years, but it gave me something precious: structure, purpose, and a foothold in the life I wanted to chase.

Building a Life Around Skiing

As Hardwood Hills grew, so did my role in it. The trail network expanded, the chalet rose from the ground, and the place was beginning to transform into something special.

I, too, was outgrowing the basement room I had rented. With the house on the property being renovated, I took a leap and rented one of the nearby homes Dave and Kim Viney had purchased as part of their expansion plans. It was a three-bedroom place, and I couldn’t afford it on my own. My first thought was to rent to fellow athletes, but not everyone shared the same single-minded drive I did. Ads went in the paper, tenants came and went — some even slipping out in the middle of the night.

Stability finally arrived when Rick Dickey, a fellow skier, and his girlfriend moved in while working at Hardwood. At last, the house felt steady enough to focus.

Around this time, I launched a small import business called Jack Cook Sports, bringing in Rode wax — a niche Italian ski brand with a cult following that was nearly impossible to get in Canada unless you knew someone on the national team who could bring it back from Europe. I saw an opening. My lunch breaks were spent in the basement, sending faxes, filling orders, and slowly building a side business in ski goods.

By then, I had rented out every upstairs room and moved myself into the unfinished basement — just a mattress on the concrete floor and a desk made from crates. It might not have looked like much, but it was the spark of my entrepreneurial spirit. I lived like that for weeks, until one night I woke to find a snake curled beside me. That was enough motivation to finally build a bed frame. Always experimenting, I even branched into rollerblades, hoping to bridge the idea into roller skis. Back then, rollerblades were common cross-training tools for skiers, long before roller skis became standard. I was always looking for ways to stay one step ahead.

But none of it came easy. Between managing the house, training, and running the import business, I picked up yet another job to make ends meet — this time in Barrie, thirty minutes away, building a bar at the Legion. Mornings started with training, then trail work at Hardwood, another training session, and finally the late-night construction shift. Some nights I worked past midnight before collapsing into that basement bed. Those were exhausting days, but they laid the foundation: work, train, hustle, repeat. It was the rhythm of a young man determined to make sport his life, no matter how many hours it took.

Finding My Mileage Game Hardwood was slowly becoming the place to ski in southern Ontario. Without the internet, training knowledge was hard to come by, so I studied everyone around me — watching how the best athletes trained, asking questions, piecing things together. I wasn’t there just to ski locally. Hardwood was my pathway to the world stage. That drive had been with me for years. I remember after a workout at the Toronto Olympic Club, my high school coach Al Baigent asked what I wanted to accomplish. Without hesitation, I said, “World record in the 10,000 meters.” He laughed, but I wasn’t joking. That was how I thought back then — and in truth, I’ve never really changed. One person who reshaped my path was Al Pilcher — “Pilch.” He was already breaking through internationally with the national team, while I was still on the provincial team. Larry Sinclair invited him to help at a summer camp at Hardwood, and looking back, I think Larry sensed I needed guidance he couldn’t fully give. Pilch offered that. Over a weekend of training together, he told me plainly: I needed more volume. At the time, I was training 12–15 hours a week. After Pilch, I pushed that toward 20–30. It wasn’t easy, but he assured me it was the only way forward. That was the start of what I would eventually call my Mileage Game. The results soon followed. That winter, I earned a few trips with the national team — not enough to secure a full-time spot, but enough to feel I was closing the gap. Around the same time, my mother’s struggles in Toronto deepened. Wanting to help, I encouraged her to move north with me. We found a place in a little hillside community called Sugarbush, surrounded by forest. For me, it was perfect — a 90-minute run to Hardwood each way. Many mornings I’d run to work, work all day, then run home — often stretching those runs to two hours. On weekends, I drove to Orangeville for three-hour runs with Pilch. For a while, things felt good. My import business had a corner at Hardwood, the bar construction job was done, and my world was streamlined: train, work, rest, repeat. But my mother began to lose her way again. One day I came home to find she had attempted suicide by drinking Javex. I managed to save her, but it was a harsh wake-up call. Soon after, the missed payments piled up and we were forced to move. I packed her things and brought her back to my grandparents, hoping their support might help. With her gone, I had to figure out my own next step. The basement at Hardwood was no longer available, and the house I’d once rented was being demolished for parking. With winter approaching and little money, I moved back in with my father. Even amidst the turmoil, the training never stopped. That fall, I ran the Toronto Marathon in 2:32 — not bad for my first. I only have fragments of memory from that day, but I vividly recall passing Alberto Salazar around the 10k mark, thinking I’d gone out too hard — only to learn later he was there just for the appearance fee. Later that autumn, Larry reached out to Marty Hall, head coach of the national ski team, on my behalf. He asked if I could join their fall camp on the Dachstein Glacier in Austria. To my surprise, I was invited — and ended up rooming with Pilch. In my mind, it was simple: if the top guys were there, I needed to be there too. Just like the early days in Labrador chasing early snow, I knew that was where I belonged — putting in the hours, building my Mileage Game, chasing the edge of possibility. First Taste of Europe That season brought real breakthroughs. I earned a spot on the B Tour, crossing the Atlantic for my first early-season races in Europe. The racing was intense, but it was the entire experience that lit me up. While most athletes rested between events, I was out running — winding through forest trails, exploring old castles and cobblestone villages. It wasn’t just competition; it felt like stepping into the heart of the sport. Before leaving, Pilch and I had traveled south for a series of North American Cups. Those races sharpened my edge, and Pilch passed along advice I carried for the rest of my career: “If you want to be strong at Nationals later in the season, you have to keep your mileage up even during early-season races.” I took it to heart, weaving long training miles into every stop, knowing the real target was still months ahead. Europe was a different world entirely. The races were harder, the athletes hungrier. In former East Germany, I learned just how aggressive it could be. In a rare mass start, I slipped ahead of a German skier — and he jabbed me in the back with his pole. If nothing else, it was good motivation to build a gap, quickly. Each race, each encounter, pushed me forward. My results improved, my confidence grew, and I was steadily climbing the Canadian Points List. By the time Nationals came around, I believed I had a real shot at making the World Championship team. Nationals: A Second Chance Coming home from Europe, I jumped into local races. Not long before, those events would have stretched me to my limit — but now I was on another level. The training, the racing, the experience overseas had lifted me. And I carried that momentum into the 1991 Ski Nationals at Cypress Mountain in Vancouver. But beneath the surface, the strain was real. The travel, the training load, and especially the financial stress of keeping my import business afloat were grinding me down. Rode wax had been easy to sell at first, but it was niche — once stores bought in, they rarely reordered. My investors wanted returns, and back home they were becoming more and more difficult to deal with. I was trying to juggle it all: elite-level training, running a business, and managing the chaos of life. At Nationals, CTV Sports was filming athlete profiles. Pilch, always looking out for me, grabbed one of my Jack Cook Sports Rode T-shirts. “Let me see if I can get you some advertising,” he said. Sure enough, in his interview, he wore it proudly on national television. A small gesture, but one that felt huge — my first glimpse at what branding could do. Still, my first two races were disasters. Buried back in 30th place, I felt crushed. Larry pulled me aside. “What’s happening?” he asked. I told him everything — the business, the bills, my mother, the sheer weight of it all. I was always traveling with a briefcase stuffed with papers. “Go get it,” he said. When I brought it back, Larry opened a drawer in his dresser, dropped the briefcase in, and shut it, “This will be here when you’re done,” he said. “Now go for a run.” Running had always been my refuge, and that jog steadied me. The next race was scheduled as a night event, giving me extra time to reset. I lined up with a fresh mindset — and still, nothing. I was buried again. But then, partway through, the lights failed. The course went dark. The event was canceled. I had been given a second chance. The following night, I approached the start line with a sense of purpose I had never felt before. It was pouring rain, fog so thick you could barely see three feet ahead. The race was the 10km Classic, a mass start. The gun went off, and I went with it — hard. Two laps: 2.5km up, 2.5km down, repeat. At the top of the first climb, Larry shouted: “Jack, you’re in third!” I couldn’t believe it. Ahead of me were only Al Pilcher and Yves Bilodeau — two of Canada’s best. On the second lap, I pushed harder, climbing with everything I had. This time, at the top, I was in second, right behind Pilch. Crossing the finish line, the emotion poured out of me. I sprinted back up the trail through knee-deep snow until I found Larry. “We did it!” I yelled. It was as much his victory as it was mine. The aftermath was a blur: interviews, drug testing, the full treatment. It wasn’t just validation of the race — it was validation of the grind, the sacrifices, the belief that I belonged. The next day was a rest day. Pilch, my roommate, turned to me and said, “We need to celebrate. This is big — and there’s no telling if it’ll happen again.” In hindsight, he was right. That night at White Spot, over a slice of cake, I didn’t know it yet — but I was sitting at the height of my ski career. Near Misses and New Beginnings After the rest day came the 50km mass start skate — the decider. Place third, and I was bound for the World Championships. Place fourth, and I’d be headed to the Italian Championships — the B Tour. It was a battle to the line. I finished fourth — within reach of third, and just one one-hundredth of a second ahead of fifth. The margin was razor-thin. I hadn’t secured Worlds, but there was still a path: perform in Italy and I might still earn my way. Back in Toronto, reality wasn’t ideal. Training was patchy, the environment unstable, and this was long before I understood the value of structured cross-training. No SkiErg, no easy alternatives — just pavement and fatigue. By the time I returned to Europe, my rhythm was off, and my races in Italy fell flat. Still, the season mattered. I had raced across Europe, sharpened my edge, and built enough results to finally achieve what I’d dreamed of for years: a spot on the national team. It was official — and with it came a move to Canmore, Alberta. On that trip, Jack Sassville, the national team coach, asked to see my training logs. A few days later he handed them back and said, “At first, I wondered if your Nationals result might have been a fluke… but after reading these, I can see the opposite is true. You earned those results.” It was a small moment, but it meant everything — the start of a bond built on respect and a shared belief in the work. Canmore was a world away, and exactly the break I needed from the weight of home. I wrapped up my import business, said my goodbyes, and joined the spring tour across western Canada. During a stop in Canmore, I lined up a job and a room at the Rocky Mountain Ski Lodge. The pieces were falling into place. All I had left to do was get there. Back home, my mother had lost her license, so I bought her car, packed my belongings, and started driving west. Halfway across the country, the phone rang: funding cuts. Just like that, my spot on the team was gone. I had left chasing a dream — and found the struggle that would shape the rest of my life. COLLAPSE & REINVENTION Canmore — Breaking Through Again I arrived in Canmore carrying the weight of everything I’d been through — and the belief I could build something new from it. I had driven across the country chasing a dream, only to lose my place on the national team to budget cuts halfway there. Still, leaving wasn’t an option. Canmore was where Canada’s best trained. If I wanted to belong, I had to stay and prove I could rise again. At first, I felt like an outsider. I found work at the Rocky Mountain Ski Lodge, living in a small staff room and doing whatever jobs they handed me — front desk shifts, shovelling snow, cleaning rooms, anything to stay close to the trails. When I wasn’t working, I was training. Alone, mostly. No team, no funding, no structure — just long sessions through the Bow Valley, quietly rebuilding the engine I knew I still had. One afternoon, as I was working in the yard, a battered Toyota pickup skidded into the lot. Out jumped Hans Peter, the lodge owner. “What are you doing?” he barked. “Just what Nic (the manager) told me to,” I said. Minutes later he reappeared, calmer: “Sorry about that. From now on, you take your direction from me.” That was the moment everything changed. Hans wasn’t just my boss — he became a mentor and friend. He had once been a mountain guide in Switzerland, and often, after work, if I didn’t have a big training day, we’d head into the mountains together. Our first climb was Mount Rundle. To him, it was casual. To me, it was a trial by fire. He improvised a rope harness, yodeled his way up, and left me clinging in sweat. Three-quarters of the way up, I slipped — and for a split second, before remembering I was roped in, I thought it was over. Dangling, heart hammering, I gathered myself and climbed on. That was my true introduction to the Rockies. From then on, Hans and his wife Sylvia gave me more than work and lodging — they gave me stability, encouragement, and belief. When the car I’d driven to Canmore finally gave out, Hans sold me that same battered pickup for a dollar. There was no safety net in those years. If I didn’t work, I couldn’t stay. If I didn’t train, I wouldn’t move forward. That kind of pressure sharpens your focus. Each week I added more volume — skiing, trail runs, strength sessions — clawing back toward the standard I knew I belonged at. Slowly, the results followed. Local races first, then bigger ones. It took two full years, but I earned my way back. Through sheer consistency, I pulled myself onto the national team again. I was older now, not the rising prospect I had once been, but maybe that was an advantage. I knew how quickly it could all disappear — and exactly what it cost to return. Finding My Place in Canmore My connection with Jack Sassville went back to that first B-Tour trip to Europe, where he had been the national team coach and leader of the tour. By the time I moved to Canmore, Jack had already transitioned out of the national program. Politics had cut his tenure short, but rather than leave, he stayed in town, became the local golf pro, and over time started something called the Canmore Project — a small, tight-knit group of athletes who didn’t quite fit the system but weren’t ready to let go of the dream. He invited me in. We trained hard, we laughed harder, and in that little crew — which included Robin McKeever, Chris Blanchard, Danny Bouchard, and Sara Renner — I found the camaraderie I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. Jack became a steady presence in my corner, someone who believed in me without needing me to prove anything first. Over time, our bond grew deep. Years later, I would stand as best man at his wedding — and Robin would stand as best man at mine. As my performances improved, I gradually transitioned from the Canmore Project into the official national team training centre squad — a quiet but meaningful shift that marked how far I had come. Around that time, I also began picking up small sponsorships, the kind that might seem minor but meant the world to me then. Altitude Sports supported me with equipment, and Earls Restaurant stepped in with meals. It might sound simple, but knowing there would be food on the table and skis on my feet gave me the breathing room I needed to focus on the work. I had learned long ago that no one was going to hand you a place — you had to create it. Years of odd jobs, hustling to make ends meet, had prepared me for this. Whether it was construction, cooking, or driving strangers around the city, I had always been scrappy, finding ways to keep moving forward. That same mindset served me well in Canmore. For the first time in years, I felt anchored. I wasn’t just chasing results anymore — I was part of something. There was pride in that. There was belonging. The Shifting Landscape While I was rebuilding myself in Canmore, the landscape of Canadian skiing was shifting beneath my feet. Since the 1988 Olympics, Canmore had been slowly transforming from a quiet mountain town into the heart of Nordic sport in Canada. The National Ski Team was moving its base from Ottawa to the Rockies, and with it came new funding, new infrastructure, and new expectations. The Bill Warren Training Centre — the BWTC — was at the centre of it all. It rose from the ground as part of the Olympic legacy fund, and for the first time it felt like there was a real hub for high-performance skiing in Canada. Around the same time, early-season training camps began operating on the Haig Glacier, flown in by helicopter — or run in, in my case, always looking to add to my mileage. That momentum opened the door for me. My results had been consistent, and in time I earned selection to the BWTC program. With that came access to resources I had never had before — wax rooms, world-class facilities, structured support — and, most importantly, a new head coach brought over from Norway: Steinar Mundal. Steinar wasn’t just another coach. He embodied the standards of Norwegian skiing — meticulous attention to detail, an emphasis on volume, and a belief that accountability was everything. Even though I wasn’t officially one of his athletes, he shaped the environment I trained in. He had a way of looking at you — really looking — as if he could see whether or not you had done the work. That alone raised the bar for everyone around him. I’ll never forget the first Canada Cup of the season, when I cracked the top five. Steinar came up afterward, looked me over, and simply asked: “Who are you?” It wasn’t arrogance, just curiosity — like he was trying to place me in the picture he was building for Canadian skiing. In his own quiet way, that recognition mattered. Around that same time, I forged another key connection: Tom Holland. Like Hans back at the Rocky Mountain Ski Lodge, Tom had a mountain guide’s calm strength about him. He had an incredible work ethic, and when he became manager at the BWTC, he immediately asked me to help him. Together, we set up systems to keep the building running smoothly, and I joined him on the glacier, leading camps and grooming the ski trails up there. The trails were an hour’s hike from base camp, and some days I would hike them twice — plus ski — just to keep them maintained. Looking back, I think that might have been the fittest I’ve ever been. The mix of altitude, volume, and sheer workload was brutal but transformative. My mileage was higher than ever, my fitness was peaking, and early-season race results started to reflect it. And yet, even as I was climbing higher, I could feel how precarious it all was. The ground under me was always shifting — new coaches, new politics, new expectations. I had fought so hard to claw my way back, but deep down I knew how fragile it could all be. The Cost of Staying on Top Even as my roots in Canmore deepened, part of me stayed tied to where it all began. I never joined the Alberta Ski Team — not because they weren’t welcoming, but because I couldn’t let go of Larry and the Ontario program. Loyalty runs deep; Larry had believed in me when few others did. Every year I still flew back for the Ontario team trip to the Dachstein Glacier in Austria. It became a ritual: long days on endless snow, miles of repetition high above the clouds, slowly sharpening form while the rest of the world felt far below. On one of those trips the world cracked open. I got the call — my mother had died of a drug overdose in Victoria. The news hollowed me out. I flew home in shock and joined family in Vancouver for the funeral. Losing her left a silence I couldn’t fill. For years I had believed that if I could just succeed, it might somehow lift her too. Now she was gone. Back in Canmore, nothing felt the same. I kept training and showing up, but the fire was dim. Around the same time, the back pain that had shadowed me since childhood worsened. I tried every treatment I could find, but nothing stopped the slide. Race after race I lined up ready to give everything, only to have my body betray me. It went on for years, until there was nothing left to give. Eventually I stopped — not in one dramatic moment, but in a quiet surrender. The harder I tried, the worse it felt, until I couldn’t see a way forward. Starting Over in Toronto Walking away from skiing wasn’t planned. The dream I had built my young life around had slipped through my hands, and for the first time, there was no clear next step. My father reached out. He was running a business in Toronto and said he needed someone he could trust. With no plan of my own, I packed up what little I had left in Canmore and drove east, back to the city where it all began. It didn’t take long to realize I didn’t belong in his world. The same instincts that once made him seem larger-than-life now left me uneasy. The pace, the chaos, the way everything teetered on the edge — I could feel old patterns trying to pull me back under. I needed distance. I needed something steady. So I turned back to the one thing I could count on: running. I took a job at a small running store in the Beaches and rented a tiny apartment in Little Italy. Without a car, I ran everywhere — often 90 minutes each way to and from work. To my surprise, running didn’t aggravate my back the way skiing had. It felt lighter, cleaner, and with each week my body and mind began to strengthen. I entered local races, nothing fancy — just toeing the line, testing myself again. No pressure, no expectations. Only forward motion. During that time, I reconnected with Larry Sinclair. He encouraged me to channel what I’d learned into coaching, and I returned to school to complete my Level III certification. That program gave me more than theory — it taught me how to lead, how to support athletes through the same ups and downs I had faced. I began coaching Dan Roycroft, a young skier who would later join the national team. Helping him build toward that level was proof my time in the sport still had value. Toronto also gave me time with my grandparents and my Uncle Alex’s family. My grandfather was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, and Alex was battling cancer. While part of the draw had been my father’s call, the deeper pull was them. I wanted to be close, to show up in a way I hadn’t always been able to before. It grounded me. But I knew I couldn’t stay. The city was healing, but it wasn’t home anymore. When a coaching position opened at the Edmonton Nordic Ski Club, I knew it was the door I’d been waiting for. I packed my bags, said my goodbyes, and headed west once more — determined to build something new. Edmonton — Finding My Place as a Coach Coming back to Alberta felt like turning a page. I wasn’t chasing points or a national team spot anymore. I was coming back with something else to offer: the years of trial, the setbacks, the grind, and the persistence it took to survive them. Coaching gave me a way to turn that into something useful. When I joined the Edmonton Nordic Ski Club, I didn’t bring a big title or a résumé stacked with medals. What I did bring was experience — the kind you only get from living both success and failure. I knew what it felt like to win against the odds. I also knew what it felt like to carry pain, to have life close in, and still lace up anyway. That balance became my strength as a coach. At first, I was nervous. Edmonton had a deep ski community, and I wondered if I’d be seen as just another athlete trying to reinvent himself. But the athletes weren’t looking for perfect — they were looking for present. And I knew how to show up. My philosophy was simple: consistency, mileage, and belief. I didn’t ask athletes for anything flashy — just to commit, brick by brick, the way I had rebuilt myself after losing the team. I leaned on lessons from Pilch — mileage matters — and added my own: hours build character as much as fitness. Over time, I became close with many of the athletes, from juniors chasing national dreams to masters pushing their own limits. Among them were Lorris and Kathy Williams, who became more than training partners — they became family. Their belief in me never wavered, and when the chance came to buy the small house I had been renting, they helped make it happen. For the first time in years, I had stability. A place of my own. That foothold allowed me to go back to school and train as a Registered Massage Therapist. Coaching alone didn’t pay enough, and massage gave me both income and flexibility to travel with athletes. It let me build a life around coaching, not just squeeze coaching around the edges of work. In time, I had the privilege of working with athletes like Tara Whitten, Madeleine Williams, Amanda Ammar, and Stephan Kühn — all of whom went on to the National Ski Team and international competition. Beyond Edmonton, I supported athletes like Graeme Killick in bridging the gap to the national program. Seeing them take that leap was deeply rewarding. It wasn’t just their victories — it was knowing I had helped them believe it was possible. Edmonton also gave me community. The trails weren’t the Rockies, but they didn’t need to be. I had a team, a purpose, and a reason to get up every morning beyond my own ambitions. Coaching wasn’t a fallback. It was a calling. Looking back, this was where the seed of the Mileage Game really took root. Not as a brand, but as a way of thinking — that the long game, the steady game, is where the real growth happens. Back to School — Massage Therapy The decision to go back to school wasn’t easy. I was in my late twenties, sitting in classrooms filled with younger students who all seemed so sure of where they were headed. For me, this wasn’t about a career change — it was about building a life where everything fit together. Coaching had my heart, but it didn’t pay the bills. Massage therapy offered what I needed most: flexibility. It could bend around training schedules, race weekends, and the unpredictable rhythm of sport. Balancing school with coaching and training was a grind. My days often started on the ski trails at dawn, shifted into lectures and labs, and ended on massage tables or in the gym. Some nights I came home so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. But beneath the fatigue ran a quiet thread of purpose. Every class and late-night study session was part of building a future where I could coach, support athletes, and still stand on my own two feet. Massage also changed how I saw sport. It gave me a deeper understanding of the body — how muscles connect, how injuries build, the small inefficiencies that quietly become pain. It gave me words for things I had always felt in my own training but never fully understood. That insight became part of my coaching toolkit, helping me guide athletes not just in their training plans but in how to recover, care for themselves, and stay resilient. Through it all, the Edmonton community — athletes, mentors, and friends — kept me steady. Coaching no longer felt like a side note. It was becoming the foundation. Massage therapy was simply the structure that allowed it to stand tall. FAST TRAX YEARS Fast Trax — Building Something of My Own

One day the phone rang. It was Harvey, one of the co-owners of Fast Trax Ski Shop. “Hi Jack — would you like to buy the shop?” It was the kind of call that could change everything. Years earlier, I had planted the seed by asking Harvey if he’d ever considered adding running to the store. I knew running not just from training and racing, but from retail — importing Rode wax through Jack Cook Sports and working with Fischer Skis alongside Larry Sinclair. Retail had always been part of my world. Now the opportunity was real — and I took it.

Buying Fast Trax wasn’t just a business move. It was a chance to build something of my own: a space that combined my skiing background with my passion for running.

At first, things looked promising. Brooks agreed to open me as a run account. But three weeks later they pulled out, offering to buy back the shoes. A run shop without shoes is no run shop at all. I refused to send them back. Instead, I sold what little stock we had, one pair at a time, just to keep the lights on.

I had ski gear, but ski sales wouldn’t start until November. It was June. To bridge the gap, I moved my massage table into the back of the shop. Some evenings I’d finish helping a customer, then walk straight into a massage session. It wasn’t glamorous, but every dollar mattered.

I hustled however I could — hosting grassroots events, group runs, and clinics — anything to keep people coming through the door. With the help of my staff, we organized ultras, trail races, and winter ski events at Goldbar Park and the Strathcona Wilderness Centre. One of those, the Beat the Blues Boogie, became a fixture on the calendar and continues to this day. It was eventually voted Race of the Year in Alberta — a recognition that meant a great deal to us and to the community we had built around it.

For a time, the Fast Trax Ultra even earned a place on the international race calendar as a qualifier for the World 100km and 50km Road Championships. Runners came from across North America to compete, and for those few years, Edmonton became a small hub in the global ultra-running world.

These events raised our profile and cemented Fast Trax as part of the endurance community. But they also drained staff resources, and eventually we had to step back from directing so we could focus fully on the shop.

Behind the scenes, I lived lean. No extras, no safety net. Just enough to keep the dream alive. Each shoe sale was a victory, not just for cash flow, but for credibility.

Slowly, the ski community carried me through with roller-ski sales, early service work, and loyalty that kept the lights on.

By the time the snow fell and ski inventory finally started to move, I had made it through. Barely, yes — but I had survived. And survival gave me something more valuable than profit: credibility.

Fast Trax wasn’t just another shop trying to make a splash. I had been tested, and I had proven I belonged.

One story from those early years still captures who we were. At the 2010 Birkie — later nicknamed Waxageddon — a skier broke a binding mid-race and thought his day was over. I’d thrown my back out and couldn’t finish, so I handed him my skis: “Just give them back at the finish. Ask for Jack from Fast Trax.” He double-poled the rest of the 55 kilometres and finished. When he came to return my skis, he found his own repaired, freshly waxed, and ready to go — no charge. He’s been sending people to Fast Trax ever since. To me, that story has always summed up what we were about from the start: helping people keep going, however we could.

Finding Our Lane — Trail Running and Fast Trax’s Rise Surviving that first summer gave us credibility — but it also forced me to think differently. Most shops in Edmonton were already fighting over the same road-running customers, and without a steady shoe supplier, competing head-to-head wasn’t an option. So I looked for a gap — and found it on the trails. At the time, almost no one in the city stocked trail gear. That absence became our opening. We pivoted hard, carving out a space no one else was filling. What began as survival soon changed the shop’s trajectory completely. To promote the shift, I laced up trail shoes myself and ran the same rugged routes we were outfitting customers for. The trails hooked me instantly — wild and raw, much like the business we were building. What started as a sales strategy quickly became part of who we were. And it worked. In time, Fast Trax wasn’t just a ski shop dabbling in running — we became the trail shop, not just in Edmonton, but across Alberta. Athletes sought us out for gear, advice, and the growing sense of community around our little store. The breakthrough came when I won my first Canadian Death Race in a Fast Trax singlet. That win put both me and the shop on the map. Suddenly, customers didn’t just see us as a place to buy shoes — they saw us as part of the sport itself. Still, I knew we couldn’t stay a niche shop forever. To grow, we needed to earn our place in the broader running market. So I played the long game. Every month, I sent lighthearted updates to the big brands — New Balance, Nike, Asics, Mizuno, adidas, even Brooks. I never begged or complained. The tone was always the same: “We’d love to have you on board, we are building something very special here in Edmonton, we don’t need you but would love to have you onboard” It might have sounded cheeky, but it worked. New Balance cracked first, then Asics, Nike, Mizuno, adidas. Finally — years after pulling out — Brooks came back. By then, we didn’t need them to prove we belonged, but having their shoes on our wall again still felt like a victory. Fast Trax had gone from a ski shop with a handful of shoes to a full-service hub for roads and trails — built not through shortcuts or luck, but through patience, resilience, and the belief that if you keep showing up, the rest will follow. The Golden Years of Fast Trax Those were the golden years — when the shop wasn’t just a business, but a living extension of what I believed: that sport has the power to connect people, build confidence, and change lives. As the community grew, so did the shop. What started as a small crew was suddenly bursting at the seams. Word spread, and people began to see that what set Fast Trax apart wasn’t just the gear or the race results — it was the mindset behind it. A local paper once ran a piece on running styles, describing two types of runners: extrinsic runners, who run for the scenery, and intrinsic runners, who run for the pure feel of movement. In the article, I said: “The extrinsic runners enjoy the scenery and being outside, but my big thing is that I enjoy the movement of exercise and the feeling of technique and a smooth stride. There are days when everything just clicks — the stride is perfect, the effort doesn’t seem like much, and you’re flying. That can happen downtown in Edmonton or in Hawrelak Park. I’ll equally enjoy both places because I like the movement.” At the time, it felt like a small comment. Looking back now, I can see it was the seed of everything that came after. Even today, that same love of movement drives me. Mileage Game grew out of it — the belief that joy isn’t in outcomes, but in the process. In putting in the work not just to get somewhere, but to see how deeply you can inhabit the stride. That’s what carried me through Fast Trax, through rebuilding from injury and back pain, and into this new chapter of chasing potential all over again. Building Fast Trax — From Hustle to Hub Before we even opened under my ownership, the first challenge was finding Fast Trax a permanent home. Under the previous owners, the shop only operated in winter, sharing space with Velo Cycle. But Velo needed their full space back each summer, and with my plan to add running and to run year-round, sharing wasn’t an option. If Fast Trax was going to grow, it needed its own space. I found it just down the street — a small corner location with visibility, presence, and potential. At first, I only rented the main floor. Inventory was thin, storage almost nonexistent, and it was hard to imagine how big it might one day become. But I’d been preparing for challenges like this all my life — from breaking horses on Howe Island to cutting ski trails at Hardwood. I knew how to hustle, adapt, and squeeze every ounce from an opportunity. That mindset defined the early years. When the barefoot boom hit and Vibram Five Fingers exploded in popularity, I jumped early. Fast Trax became the first and only shop in Alberta to carry them. At the peak, we sold thirty pairs a day. Boxes piled into every corner, chaos everywhere — but the energy was electric. As business grew, so did the need for help. I leaned first on the athletes I coached at ENSC. They weren’t just employees; they were part of the fabric of what we were building. We worked long days and late nights, tired but laughing, creating something bigger than ourselves. Eventually, even that wasn’t enough. We expanded into the basement — first half, then the entire space — converting it into storage while opening the retail floor upstairs. The old massage room became the back shop. The front expanded to house new lines and what became our hydration room — the largest selection of packs in Alberta. Fast Trax was no longer just a store. It was a hub — a place where athletes didn’t just buy gear, but came to belong. Racing to Build the Brand At the height of it all, as the shop grew, I never stopped being an athlete. In fact, the two were inseparable — every decision I made for Fast Trax was rooted in my own curiosity about training, gear, and the next challenge. I was either running or biking to the shop each day just to fit the mileage in. When we leaned into trail running, I did too, testing every shoe and pack myself. That’s what led me into ultras, and eventually the Canadian Death Race. I’ll never forget that first win. Five mountain summits, 125 kilometers, terrain that chewed people up. I lined up in my Fast Trax singlet, carrying the weight of the little shop we were building in Edmonton. Hours blurred — heat in the valleys, cold wind on the ridges, climbs and descents until every muscle screamed. Crossing the finish line, mud-streaked and exhausted, I knew it wasn’t just my victory. It was Fast Trax’s. I went back and won it again, and again — three straight years. Each victory didn’t just add to my résumé, it added to the shop’s story. Customers pointed to the singlet on the wall or asked about the race, and suddenly our little corner store carried the weight of something bigger. Not every race was a breakthrough. My back pain was always there, sometimes manageable, sometimes not. At the Sinister 7 Ultra, I lined up several times but had to withdraw each one. The good days were easy to celebrate. The bad days were harder — because when you’re out there wearing the name of your business, you can’t just pack it in quietly. As Fast Trax grew, we expanded beyond trails and skis, adding more road shoes. To connect with those runners, I went back to the roads myself — winning the Red Deer Marathon three times, claiming the Canadian 100km title, and representing Canada at six World 100km Championships. It wasn’t that I was drawn to ultras in particular. It was about flying the Fast Trax banner — showing that our little Edmonton shop could stand on the same stage as the biggest names in the sport. That same mindset brought me back to the track. To reach younger athletes looking for spikes and flats, I had to prove I still belonged on the oval. Performance became our marketing — not through slogans, but through action. Each race I ran seemed to bring new faces through the door. At one event I overheard a line that stuck: “This ain’t your mother’s running shop — but it should be.” Bold, a little irreverent, and entirely ours. Even our reviews carried that spirit. One of my favourites read: “Small independent shop run by a super athletic dude who has other super athletic dudes working for him, so they know what they're talking about. Got great advice when I went in to get a new x-country ski set, would definitely go back.” It still makes me smile — because it captured exactly what we were: athletes sharing what we loved, and helping others find their way into the sport. Racing drew people to our door, but results alone wouldn’t keep them. If we wanted their trust, we had to back it up with real expertise. Raising the Bar — Knowledge, Credibility, and Community As the first summer of Fast Trax gave way to winter, I quickly realized selling skis was a different ballgame. I knew skiing from years of training and racing, but I didn’t know skis the way customers deserved. And I was already stretched thin. I couldn’t do it all. That’s when Patrick and Paul Moore — two brothers I’d coached at ENSC — stepped in. What I admired most wasn’t just their talent, but their commitment to the process: showing up day after day with purpose. Patrick gravitated toward the equipment side, digging into ski tech and helping raise our game in how we selected, fit, and sold skis. Paul had a knack for words and became the one I leaned on to proof copy for the website, the blog, and early social media. Together, they elevated the level of knowledge in the shop, especially around equipment and wax. From the start, I believed we had to be more than a retail shop. We needed to be a source of information and insight. That meant writing — long blog posts, gear breakdowns, training notes. It was time-consuming, and in those pre-Squarespace days, building a website was no small task. Without Will Critchley, another athlete I coached, Fast Trax might never have had a functioning site at all. But the effort paid off. Those long nights of writing and refining helped us build credibility to match our passion. Fast Trax became more than a place to buy shoes or skis — it was where people came for knowledge, coaching, and connection. That’s what earned us recognition as Canada’s best run shop and Alberta’s best ski shop. Supporting Athletes and Community From the beginning, sponsorship was central to how we built Fast Trax — not just as a shop, but as part of the endurance community. It was never just a singlet and a discount. Athletes received full kits, shoes, and a place on our website — a true sense of belonging. Staff were included too: every spring and fall they received new running and skiing kits, so they felt part of what we were building together. Over time, I expanded the focus to younger athletes. Our sponsored team was mostly established racers, so I created the Fast Trax Junior Program for developing club and provincial skiers. It offered slightly deeper discounts and starter gear — skis, boots, poles, wax — enough to say, we’re in your corner. Supporting those kids and their families became one of the most rewarding parts of the shop. As we grew, our reach expanded to national-level athletes like Madeleine Williams, Graham Nishikawa, Philip Widmer, and Maya MacIsaac-Jones. We also partnered with the Alberta Provincial Ski Team, providing equipment and discounts. Sometimes, if I saw an athlete grinding without much support, I’d reach out before they even asked. With Spirit North, alongside Beckie Scott and Laura Filipow, we helped equip Indigenous youth in rural communities — donating shoes and aged inventory, and providing skis at cost so kids could participate consistently. With the ReRun Project, we donated both used and new shoes, including spikes, to schools where kids otherwise wouldn’t have access. And through Ever Active Schools, we donated over 300 pairs of shoes to AMA Youth Run Club students across Alberta, breaking down cost barriers to running. One of the most powerful moments came during the Fort McMurray wildfires. Watching the devastation unfold on the news, I knew people would need shoes — not for racing, but for basic dignity. I put up a post on social media, and within days, more than 500 pairs were gone. Many evacuees showed up in work boots or flip-flops, stunned and exhausted. For a brief moment, shoes weren’t about sport at all — they were about relief, dignity, and the simple comfort of putting one foot in front of the other when everything else had burned down. The Weight of Success Fast Trax had grown beyond what I ever imagined. What started as a scrappy little shop with a few pairs of Brooks shoes and ski gear we’d purchased from the previous owner had become a full-fledged hub — a community, a business, and a responsibility that never seemed to let go. Outwardly, things looked strong. The run club was thriving, the store was full, and the Fast Trax name carried weight. But behind the scenes, the strain was real. Looking back, I know some of that stress came from being unprepared to build something so big. I had the passion, but not the systems or business acumen to support it. As the years went on, the back pain became harder to manage. On the outside, it may have looked like I was losing interest — after twelve years of leading the run club, I stopped showing up. The truth is, I loved those evenings, but my body simply couldn’t handle it anymore. It wasn’t a lack of passion; it was pain that forced me to step away. Another weight pressed in too. I had watched alcoholism tear through my family, and I could see the same tendencies in myself. As the stress grew, I sometimes leaned in that direction — but even then, I kept searching for healthier ways to cope. I found peace not so much in running anymore, but in movement of another kind. Yoga became a refuge, a way to quiet the noise, loosen the grip of pain, and remind myself that I still had tools to rebuild. Then, in the middle of it all, my house caught fire. A missing grease pan led to flames that spread fast, melting the propane tank and leaving behind more than $250,000 in damage. I was left standing on the lawn as the fire department worked to put it out, watching everything I’d built go up in smoke. They even pulled my cat from an upstairs closet, alive but shaken. For six months I lived with family, piecing life back together. For years, my mantra had been the old Pinky and the Brain line: “What are we going to do tomorrow, Brain? The same thing we do every night — try to take over the world.” One day I woke up and realized: I didn’t need to take over the world anymore. I just needed to take back my own life. Stepping Away Letting go of Fast Trax was one of the hardest choices I’ve ever made. It had been my identity for so long — my work, my community, my purpose. Walking away felt like failure. But in time, I came to see it differently: not as defeat, but as a necessary ending. I had poured everything into the shop, and while that chapter was closing, I could take pride in knowing it mattered — that the community we built and the culture we created would live on long after my name was off the sign. And it has. Under its new owners, Simon and Mekita, Fast Trax continues to honour those roots. They’ve brought their own systems and vision, but the heartbeat remains the same. When I moved from Fast Trax into my new role at Nakamun, the timing couldn’t have been more unusual. COVID had arrived, and suddenly the entire sporting world was on pause. For endurance athletes, whose seasons are built around training toward a race date, the sudden loss of competition left a void. So, even as I was stepping away from retail and learning the ropes of a new career, I organized virtual ski races. The idea was simple: athletes logged their efforts individually, then shared their times online. We set up categories, tracked standings, and celebrated performances as if it were a real race. It wasn’t the same — but it gave people an outlet. For me, it was a way of giving back. A parting contribution to the Nordic ski community that had given me so much over the years. In the absence of finish lines, we built our own. What I didn’t realize at the time was that those virtual races were also a lesson for me. Even as I stepped away from Fast Trax and into a new world at Nakamun, I still needed to build, to create, to find ways to keep people moving forward. That drive hadn’t left with the shop — it was simply taking on a new shape. In many ways, it was the beginning of what I now call my Second Wind. From Fast Trax to Mileage Game When Fast Trax was no longer mine, it felt like a part of me had been stripped away. For years, the shop had been more than a business — it was an extension of who I was. When it ended, I carried not only exhaustion but also a quiet question: what now? At first, I did what I’d always done when life felt uncertain — I trained. Long runs, long skis, endless hours on the bike. There was comfort in the rhythm of heartbeats and breaths. But training alone wasn’t enough. Without the shop, I missed the sense of community, the feeling of building something larger than myself. Mileage Game didn’t arrive to replace Fast Trax. It grew from a different place — quieter, more personal. Where Fast Trax was about outfitting athletes, Mileage Game became about telling the story of what it takes to endure. It began as scribbles in notebooks, fragments of reflection on training, aging, and performance. Over time, those fragments gathered into something more: a way to give shape to my own journey while creating space for others to see themselves in it. Fast Trax had been about a community gathered around a storefront. Mileage Game became about a community gathered around an idea — that endurance is not just about sport, but about life. And from that idea, the next chapter began to take shape — a chapter I came to call Second Wind. SECOND WIND Second Wind Mileage Game was never meant to replace Fast Trax. It came from a different place — quieter, more personal. Fast Trax had always been outward-facing. It was about building something tangible for the community: a shop where people could walk in, talk about skis or running shoes, and leave a little more inspired to move. It was about outfitting others for their journeys. Mileage Game was different. It began as a place to explore the internal side of endurance — the lessons that accumulate over decades of training, racing, injury, reinvention, and persistence. The things you don’t see on results sheets or podiums. If Fast Trax was the physical expression of my life in endurance sport, Mileage Game became the reflective one. Through writing, training, and experimentation, I started to articulate something I had been learning slowly for years: that endurance isn’t only about how much work you can do. It’s about how well you can listen — to your body, to the signals of fatigue and rhythm, to the subtle feedback that tells you when you’re forcing something that should be allowed to flow.

The longer I stayed in sport, the more I realized that the real breakthroughs rarely came from pushing harder. They came from learning to move with less tension. That realization eventually crystallized into a simple idea that now guides much of how I train and live.

Calm is fast.

It sounds almost too simple, but it took decades to understand. Calm isn’t the absence of effort. It’s the absence of unnecessary effort. It’s the ability to bring preparation, awareness, and trust together so that the body can do what it has already learned to do.

Mileage Game became the place where that philosophy began to take shape. And eventually, it pointed me back toward something I hadn’t fully expected: racing again.

The Racing Comeback Mileage Game wasn’t just an outlet for reflection — it became a proving ground. Writing about endurance is one thing. Living it is another. If I was going to explore the ideas I was sharing, I needed to test them in the arena that had always taught me the most: competition. So I laced up again. Not with the urgency of youth, but with the curiosity that comes from experience. Track racing sharpened my speed and reminded me how much precision matters. The rhythm of the lap, the positioning, the timing — it all came back, but through a different lens. I wasn’t chasing the same goals I once had. I was chasing understanding. Hyrox added an entirely new dimension. It demanded the engine I had spent a lifetime building, but it tested it in ways that traditional endurance racing never had. Strength, transitions, pacing under fatigue — every station exposed weaknesses that running alone could hide. It was humbling. But it was also energizing. Each race became another opportunity to refine the principles that were beginning to define this phase of my life as an athlete. Move efficiently. Stay relaxed under pressure. Trust the work. Calm is fast. Project 1:15 Every athlete needs a target that sharpens their focus — something just difficult enough to make the work meaningful. For me, that target became Project 1:15. On paper, the goal is straightforward: break one hour and fifteen minutes in a Hyrox Pro race. But numbers on a clock are never the real story. Project 1:15 represents the integration of everything I’ve learned over decades in endurance sport — from the early ski races and marathons, to the years of building Fast Trax, to the injuries and reinventions that forced me to rethink how training actually works. It’s about applying those lessons with precision. Training smarter instead of simply harder. Building the aerobic engine patiently, using the principles of Norwegian threshold training, and combining them with strength and movement patterns that support efficiency rather than break it down. The goal isn’t just speed. The goal is sustainable performance. And beyond that target lies something even bigger. The 2026 Hyrox World Championships in Sweden. The Staging Ground By now, the pieces are in motion. Training blocks have been logged. Protocols tested. Setbacks absorbed and lessons integrated. Momentum builds slowly in endurance sport. There are no shortcuts — only layers of work, stacked patiently over time.

Project 1:15 has become more than a goal. It has become a lens through which everything else comes into focus. Every workout, every recovery day, every adjustment to training or nutrition now connects to that larger picture.

And through it all, the guiding principle remains the same. Calm is fast. The calmer I become within the work — the more I trust the process — the more effective the training becomes.

It’s a paradox that took years to understand. The harder you chase speed, the further away it often moves. But when you focus on rhythm, efficiency, and patience, speed begins to appear almost on its own.

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WHAT COMES NEXT

What Comes Next Mileage Game served its purpose. It gave me a place to think out loud, to experiment, to share ideas about endurance and training that were still evolving. But eventually I realized something important. The lessons were no longer something I needed to write about constantly. They had become something I simply lived. So Mileage Game is coming to a close. Not as an ending, but as a transition. The philosophy behind it — the idea that endurance is as much about awareness as effort — continues to shape everything I do. But the next phase will be simpler. Train. Race. Learn. This story is still being written. The next chapter begins at Hyrox Washington on March 9th, where Project 1:15 gets its first real test. From there the path continues toward Hyrox Ottawa, and ultimately the 2026 Hyrox World Championships in Sweden. For now, though, the story pauses here. Not at a finish line, but at the start of another stretch of road. The next pages won’t be written at this desk. They’ll be written on the competition floor — under the weight of a sled, in the rhythm of the ergs, and in the quiet space inside where the real race always happens. Because after everything I’ve learned, one truth remains clear. Speed doesn’t come from force. It comes from clarity. It comes from patience. It comes from trust. Calm is fast. THE LONG WAY AROUND The Long Way Around And maybe that was the lesson waiting for me all along — from the quiet roads of Howe Island, to the shop floors of Fast Trax, to the race courses I still chase today. The long way around was never really about getting somewhere faster. It was about learning how to move forward with purpose. And that journey, I’ve come to realize, never truly ends. For most of my life I was chasing something — a result, a performance, a way to prove that the work meant something. But somewhere along the long way around, that need slowly faded. Now the journey is simply mine. I train because I love the rhythm of it. I race because I’m curious about what’s still possible. And I move through the days with a quiet kind of peace that only comes when you no longer feel the need to prove anything to anyone. After everything — the miles, the shop, the races, the reinventions — that may be the greatest lesson endurance ever gave me. Just keep moving forward. Because sometimes the long way around is exactly the way you’re meant to go. Jack