Harbouring no emotional expectations, he had travelled to Wales in 2011 to visit the gravesite of the teenager whose heart was beating in his chest. But that day, looking at the headstone in the cemetery and standing beside the father of the organ donor, Keith was moved beyond words.

He felt his own life shift.

“I definitely had an epiphany.”

A quarter-century earlier, the transplant had saved Keith. But back then, bringing together the families of organ recipients and donors was not commonplace. “The thinking was, ‘If you dare to reach out, that will open the wounds and they’ll have to relive the trauma,’” he says. “The philosophy was that you had to keep everyone separated.”

But the former soccer star—in the process of writing a book about being the first person to play professional sports after heart-transplant surgery—realized he needed to know more about the gift’s origins, even decades later.

So, Keith arranged that overseas trip to pay his respects to donor Jonathan Groves and their heart’s history. “I hadn’t thought much about the family and the young man who’d passed away,” he says. “Up till that time, my competitiveness was focused inward — I need to do this, I need to do this, I need to …”

People wired like me are so competitive and so driven, nothing that happened yesterday is relevant. It’s always, ‘What’s on the horizon?’

But, jolted by the graveyard experience, Keith’s me-first approach vanished. He was inspired. “It was, ‘I’m going to change — I’m going to do for others.’”

Energized by the possibilities, he established the Simon Keith Foundation with his wife, Kelly, to help young organ recipients return to active lifestyles and to raise awareness about donor registration.

Committed to advocacy, he openly shares his powerful story with dozens of audiences every year. “It’s really mission driven and it’s really for those kids.”

He recently hosted the Simon Keith Foundation Heart of Gold Gala and Concert, a red-carpet event in Victoria, B.C. that generated $3 million in donations. “We’re definitely going to do more galas. Maybe in Montreal, Toronto, Calgary, Vegas, New York, who knows?”

Trust him to figure it out. Because Keith—born in England, raised in Victoria, settled in Las Vegas—isn’t one to sit still. “People wired like me are so competitive and so driven, nothing that happened yesterday is relevant. It’s always, ‘What’s on the horizon?’”

That full-steam-ahead mentality has served him well.
As a blossoming soccer player, he had been determined to crack Team Canada’s lineup and participate in the 1986 World Cup. Ever gung-ho, he was on pace, until, as a 19-year-old striker of the University of Victoria, he got a diagnosis of viral myocarditis. Without a new heart, he was dead.

The wait was excruciating. “Soul-sucking, dark, lonely, a terrible place to be,” Keith says. “Groundhog Day every day. You can’t think about anything else. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. It’s where character is born, that’s for sure.”

Eventually welcoming a donation—Groves, only 17, had perished while playing soccer—Keith was immediately obsessed with the goal of returning to the pitch. His surgeon, Sir Terence English, encouraged him, saying go ahead and “resume the life you led prior to being sick.”
Music to his ears. “That became my North Star.”

Three years later, while starring for the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, he was selected No. 1 in the Major Indoor Soccer League’s draft by the Cleveland Crunch. Soon after, he became the first post-heart-transplant professional player—in any sport. “Ability, perseverance, stupidity, whatever you want to call it, I’m really proud,” says Keith, who, later, suited up for the Victoria Vistas, Winnipeg Fury and Montreal Supra of the Canadian Soccer League. “It happened.

I was there, man. I know how hard it was.”

He has barely slowed. Earlier this year, against all odds, Keith celebrated his 60th birthday. “Every day is uncharted territory. What’s up? What’s next?” It’s no surprise to hear that he runs and cycles, lifts weights and plays tennis, golfs and cheers for his beloved Vegas Golden Knights. He carries on like someone half his age.

“I’m in a world where just being me is really fun.”

His remarkable journey is ongoing, but Keith acknowledges that he’s taken time to reflect, to consider the mark he’s making.

He’s been immortalized numerous times—Order of Canada, David Foster Foundation Visionary Award, inductions into assorted halls of fame—so one would blame him for puffing out his chest, which, by the way, contains his third heart after a 2019 procedure that also included
a kidney transplant.

But his outlook is decidedly selfless.

“The reality? I’ll be viewed as someone who did something that no one else had done before, which is great, but it’s not the legacy I want,” says Keith. “I’m hoping there’s people in the world who have been helped, who have changed their perspective, through an interaction with me or my family or my team. That’s what I ultimately hope.” 

Photography: JerryMetellus

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“But for me? I really enjoy new experiences,” he says. “Doing the same thing over and over is boring. We have a finite amount
of time—that’s just a fact.”

Fitted with a ready-or-not mentality, Britton is one adventurous soul, which is why the Victoria resident’s juices had been frothing after a decade as a professional road cyclist.

“It’s like Groundhog Day,” he says. So, four years ago, he heaved himself into the wild world of gravel racing. “I wanted to test
what I could do.”

In May, the 40-year-old got his answer when he captured the highly regarded Unbound Gravel XL in Kansas. To conquer 563 punishing and unsupported kilometres, Britton needed less than 18 hours, averaging 32.4 km/h. En route to shredding the course record, he added to his well of tall tales—wheeling over a badger, chasing down cycling legend Lachlan Morton.

Dominating the longest distance of the world’s premier gravel event earned him headlines. “I have garnered 10 times more notoriety and public interest by winning the XL—much more than my previous road racing career combined,” he says, chuckling.

However, not all of the athlete’s plunges into the unknown have turned out so well.

Britton’s maiden bikepacking venture was eye-opening, especially for someone who’d never experienced even one overnight excursion. But with 60 pounds of gear strapped to his bike, he off-roaded through the Rocky Mountains, grunting his way from Calgary, Alta to Port Renfrew, B.C., in 2018. “Kind of hilarious—going from zero to 100,” he says of the 10-day education. “Bikepacking was not as easy as the internet and Instagram made it appear.”

Then there was the 2022 BC Epic, featuring 1,000 off-road kilometres between Merritt and Fernie. “No real prep work. I just jumped in headfirst,” says Britton, who nevertheless posted the fastest known time—two days, nine hours—while fundraising for the Wirth Foundation, which offers access to mental health services for those in need.

“It was a terrible idea.”

A much better idea? Taking the tradition of a gruesome late-season slog with his chums—in December!—and transforming it into a popular community event. Christened The Last Ride, it always sells out, despite the ringleader’s deviously plotted routes.

But even Britton has limits. His open-mindedness stretches only so far. For instance, he has no interest in the Tour Divide, a self-supported 4,400-kilometre mountain-bike ordeal from Banff, Alta., to Antelope Wells, N.M. “That would break you so permanently. I’m wrecked enough as it is—I don’t need more stuff to drag me down. So, a resounding no.”

Laughing, Britton pauses. “Well, who knows?”

For a guy who thrives on the unexpected, never say never. 

Photography: John Kasaian

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The Calgary runners have announced plans to complete 10 marathons in 10 days in 10 provinces in May and, in the process, raise $1 million for Autism Aspergers Friendship Society, KidSport, and Big Brothers Big Sisters.

Despite the whopper of an undertaking, they are optimistic—yet modest.

“You don’t have to be an elite athlete,” says Hanson. “You just have to work hard and plan. We’re just two regular guys.”

Regular, in the case of these gents, is a relative term.

Hanson, 44, tugs on his sneakers nearly every day, hammering out 170 kilometres per week. With family and work commitments, he rises at 3:00 a.m. to fit trots into his busy routine. (The excursions are so early that Strava logs them as night runs.)

In September, for the heck of it, he whipped through marathon-length outings – 42.2 kilometres – on five consecutive days. Hanson says he could have made it through six, but he “didn’t feel the need to push any harder.”

And Morin? Well, in the wee hours one day last summer, he decided to head to the neighbourhood track. There, he knocked out 250 laps—yes, 100 kilometres. And rather than rant about the monotony of the ordeal – in which he paced the same direction for all 16 hours – he smiles and talks about the “cool” experience of running while the sun was rising and still making strides when the sun started to set. “These different challenges appeal to me.”

We fully expect to be in pain for a good portion of this…

No kidding. During a recent six-month stay in New York City, Morin dashed down every street in Manhattan, an accomplishment that earned him a letter of recognition from Mayor Eric Adams.

“Running for me has always been a mix of adventure as well as the athletic side,” says Morin, 33, a management consultant at McKinsey & Company. “I’ve enjoyed being able to dive into that.”

So, it was no surprise when Hanson cooked up this 10-in-10-in-10 escapade four years ago, that Morin instantly pledged his participation. “I joke that I don’t think I actually finished the last sentence (of the pitch), and he was already in,” says Hanson, laughing. “He’s not scared to challenge himself.”

Despite the concerns of others – especially when it’s made clear that the mission is 10 marathons in 10 straight days – they remain wholeheartedly committed.

“Runners look at it like, ‘That’s really, really, really, really hard, but I could see it being done,'” says Hanson. But non-runners? “My dad is worried that I could die. People are like, ‘You can’t physically do that. That’s not humanly possible. That is insane.'”

Adds Morin: “It’s ambitious and a little audacious and a little bit crazy, but within the realm of consideration. Both Mike and I get excited about big goals, about pushing ourselves, about seeing what’s possible. And having the chance to pair that up with a big impact? It was an easy yes.”

Applauding the charities for empowering youth through mentorship, inclusion and community, the buddies point out that the connections are personal.

When Hanson’s twin sons, Tyler and Cole, now 14, were diagnosed with autism, he said they received a lot of support. Aware that others get left behind, he wants to pitch in. “Autism Aspergers Friendship Society is such an amazing organization,” says Hanson, director of field operations for Cenovus Energy. “I’ve seen the impact.”

Having grown up immersed in a wide range of athletic pursuits, they have soft spots for KidSport, which helps to reduce financial barriers for kids who are eager to play sports.

Morin, who volunteered for Big Brothers Big Sisters for nearly a decade, emphasizes the increasing reliance on these charities. He adds that the 10in10in10.ca website provides details for individual donations and corporate sponsorships.

“If we can help, that’s more gratifying than finishing the 10 marathons, knowing that kids out there are getting access to these services,” says Hanson.

Meanwhile, the pavement awaits.

Logistics settled, charities notified, campaign established, training miles banked, the challenge kicks off May 16 in St. John’s, N.L.

Then, via highway and air travel, they will drop into Halifax, Charlottetown, Fredericton, Montréal, Toronto, Winnipeg, Regina, Vancouver for do-it-yourself jaunts, before concluding May 25 at the Servus Calgary Marathon, the only sanctioned event of the tour.

They are aiming to run 4 hours 30 minutes for all the marathons, planning to start every day at 7:00 a.m. and, of course, finish together. Closely monitored will be nutrition, hydration, and rest. Medical practitioners are lined up in each city, so, if necessary, the sore-footed heroes can arrange same-day treatment.

“We fully expect to be in pain for a good portion of this,” says Hanson. “I’m sure every step is going to hurt during the last several marathons, but it’s not the first time we’ve run like that.”

However, it’s anticipation, not dread, that the friends are feeling in the lead-up to the venture. Energized by the difference-making potential, they are stoked.

“We’re winging it,” says Hanson, “so we’re interested to see how this goes. This could get really big—we’re hopeful it does.” 

Photography: Jana Miko

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Tears running down her face, Cardinal wants to quit.

Until she meets “this really cool lady.” The kind stranger joins her on the trail and the two walk quietly for a spell. Then her new friend tells Cardinal an uplifting story about how once, when she was struggling on the course, people stayed with her and provided encouragement. Choking up, she relays to Cardinal their sound advice: “Don’t stop unless you’re proud.”

The words resonated. Now, a decade later, they continue to inspire Cardinal.

“When I’m in that place, I remember,” she says. “That could mean many things, right? I’ve been in situations when I’ve done everything I can and said: ‘This is as far as I can go. I wish I could finish.’ But being proud is different for everybody. It’s very personal. It’s subjective. The important thing is that self-love.”

That day in Canmore, Alberta, Cardinal missed the time cut-off in what had been her first ultramarathon attempt. The following year? You know she crossed the finish line.

The moving message has spirited her through many off-road experiences, including last year’s Javalina Jundred 100-kilometre race in Fountain Hills, Arizona, which she calls her biggest accomplishment in the sport.

Away from the trails, too, the attitude serves her well.

For instance, when Cardinal decided to pursue her childhood dream of becoming a lawyer, she was relentless. In 2022, at the age of 46, she graduated from the University of Alberta’s law school.

“I just keep going, keep going, keep going, and I don’t look up to see what I’m doing till later,” she says. “Don’t stop unless you’re proud, right?”

Running has never felt like a super-inclusive sport. That’s why it’s super important to represent.

Running and law make up only part of the remarkable story. Heroically, she’s meshed those elements to further her true passion—indigenous advocacy and justice.

“It’s been braided together,” says Cardinal, who is Nêhiyaw (Cree) and a member of Woodland Cree First Nation, which is situated on Treaty 8 Territory in northern Alberta.

Determined and generous, she’s been revealed as a leader, a force. There’s no better way to describe Cardinal.

Back when she was chipping away at a bachelor’s degree with night courses, she watched a video in sociology class about the forced sterilization of Indigenous women in Alberta. “I remember feeling so numb, so shocked,” she says. “That was a profound moment in my life.”

The next morning, she brought the issue to the attention of the law firm where she worked full-time as a paralegal. A class-action lawsuit was opened on behalf of those affected, including her mother, May, who became the representative plaintiff.

“That’s what really got me saying, ‘Okay, I am for sure going to apply to law school.'”

Four years ago, Cardinal laid the groundwork for the Orange Shirt Day Run/Walk, which is held September 30, the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, in Edmonton. Registration continues to increase, and the event has expanded to Saskatoon and Peace River, Alberta.

“Our hope is that more people feel comfortable to participate in events because of the Orange Shirt Day Run/Walk,” she says. “Running brings people together, forwarding that dialogue about residential schools and the harm—and the continued harm. It’s a way to heal because movement is medicine and running is ceremony.”

As founder of the Indigenous Runner club, Cardinal issued a social media “beacon” to welcome runners, to let them know they weren’t alone, to foster a sense of community. “Running has always been a source of joy, communication, sport—all kinds of things—for our ancestors,” she says. “We’re continuing to honour them.”

Through Cardinal’s initiatives, money has been collected for grassroots organizations, such as the Orange Shirt Society. Thanks to fundraisers, two Indigenous teams had their costs covered at this year’s Canadian Death Race.

“Running has never felt like a super-inclusive sport,” she says. “That’s why it’s sup r-important to represent.”

Which is what happened at the Servus Calgary Marathon in May—females wore ribbon running skirts, while males tied ribbons to their hydration packs.

She recently coined the term, “Run Concili-Action,” to make obvious the desire to do more than talk. It’s a notion she exemplifies. On top of advocacy projects, race and club commitments, lawyer duties and volunteer shifts, Cardinal finds time to hit the trails.

Preparing for two races in Arizona, the Black Canyon Ultra in February and the Antelope Canyon Ultra in March, she enjoys exploring Edmonton’s river valley.

She refers to the network of paths as her “place of refuge” and the demanding pastime as her therapy.

“That’s one of the things I love about ultra running,” says Cardinal. “You really, truly come to this raw place. You face yourself—your good, bad and ugly—and you come through it a better person. Because you’re strong and you realize your strength.

“In that weakness, you discover your own strength. That’s the beautiful part about it and why I love it so much.” 

Photographed with permission on the kihcihkaw askî-Sacred Land, Whitemud Park, Edmonton, AB.

Photography by Jonathan Deschenes

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“That’s a good point to make,” Smith says, chuckling. But it’s clear she’d rather run hills than hear raves. “I am humble when people are complimentary. I don’t think I’m that exceptional, really.”

Nevertheless, she’s autographed the Canadian masters record book on a regular basis for a couple of decades. At a number of age benchmarks (60, 65, 70, 75) over a variety of distances (from five kilometres to marathon), she’s personalized national standards.

Yet her racing days are far from over.

I like being able to say, ‘I did the best I can do’.
That’s a great feeling. I enjoy pushing myself.

On January 14th, Smith whizzed through the Harriers Pioneer 8K in North Saanich, B.C., in 39:05. Two weeks later, she completed the Cobble Hill 10K in 49:11. Pending official approval, those are world records.

Challenges it seems are endless. “Internal interest” is what fuels her. “I can always find new goals, even if the goal posts change a bit. And it’s not always built on time. Maybe feeling really great that day is a win. I like being able to say, ‘I did the best I can do.’ That’s a great feeling. I enjoy pushing myself.”

Only to a point. Because as tough as Smith is—and by now no one would dare to dispute that—she’s wise, and she’s reasonable. Her prowess is enhanced by common sense—not reckless forays down the paths.

But she is hardly satisfied. She talks about doing something to improve her marathon times, which are troubling her. And she is ever eager to find ways to modify her race schedule to maximize performance.

“I can tolerate pain to a fair degree,” says Smith. “As long as it’s pain that’s not debilitating, like when your brain is saying, ‘This is not smart.’ You don’t want to overdo it. Some people tend to be so keen—’Why do 20 minutes when I could do 40?’—and then they get injured. Listen to your body. Be patient.”

Which isn’t to say Smith lollygags.

Monday may be a day off, but Tuesday features gym time in the morning and speed work in the evening. After an easy run Wednesday, there is a tempo session on Thursday. Friday is another day off before Saturday’s hour-long run and Sunday’s distance workout, which may stretch to 35 kilometres.

The routine and the camaraderie of her Comox Valley Road Runners clubmates never fail to put a smile on her face. “Psychologically, if the training is not fun, then physically you’re probably going to break down.”

Who could argue with Smith’s approach? With a competitive prime that revealed itself during her late 50s, she refers to herself as a ”late bloomer.” But she’s always been athletic, playing basketball and volleyball as a high school student in Halifax.

Graduating from Dalhousie University—where she had been a member of the varsity field hockey team—Smith embarked on a career as a physical education teacher, working in Nova Scotia and P.E.I. before turning her attention in a fresh direction.

“I had this interest to go north,” she explains. “As it happened, there were several positions available in the western Arctic. And I thought, ‘Well, I’ll go.’”

Which began an uninterrupted stay above the 60th parallel—10 years in Whitehorse, Yukon, then 20 more in Yellowknife—where, while transitioning from teacher to recreation development officer, she embraced cross-country skiing. To fill the summer months, she took up running.

In 1980, adhering to an unsophisticated training schedule—15 kilometres every second day—Smith signed up for the Whitehorse Marathon. “Just something to try,” she says, “just to see how I’d do.” She finished in 3:51, with no hard feelings. “I thought I would do it again. I got hooked.”

But it wasn’t until 2005—a quarter of a century later—that road racing truly took hold.

At 57, retirement gave her more time to devote to the sport. Exposed to high-calibre coaching and year-round training on Vancouver Island, she fell in with a group of like-minded folks. And Smith loves being part of a team. “It really makes a difference. You do better when you’re with somebody else.”

Fellow runners, in turn, appreciate her presence. Because that age-defying clip, in addition to shattering records and drawing headlines, serves to encourage others.

At the 2023 Chicago Marathon, where ages are included on the race bibs, she caused a few double-takes as she tackled the race’s gruelling latter stages. “People would go by and say, ‘Oh, you’re such as inspiration,’” says Smith, grinning. “It’s nice. I like it if people are inspired. If that does help to motivate people, that’s kind of neat.”

And as her splendid body of work continues to expand, she’s proving to be a role model for more than golden-age excellence. Smith is also a pacesetter for modesty.

“It’s not that I’ve had miraculous times,” says the fastest 75-year-old woman on the planet. “I think it’s been the perseverance and willingness to put in the time.”

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What’s more impressive than posting personal-best times by the age of 48?

What’s more impressive than progressing without the aid of coaches?

Answer: Jodi Moore ticking those boxes while coping with autism, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, dyspraxia, and sensory processing differences. The diagnoses were made only eight years ago, but she’s been dealing with these conditions all her life—and still banking countless miles.

“I have often wondered if I didn’t have all this, would I be a faster and stronger runner?” says Moore. “But if I was typical and able to do the things that everybody else does, I might not need running
for what it does for me. I don’t think I would be in very good health right now if I wasn’t a runner. It’s my way of dealing with stress.
It’s my anti-depressant.”

When in need of mood-boosting, however, she isn’t someone who can just tug on a pair of tights and dart out the front door. Coordination complications, including the inability to stand on one foot for more than a couple of seconds, prevent the Calgary resident from tackling technical trails or braving icy conditions.

Nearly blind in her left eye, visual impairment creates anxiety, and sensory sensitivity means that sudden noises, like a cyclist’s bell on a pathway, can drop her on the spot. Bright light—during a sunny day or, worse, from the glare of snow on the ground—stops her from stepping outside.

Indoor workouts aren’t easy, either, and as much as she’d like to address her low muscle tone, strength training triggers migraine headaches. But, despite daily hurdles, she’s never considered abandoning the sport. Determined to maintain fitness, she punishes her basement treadmill: over the years she’s burned out three of the contraptions. By striding inside or on byways, she manages to thump out 110 weekly kilometres.

Moore refuses to imagine a life without running.

“No matter how much I’m pushing myself, it’s relaxing,” says the 49-year-old, wearing dark glasses during an evening conversation in her living room. “It’s a way of grounding myself: just me and the road. It’s probably the closest I can come to having some kind of rhythm. It is kind of soothing.”

Moore, who graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in psychology from Athabasca University a year ago with plans to pursue her master’s degree, says lacing up her sneakers as a child and nowadays, is linked to self-worth.

“I started running as therapy to prove to myself that I could do this and I wasn’t a complete waste of space like everyone thought I was,” says Moore, who finished the 2021 New York City Marathon in 3:28:05—her best-ever time. “I don’t have a hero. I don’t have a running mentor. I just said to myself that I was going to do this.”

And despite a kitchen table nearly buckling under the weight of well-earned medals and trophies, she’s not finished. Moore has knocked off five of the six World Marathon Majors—Tokyo remains on her to-do list. The idea of clocking sub-four-hour marathons in all 50 of the U.S. states appeals to her. “Don’t limit yourself. Don’t let anybody tell you that you can’t do something,” she says. “Switch off the part of your brain that says, ‘I can’t do it,’ and keep on going.”

Growing up in Vancouver, running was the one thing she could count on. As a little girl with few friends, she would trot around the schoolyard to kill time during the lunch break. The slowest member of the Grade 5 track team, she discovered that the farther she ran the more she enjoyed it. She remembers breezing through a local 10 km. “I wasn’t even tired,” recalls Moore. “It was like, ‘I can keep going.’”

For her birthday, she got a card referring to her as a “marathon runner.” Well-meaning, but inaccurate. So she decided to earn
that title.

With the odds stacked against her—self-trained and undernourished (“borderline anorexic”) and wearing tattered shoes—the 13-year-old winced through all 42.2 kilometres of the 1987 Vancouver Marathon. “Everything hurt,” she says. “It hurt for a week to walk. I’d be at school climbing the stairs and I’d be, ‘Ow, ow, ow.’”

But diminish her appetite for the sport? Hardly. “Oh, I wanted more.” A year later, she bagged another marathon.

Running was becoming everything in Moore’s world. It served as an “escape” from a less-than-loving home life. “I didn’t get along with (my guardians) and they didn’t think too much of me.” And running was something she could do well. For a troubled kid, something like that resonates. Still does, in fact.

“I had a hard time with a lot of school stuff. I wasn’t smart, I wasn’t popular, I wasn’t good at anything. I was always the last one picked for sports. But I could run marathons,” says Moore. “When you’re good at a lot of things, then one thing might not have much significance for you. But when running is one of the very few things you’re actually capable of doing?”

She laughs. “Then it’s all about the running.” 

Photo by Trudie Lee

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The Calgarian created a self-shot video of the approved routine. Then with high hopes, he submitted six minutes of his smoothest moves to senior instructors. This was August 2019. He soon had a reply: not good enough.

Wong, however, was not going to surrender. Good thing. Because, as he sweated through more auditions, rejections began to stack up. Five; 10; 20; 25. For his own mental well-being, he persisted. After all, devoting himself to this cause served as a productive distraction from life’s “emotional roller-coaster.” As he noted, “It was still there, that badness, but I didn’t have time to be depressed.”

After seven months’ worth of submissions—including his 27th—an instructor invited Wong to the gym one night. It turned out to be a surprise party to welcome him aboard. Finally, the seal of approval from High Fitness. “Oh, I cried. I couldn’t believe it. I did it.”
Certification had been a soul-salving benchmark. He really needed validation as years of crushing self-worth issues had made his path towards mental health an arduous one.

In 2017, as a single parent with shared custody of his two children, he’d been devastated when his teenaged daughters decided to live full-time with their mother. “That was the worst thing I went through. That was the catalyst for my depression,” said Wong. “I’d wake up saying, ‘Is this the day I’m going to do it?’ I didn’t want to live anymore.” He went as far as jotting down a list of items to buy for his suicide attempt.

I always felt that if I went through something and learned something, it’s meaningless unless I can pass it on.

But Wong kept working—he’s in the organic food industry—and, because he’d already paid for a Fitness Plus membership, he kept working out. “Thank god.”

Lonely and yearning for interaction—and not getting much engagement from the gym-rats at the weight rack—he joined a spin class. But even that lacked social give-and-take. One day, the spin instructor nudged him towards something new, a re-imagined brand of aerobics called High Fitness.

Hooked, Wong was soon going three times per week, relishing the runner’s high of intense workouts, while fortifying his mental health. This version of group fitness was providing what he needed: community, family, empathy. “It’s hard to be depressed when you’re surrounded by all that,” he recalls.

Feeling much better, he made the decision to teach. “I always felt that if I went through something and learned something, it’s meaningless unless I can pass it on.” So, it had been gratifying when High Fitness gave him the go-ahead on March 1, 2020, even if fate tried to intervene. The very next day he was diagnosed with a hernia. A few weeks later COVID-19 shut down the world. By then, though, there was no stopping Wong. “I said, ‘Forget it. I’ve put too much work into this.’ The momentum of it was keeping me from the dark place.”

His roll continues. At the High Fitness Instructor Convention this summer in Provo, Utah, he received the Biggest Inspiration Award. “I was in my chair crying; I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “I wasn’t used to this acknowledgement that I was okay, that I wasn’t a loser anymore.”

Over the years, he’d become a master at hiding his misery. Back when he was a motivational speaker in Calgary’s corporate world, he unfailingly came across as upbeat, despite his “wreck” of a personal life. Nowadays? “I don’t have to make anything up. Because of what I’ve gone through, I’m real and authentic for the first time in my life. It’s awesome.”

Meaning Wong is writing his own story, literally, in fact. In addition to teaching High Fitness classes twice weekly, he recently penned a personal essay about depression and suicide for an online media outlet. He made sure to include his contact information.
“I was putting it out there. ‘Use me,’” he explained. “I should be an example.” The 57-year-old is keen to make a difference, especially for men, who, he maintains, are under-represented on the mental-health landscape.

Wong wants to create dialogue; he wants to help. “If something happened to you—you lost your job—the first thing I say now is, ‘Are you exercising?’ Not that exercising is going to pay your bills, but it’s going to clear your mind so you say, ‘I can go get help. I can do this.’” 

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Photography By Leah Hennel

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His priority was to wear clothes that effectively covered up any sign of his affliction. Even through the summer months, he would pull on long pants to ensure his leg braces weren’t visible. And full sleeves were the answer to keeping his scarred arms out of sight.

“I was ashamed,” Domingo says now. “You’re in your 20s, you’re supposed to be in the prime of your life, you’re supposed to be having the best time. And here you are with a disability, with scars to hide so people don’t judge you.”

“Who’s going to want this person? Who’s going to accept you in the world?”

Dressing defensively was only part of his grim routine during what he describes as “15 years of lull.” A bout of sepsis—a body-wracking infection that produced an excruciatingly painful aftermath—had forced him into a monotonous existence. “Waking up and dreading the day, going to work with a foggy head because of medications, coming home, not wanting to do anything because I just want to take my leg braces off, then going to bed and waking up and doing the exact same thing the very next day.”

All of which is a far cry from Domingo’s life now. His fortunes changed course, resulting in a startling transformation. These days, it’s hard to imagine a more dynamic person than Domingo.

A double amputee since 2019, he runs and golfs and cycles. He plays, and introduces others to, wheelchair basketball and sitting volleyball. He excels at para-throwing events such as discus, shot put, javelin. He founded the Amputee Coalition of Toronto, a peer-support group encouraging active lifestyles. He hosts a weekly podcast, The AmpuTO Show. In 2020, he was named the ParaSport Ontario Ambassador of the Year.

The 46-year-old’s growing list of acting credits includes an appearance on the television show The Handmaid’s Tale. And Domingo is literally the poster boy for the Scarborough Health Network Foundation—everywhere are life-size photos of the man promoting healthcare. A fitting association given that Centenary Hospital was the setting for two of his plot twists.

That is where he had been rushed in 2001 after collapsing in the hallway of the family home. Sepsis nearly killed Domingo, then 25, putting him in a coma for three months, in a hospital bed for more than a year, in leg braces for what would feel like forever.

The Scarborough hospital is also where he initiated his dramatic about-face. In 2016, tired of the endless complications, broken by the bottomless agony, he told medical staff he was eager to explore the last resort—amputation.

The standard warning was issued: “You can’t grow it back. Once we cut it off, that’s it.” Domingo did not care. His left leg, below the knee, was amputated in January 2017. Post-operation, he looked down and felt relief. “It was like getting rid of a ball and chain. Amputation freed me from my disability.” He remembers thinking: “This is a definite, tangible new chapter. What do you want to do now? This whole new world just opened up.”

Despite a modest goal initially, “walking two blocks without crying,” he decided to celebrate his freedom from pain by entering a road race. While still in hospital, he signed up for a local five-kilometre race, which alarmed his healthcare team. But Domingo dug in. ”It was a selfish thing,” he says. ”I just wanted to run this one race to prove to myself that I can do it. I don’t care if I walk it, if I jog it, if I run it.”

Five months after amputation, he joined thousands of runners in the start zone. He finished. Two years later, he underwent the procedure on his right side and six months after surgery, he completed another five-kilometre race.

The sense of accomplishment is always overwhelming. ”Like, ‘Wow, I want some more. What else can I do?’”

In addition to ongoing devotion to the limb-loss community, Domingo continues to run. Three times weekly, minimum. “My form of meditation,” he says. “I’m troubleshooting my life. It’s when I get into my Zen mode.”

All these years later, fashion remains a serious consideration, but there has been a telling evolution in wardrobe choice. Domingo wears shorts daily. That way, everyone can get a load of his matching prostheses. “It’s to show pride in what you’ve accomplished as an amputee, ‘Look at me, I’m walking. I’m doing the things I love.’”

Sleeves are short, too. During a Zoom chat the other day, he raised his arms to the laptop camera to offer a better look at his sepsis scars. Then he tugged down the collar of his T-shirt—emblazoned with the slogan: “Life Without Limitations”—to reveal the hole in his neck where he’d had a tracheostomy.

While Domingo prefers to look forward, there is no denying the remarkable journey on display. From coma patient—his family had been given the option of pulling the plug—to inspirational role model to, well, who knows what.

“For me now, it’s, ‘What adventure can we go on next?’” 

Photography by Emma E. Arsenault

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This had been Rilee ManyBears’ imaginative strategy in his first-ever race, 800 metres in Grade 5.

“I basically sprinted two laps and I won,” recalls ManyBears. “That was my way of being introduced to track and field.”

His attire, however, left a bit to be desired that fateful day in Duchess, Alta. – long jeans and skateboard shoes.

“All the others had really nice apparel – running shoes, running shorts,” says ManyBears, who’s from Siksika Nation, a Blackfoot settlement an hour east of Calgary. “I just looked like a clown. But when the gun went off, I was in the moment.”

Now – a dozen years later,state-of-the-art running gear in his closet – ManyBears is a full-fledged racer. One with a scholarship offer from Bacone (Okla.) College. One with Olympic aspirations, thanks, in part, to the legendary Billy Mills, a member of the Oglala Lakota Sioux tribe, who won the 10,000 metres at the 1964 Games in Tokyo. The underdog’s triumph – “Oct. 14, 1964, he shocked the world” – resonates with ManyBears, 22.

Flashing his own potential as a youngster, he had often been told that he could be the next Billy Mills. “I’d be, ‘Who’s that?’ So I researched him and became a fan.”

But the journey has not been easy. Two days after graduating from high school, ManyBears’ dad died. That tragedy, June 27, 2013, drove him to substance abuse and depression.

ManyBears attempted suicide. His younger sister Talijeh saved his life.

“She talked me out of it,” says ManyBears. “She said, ‘What are your goals?’ I said, ‘To run in the Olympics.’ She said, ‘Then write it down,’ so I did. After that, she said, ‘Don’t give up on your dreams.’ That was a turning point.”

Soon after, ManyBears was invited to the 2014 North American Indigenous Games in Regina. He won the 3,000 metres – his first race in more than a year – and his comeback was alive.

“It was, ‘I miss this feeling. It’s way better than drugs and alcohol,'” says ManyBears.

A year later, he captured the 8.4-kilometre event at the World Indigenous Games in Brazil. A billboard in his honour was erected near the Siksika townsite.

Along the way his relationship with Mills evolved – from idol to mentor to friend. Last year, he spent a night at the gold medallist’s home in Sacramento, Calif., and got to pull on his Olympic outfit – Mills’ shorts and singlet.

“That was like trying on a Michael Jordan jersey or a Wayne Gretzky jersey.”

If Mills is his inspiration, running serves as his salvation.

ManyBears is more than two years’ sober. He is proud of that.

“One of my huge accomplishments – being a drug and alcohol-free aboriginal youth,” ManyBears says. “It is really common in First Nations communities that youth are into addictions. I want to break that stereotype.

“That’s one of my goals – to inspire.”

This unlikely scene actually took place for an entire year before Forbes, presumably tearing off his tie and howling like a wolf, decided he’d had enough.

“I realized I made a mistake,” says Forbes, chuckling. “I had this realization that my passion lied in the outdoors and adventures. At the time, I was 23, 24, and if I was going to pursue what I really wanted to do, that was the time to do it.

“I wasn’t going to wait 10 years, 20 years … so I dropped everything.”

And rushed outside, where he’s remained ever since.

Forbes is one of the stars of Tornado Hunters, originally broadcast on CMT Canada. The popular reality show has recently been picked up by Netflix.

“I’ve never felt more alive than when I’m storm chasing,” says Forbes. “When you get to be a part of that in person, it’s absolutely massive, so surreal. It’s really hard to believe your own eyes. You can feel it, you can smell it.”

The man is happiest heaving himself into harm’s way, twisters or not. He can be found riding whatever happens to be handy over whatever terrain happens to be nearby. And whatever happens, happens.

This is what Forbes does. He’s no bystander.

“I love being out in nature,” says the 31-year-old resident of Saskatoon, who is a partner in the social media agency Blue Moose Media. “The adrenalin part is a large part of it – but even more is the adventure, the exploration and pushing ones boundaries.”

Growing up in small towns, Forbes had been a regular at the arena – “If you didn’t play hockey you didn’t really have any friends” – but it wasn’t just for puck-chasing. He would convince his parents to drive to the rink so he could fill the truck box with snow that had been dumped outside by the Zamboni. He’d take it home and shape it into backyard ramps.

This is how you snowboard in Saskatchewan in September. This is how you – and like-minded chums – amuse yourselves. Dirt biking and BMXing, too.

“Every day after school, we were building jumps and hurting ourselves and heading to the hospital, then trying it again,” says Forbes. “It never got boring. There was always more to discover, more to do, more to push yourself.”

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After escaping the office job, he worked on drilling rigs, which made sense – outside, good dough, plenty of days off.

“I was really pushing my limits,” says Forbes. “I got into all sorts of sports I’d never done before – rock climbing, white-water kayaking, ice climbing – trying to get the most out of life.”

One day in 2012, he met Greg Johnson, who invited him to come storm chasing. Travelling through Kansas and Nebraska and Oklahoma, they ran into a whopper of a tornado. More than a kilometre wide.

“All of a sudden, I realized the Boogey Man is real,” Forbes says. “An absolute life force. It sounded like a jet engine. It was terrifying to watch. An adrenalin rush the whole time.”

From that experience, Tornado Hunters, with regulars Johnson and Chris Chittick, was born. The show ran for two seasons.

Forbes, like everyone else, has a bucket list – base jumping, big-wave surfing – but as he grows older he finds himself less inclined to get hurt. Then again, last year he ripped up his left knee in a snowboarding mishap and, weeks later, broke his right foot in a dirt-bike spill.

Healed up – for now – Forbes is preparing for another season of storm chasing and outdoor adventures.

Danger be darned.

“I’m not trying to be dark or cynical or be a cowboy about it,” says Forbes, “but this is what we love to do.”