Going what seems like way-too-many miles per hour for a nine-year old, my son, Zevin, rips down Whistler Mountain unfazed. He negotiates the 50-plus sharply angled bends of a five-kilometre downhill mountain bike trail with ease. Though my hands are cramped and my legs ache from 45 minutes of death-gripping the handlebars and an upright half-squat position, I follow behind, desperately trying to keep him in my sights.
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