Jack Noy, 19, is from Guildford, UK and is nineteen years old. This was his first season in Whistler. He worked long hours at home for the past year to be able to afford to spend three months living in whistler in a shared house with nine of his best buddies. They lived in perpetual mess, but who cares when there’s riding to be done.

Allen key wrenches in the spoon drawer, tea cups of fork oil.
Better to clean the bike than clean the dishes.
Crammed into rooms, sharing space, sharing good times.
A collective dream to travel overseas, no back pack nor bus,
Just a bicycle to give that rush.
Working all time and over time, hoarding all pennies to afford three months of summer.
Done your time in the nursery, or stacking shelves, or carting bricks.
Maybe months in excess of hard labour and good graft to live the life of a dirt bag scrimping and scrounging,
But at least you are with friends, trails, and long summer days.
Trains in double figures, your front inches from the rear, goading pushing pulling collective charge.
Injuries can cut the dream short or knock six weeks of boredom into you,
Burning through rubber at a ton a pop, seals weeping away the balance, a cracked weld spells warranty woes.
Surviving on noodles and beans, tuna and tea.
A life sustained not on nutrition but rather on the stoke.
Across the pond, along way from home, but you find yourself within the bubble.