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Two older girls on the Edward Little ski team went looking for bodies. It was the mid-1980s, the boys’ Nordic program at the Auburn, Maine, high school was thin and not very good, and the girls’ team was strong. The two girls, Becky Flynn (SVSEF) and Sarah Pribram (NWVE), knew a freshman who had skied a little in middle school. They asked him if he wanted in.
Will Sweetser’s second cross-country ski race ever was the Maine High School State Championship, he finished 34th, the best result on the team.
The next winter Edward Little won the state title. Sweetser placed seventh in the state — and fourth on his own squad. “I was the fourth guy running, I was the fourth guy skiing,” he said. The sport was tilting toward skating then, and almost nobody his age had figured out how to skate yet. Technique was a wash. So the results sorted themselves out the only way they could.
“It turned out that engines won,” Sweetser said.
That phrase could serve as an epigraph for everything he has done since, except for one inconvenient fact. His own engine was nothing special, at least by his own standards.
He learned exactly how unspecial his was as a freshman skier at Dartmouth, when the team did VO2 max testing. The results put Sweetser, the slowest man on the roster, “squarely in the bottom half of the women’s team.” He ran the numbers on his own future and did not like the answer. “I was already running almost the times they suggest for my VO2 max,” he said. The writing, he decided, was on the wall.
If the engine couldn’t get bigger, the speed had to come from somewhere else.
“Wax makes things faster. Strength makes things faster. I better learn technique,” Sweetser said. “Maybe I was a genetic predeterminist, and that’s why I started learning all the physiology.”
After graduating from Dartmouth, Sweetser took an assistant coaching position at Bates College in Lewiston, Maine, where he went to the library and more or less stayed there.
At Bates, Sweetser became a fixture in the stacks while living with his grandfather, working into the evening. “I literally was in the library more than the team,” he said. For two years, he averaged four or five interlibrary-loan requests a week. He calls what he built in that period “a self-taught, master’s-level survey course” in exercise physiology. He was also, by his own account, one of the first coaches in the country mailing away for VHS tapes of World Cup races, freeze-framing technique frame by frame because there was no other way to see it.
Three decades later, that reading has produced one of the more idiosyncratic coaching minds in American skiing. Sweetser is now based in Soda Springs, California, high on Donner Pass, after a long stretch running the program at the Maine Winter Sports Center. And the first principle he’ll hand you is almost aggressively unglamorous.
It’s consistency. Just showing up.
Sweetser points to a Norwegian study he came across years ago — his recollection puts it around 2006 to 2008 — that examined the country’s top 14 nationally ranked women, essentially its entire World Cup pipeline. Researchers measured everything: VO2 max, speed broken into 20-second segments, correlation after correlation. The single factor that most cleanly separated the top seven from the next seven, Sweetser says, wasn’t engine size or top speed. It was days lost to illness and injury. The lower group averaged roughly two weeks of missed training a year. The top group averaged two or three days.
“That seems to be the most correlated thing,” he said. Stretch it across a four- or five-year Olympic cycle and the gap stops being trivial.
It sounds obvious. It is also not how a great many junior programs actually behave, which is where Sweetser’s second idea comes in, and that one is stranger.
He builds training around fiber type, and he has a field test for sorting it. He’ll have an athlete — 15 or older — run a 400 meters, rest 20 minutes, then run a 3,000 meter. Then he looks at the ratio. A “normal” distance athlete, he says, holds about 76.5 percent of 400-meter pace over 3k. He can quote the figure to the hundredth. Drop below 68 percent and the athlete is built to sprint; climb above 82 and they’re built to grind. “This is how specific they are,” he said of the research he leans on.
The athletes all come to the same session. What changes is the leash. The sprinter types get a short one, where Sweetser wants the heart-rate alarm to go off the instant it “faintly whispers” the next zone, because those athletes overshoot every interval.
Where the distance types might run eight intervals, the sprinters run five or four. Body position stays the same for everyone. Cadence and power output are already different on their own. What he actually teaches, he says, is tactics — where on the course to spend, and where to wait based on each athletes strengths and weaknesses.
This is also why he keeps reaching for the treadmill. It is measurable and it is controllable, and that combination lets him do something he values more than almost anything: build what he calls “an athlete persona that’s rooted in belief, not hope.”
The clearest proof he offers was from an athlete he met at Bates, Sarah Dominick — the woman who would later become his wife and is now his coaching partner. At Bates, her running coaches kept pushing her mileage up, and every time she got much past 25 miles a week, she broke down. It made sense to Sweetser: she had a sprinter’s makeup, but was being asked to train like a distance runner. She was miserable enough that she sat out her junior year of competition entirely.
When she came back as a senior wanting to race the 3k and 5k, Sweetser says her coach called it a waste of time.
His plan went the other direction. He capped her running at roughly three hours a week and backfilled the volume with cycling and roller skiing. Warm-ups and cool-downs were run on grass, in the opposite direction around the track, to spare the leg that always flared. The key session, twice a week, was deceptively small: two sets of 15-seconds-on, 15-seconds-off at 3k race pace, jogging the corners, six minutes of rest between sets. Start to finish, it took about an hour.
She went from 11:38 to 10:00 for 3,000 meters in a month. She became a Division III All-American and set a school record. The following year, training off skiing and running on a dirt road at altitude, she ran 9:27.
The lesson Sweetser took from it is the one he now spends most of his time trying to give away. “Your best training computer is still between your ears,” he said.
You can see what that looks like in Quinn Holan, the 18-year-old Sweetser coaches most directly and has worked with since the athlete was 11. These days, Holan, Far West’s standout U20 skier, writes his own training plans and brings Sweetser the questions, not the other way around. Increasingly, when the two disagree, the athlete keeps his own counsel, which is exactly the point. “You can call me his coach,” Sweetser said, “but it’s sort of like Klæbo’s grandpa is his coach.”
It is a strange arc for a man who started with so little to work with. Sweetser was the high school freshman recruited because the team needed a warm body, the college skier in the bottom half of the women’s VO2 results, and the coach who had to teach himself the sport one interlibrary loan slip at a time. Thirty years on, the whole project — the fiber-type tests, the treadmill data, the athlete who outgrows his coach — is really just an effort to spare the next kid the loneliness of that library.
Sweetser never did get the engine he wanted as an athlete, but as a coach, he has built something much more durable.
Next: why Will Sweetser thinks American skiing is fighting over the wrong 30,000 people — and what he’s building on Donner Pass to prove it.
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Matthew Voisin
As owner and publisher of FasterSkier, Matthew Voisin manages the day-to-day operations, content, and partnerships that keep the site gliding smoothly. Away from the desk, he’s doing his best to keep pace with his two energetic sons.
