Elvis Stojko watches a replay of figure skater Ilia Malinin performing at the 2026 winter Olympics.Sammy Kogan/The Globe and Mail
Each month, generations reporter Ann Hui takes readers along to hang out with fascinating Canadians – regular people and celebrities, teens to seniors – joining them in their favourite pastime for up-close and candid conversations.
Elvis Stojko didn’t want to miss the moment. The music hadn’t yet begun, and the skater had only taken his first few strides on the ice, when Mr. Stojko jumped up to press pause.
“There! In his eyes, right there, I can see it,” he said, pointing at the skater’s face. The pressure. “It’s all his to lose.”
The skater was Ilia Malinin. Before this performance at the Olympic Games in Milan – before the performance Mr. Stojko was watching on the screen – the cherubic 21-year-old American seemed untouchable. He’d arrived at the Games the clear favourite, winning every major competition over the past few years. Milan Cortina was meant to be his coronation.
Instead, the world watched as Mr. Malinin stumbled, then fell, during his free skate. Fell again. Made headlines as the “quad god” who crumbled.
Stojko, who was the first figure skater to ever land a quadruple jump in combination in competition, viscerally feels Malnin's collapse during his free-skate performance.
The Globe and Mail
Watching it unfold, Mr. Stojko let out a knowing sigh. Shook his head. “His brain here is thinking, ‘I’m losing it. I’m losing it.’”
Mr. Stojko, 53, would know. He was king once. As one of Canada’s most decorated – and beloved – figure skaters, he understands how it feels to have the weight of a nation’s hopes on his shoulders. What it’s like to reach for gold, and have it slip away.
He’s also one of few who can answer the question of what happens next. To understand the long journey of picking himself back up again.
We’re in Clarington, Ontario, watching the men’s free skate program on a laptop computer. He still skates, touring with Stars on Ice. But any time he’s not skating, he’s in this garage surrounded by race cars. That’s what we’re here to do today – talk about his new love of car racing.
But the story begins with skating.
Stojko competes in the figure skating event at the 1994 Lillehammer Winter Olympics.COA/The Canadian Press
His parents were refugees who came to Canada in the 1950s – his mom from Hungary and his dad from Slovenia. He skated for the first time at the age of four, and was teased for it at school. Still, it was clear from early on that he was very determined, and very good.
His first major Olympics milestone was at Lillehammer in 1994. There, Mr. Stojko, who trains in kung fu and has a black belt in karate, performed to music from Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story. The performance combined his love of skating with his love of martial arts, and was hailed, by many, as a gold-medal skate. But it divided the judges. A few complained that there was too much kung fu, not enough artistry. He took home silver.
“It was stupid. People were like, ‘Well, it’s not an art form,’” said Mr. Stojko. “And I’m like, ‘It’s called martial arts.'” He shook his head. “You’re literally a moron.”
Still, he was thrilled with silver. As he stood on the podium, he was already picturing himself, four years later, with gold.
Stojko further aggravated an existing groin injury during a practice skate at the 18th Winter Olympics in Nagano in 1998.AFP / Getty Images
But by the time Mr. Stojko landed in Nagano in 1998, things had changed. This time, he arrived at the Games as reigning world champion. Presumed favourite. No Canadian men’s figure skater had taken home gold in the single’s event before. Nagano was meant to be his coronation.
He was unfocused. His attention divided. His parents fighting. Drama with other skaters. “I got caught up in all the hype,” he said. “Totally caught up.”
His body wasn’t cooperating either. On the night of the opening ceremonies, he was struck with the flu. And during practice, he further aggravated an existing groin injury. He was in intense pain, but unable to take painkillers for fear of having them appear in drug tests.
Stojko is helped out of the "kiss & cry" waiting area by his coaches Doug (R) and Michelle (L) Leigh following his free skate routine in the final of the men's Olympic figure skating.AFP / Getty Images
As he skated his long program, he could barely trust his legs beneath him. “Every time I would use the muscle, it was like someone stabbing me with a knife,” he said. He downgraded his quad to a triple. “I could only feel pain.”
By the end of his free skate, he had to be helped off the ice by his coach.
“I was just thinking, “I can’t feel. I can’t see. I’m going to pass out.” He sat on the bench, shaking, and mouthing the words, “I couldn’t do more.”
This is the story that many people know: Mr. Stojko wound up winning silver, again. He retired from competition a few years later. He remains, to this day, one of the country’s most decorated skaters. A three-time world champion and seven-time Canadian champion. Two-time Olympic silver medallist.
Anytime Stojko isn't skating, he’s in this garage surrounded by race cars.Sammy Kogan/The Globe and Mail
But what happened in the days, weeks and years after Nagano is the story that fewer people know.
In those last few moments of his skate at the Games, he said, “I felt something break inside of me.”
He took time off from skating. Stopped watching the sport, even. His superpower – his determination, his doggedness – was gone.
“I didn’t have the will in me anymore,” he said. “I was just empty. I was hollow.”
In 2001, he moved to Mexico. He felt aimless. Exhausted. Tired. “Nothing excited me.”
He was grieving, he said. Part of it was grieving the gold. “I was groomed for that,” he said. “My whole life was about that thing that I thought was supposed to be my path.”
It took years of work, he said, to unravel the persona he’d built up over the years. To figure out who he was other than a champion – other than a figure skater.
Stojko demonstrates a driving simulator used for racing practice.Sammy Kogan/The Globe and Mail
Which brings us to a garage in Clarington, where he is cocooned in the seat of a race-car simulator. This is where he practices on icy days like this one. The shudder of the steering wheel. The yield of the gas pedal. The sound, at full speed, like a cutting saw.
He’d loved motorsports all his life, he said. If he were to do it all over again, in fact, he might choose racing over skating.
These days, he races with a prototype car, a neon purple-and-green single-seat machine that looks more airplane than automobile. He’s still a notch below professional – still needs sponsors, and partners, and money to take it to the next level.
Sammy Kogan/The Globe and Mail
But he loves it. Loves the feeling of speed and motion. Loves having a new pursuit. A next chapter.
His story will always begin with figure skating. That’s the journey that got him here – heartbreak and all.
And that’s the lesson that was going through his head as he watched Mr. Malinin walk off the ice that day. It’s what he hopes Mr. Malinin, and all of the current Olympians will be able to understand.
“Yes, go to the Olympics. Strive for that thing that fills you,” he said.
“But it’s the pursuit of it,” he said. “Not attaining it.”