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Phil Chew – Redefining disabled

He bopped into Wild Willie's ski shop with his eyes as round as saucers. He still wore his forerunner's bib and downhill suit. A silly grin was spread across his grizzled features. "Wow," he said, his sandpapery voice almost dreamy in tone. "Wow.
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He bopped into Wild Willie's ski shop with his eyes as round as saucers. He still wore his forerunner's bib and downhill suit. A silly grin was spread across his grizzled features. "Wow," he said, his sandpapery voice almost dreamy in tone. "Wow. Wow. Wow." A long pause. "That was really fast."

And then he laughed. Almost manically - like a little kid after a particularly dangerous escapade. Continued talking. "The snow was way harder than I expected. I mean, it was totally slick. And I got going way too fast. I thought I was done for..."

It was obvious from his tone that a boatload of adrenaline was still surging through his body. He was almost shaking he was so excited. "It caught me by surprise, you know. I came screaming through Frog Bank there and got so low that I thought 'there's now way I'm gonna make it through the next gate...'" Another growly guffaw. "But I did. Still, I need to put a little more edge on my ski."

Bill Lamond wore his usual sardonic half-smile. "What have you been doing with this ski?" asked the shop's owner as he examined the lone downhill board sceptically. "Been riding through the parking lot with it? No wonder you found the going tough." He let the thought hang there for a few seconds. Then he laughed. "Good thing you don't have two of 'em. I'd be here till midnight."

The skier nodded. Almost absentmindedly. "Yeah. Yeah. Whatever. Besides, I haven't used that ski since forerunning last year's World Cup finals. And the course was a lot softer then." It was clear the two had a longstanding relationship. Mutual needling was their common tongue. "Could you just make sure I don't go sideways tomorrow?"

Lamond nodded. "You go and do your chores bud. I'll make sure this ski is sharp enough to shave with by the time you get back."

The skier sighed with relief. "I've got a competitor's meeting right now," he said. "But I'll be back in an hour." He stopped. A monster grin split his face in half. "I really appreciate this Bill. I owe you."

"Yeah - about a million bucks' worth," answered Lamond. "I'll just put it on your tab."

As suddenly as he appeared, the guy was gone. For a man with one leg and crutches, I thought, he sure can move fast...

I wasn't planning on doing a story on Phil Chew. After all, the long-time Whistlerite has been something of a media darling these last few weeks. Carrier of the Games torch, coach of some of the biggest names at the event, general spokesperson for all things Paralympic, Chew doesn't really need any more promotion. But I couldn't help myself. He deserves another story. The guy is such a mensch .

I mean, seriously. Chew is an extraordinary individual. Doubt my words? Consider this: at the venerable age of 56 years, the B.C. Paralympic coach is still the skier fingered by organizers to forerun the Games' marquis event. And don't be fooled. This is virtually the same downhill course the best women on the planet ran during the Olympics. Sure, it has a lower start and a few more control gates. But it's still a heart-beatingly scary run.

Especially when course conditions get firm. When it was slick last week - hard and fast and totally unforgiving - it was the fiftysomething Chew who was picked to set the first track down the hill. As usual, he did a fine job of it. And while he admits the speed on the course kind of shocked him, he says he wouldn't trade his forerunners' bib for anything in the world.

"It's such an honour," he tells me. "I've been to so many of these events over the years." He stops. Laughs. "Since the early '80s, man. It's been a long time. But to host the Paralympics; that's really sweet. And so exciting to be a part of. I can't get enough of it."

But it's not like he's a one trick athlete or anything. When conditions suddenly changed a few days later and training on the course was cancelled, I got a text message from a friend. "Just saw Phil C. Didn't wait for the organizers to make it official. He had his powder ski on and was headin' for the goods." That's Phil all over.

The guy's a perpetual motion machine. And a very talented machine at that. Think about it. I do every time I see him choogling through the trees in knee-deep powder, his outrigger poles surfing the snow on either side of him. I think about it every time I catch him roller-coastering along some gnarly single track on his mountain bike, his lone leg pumping out revs at an insane cadence. I mean, you gotta be insane to be Phil Chew.

Whistler is home to a bevy of top-level athletes - maybe more per capita than anywhere else in Canada. From downhill racers to skiercross stars, from long-distance runners to mountain bike divas, this valley attracts action jocks like flies to... well, you know what I mean.

Still, for my money, Phil Chew is The Man .  On my virtual wall of Whistler Champions, he stands head-and-shoulders above everyone else. And not just for his physical feats. Though his biking and skiing are truly inspiring to watch (unless of course, you're struggling to keep up with the one-legged wonder), it's his positive attitude and warrior spirit that really impress me.

I know. I know. Everyone has their favourite jock in this town. And I take nothing away from the Mannys and Robbies and Maëlles and Ashleighs and all the other young up-and-comers who make their home in Sea to Sky country. It's just that Chew seems to live the Whistler spirit with every breath he takes.

Don't you think? Just take a look at his resume. For the last quarter century, Chew has been on the leading edge of disabled sports. In fact, in the late 1980s and early '90s, the affable one-legged skier was the man to beat on the international stage. "We were true amateurs in those days," he says with a self-deprecating grin. "I pretty much paid for the whole thing myself..."

But he admits he could have never done it alone. Fortunately for Chew, there were those in the valley who understood the challenges the young skier faced in wanting to be the best in the world. "Dave Murray became my mentor," he explains. "His Masters Ski Camps were totally open to me." He laughs. "You see, I was the only Paralympian training in those days and Mur probably felt sorry for me a little."

Maybe. But given the legendary Crazy Canuck's enthusiasm for outgoing people, I would bet that he was just as motivated by Chew's determination and hard work as he was by his 'disabled' status. "Mur taught me so much," says Chew. "And not just about ski technique." He lets the words hang for a moment. "Whistler lost a great man when he passed away in 1990..." And then: "Dave would have been so proud of his town this year."

Indeed. And however that special connection was forged, the Murray-Chew relationship worked. Inspired by his new mentor and hungry for results, Chew earned multiple podium finishes at various World Championship events, competed in demonstration races at the Sarajevo Games in 1984 and again in Calgary in 1988, and finally carried the flag for Canada at the Winter Paralympics in 1992 in Albertville, France.

"That was huge for me," he says (with just a hint of nostalgia in his voice). "Walking into the stadium carrying the Maple Leaf and listening to the roar of the crowd..." He smiles. Sighs at the 18-year old memories. "I still get goose-bumps just thinking about it."

Alas, Albertville would be his last kick at the competitive can. "My wife was pregnant with our oldest boy," he explains. "And I had to find a way to make a living. At that point I'd been on the national team for a decade. And I wasn't getting any richer..."

But Chew refused to throw in the towel completely. Instead, he started mentoring others. Head coach of the B.C. Disabled Ski Team since 1993, the former star has had a huge hand in developing the next generation of disabled athletes in the country.

"I still remember how I felt at my first event," he explains. "It was weird, you know. There were so many different disabilities that I felt like I was attending a freak show. And I was totally turned off." He looks at me. Sees my confusion. Laughs raucously. "Now I realize I'm part of that freak show," he explains. "And I'm totally okay with it."

Another long pause. "Ski racing taught me a lot over the years," he says. "I had some great teachers. Now it's my turn to teach. I only hope I'm giving as good as I got."

Somehow I think that's covered...