And the Winner Is....
As usual I'm a week late, but this time I've got at least somewhat of an excuse. We were waiting on the tie breaker judge to cast his vote. It was a tough call as we received many great tales of road trips gone good, bad and everything in between. In the coming weeks, look for some of those road trippin' stories written by riders just like you. Adrian Bergles took home top spot with his tale titled "Gone Riding". Adrian's effort gets him and a friend one week's stay at the sweet Ticket2RideBC.com chalet and lift passes from the Whistler Bike Park. Enjoy...
I’m a late bloomer...Always have been. It took me most of my teenage years to grow into my 6’3” body, I started listening to Sublime about 5 years after their lead singer Bradley Nowell died, and it took me 23 years to find my destiny, freeride.
Travel back with me to a long forgotten time…spring 2002. The United States was still licking its wounds from the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, Most good people hadn’t heard of Michael Moore, and a lot of respectable ones still thought Nickelback was cool.
I was a freshly minted university graduate with a keen sense of wanderlust and $5000 given to me by my grandfather when he sold his house on Vancouver Island. Along with the money I possessed a sense of urgency. Graduation had been kind of anti-climactic, I had the degree now what to do?
Possessing as much direction as a blind man in a snowstorm I decided to take that wanderlust and sense of urgency and apply it to something important. I was going to find my passion, my zest for life. I made up my mind to hit the road and learn how to surf!
The decision to put off starting my career as a junior paper pusher somewhere was an easy one. I loaded my Dodge pick-up truck with my meagre possessions, including a metallic brown’94 KHS x-country bike nicknamed “the Griz” and headed south, determined to avoid as much of the winter in my hometown of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan as I could.
The drive was a blur, the hours passed and I remember the excitement of entering California for the first time. San Francisco, Santa Cruz, San Luis Obispo, Los Angeles, I kept on. San Diego, Tijuana, Ensenada, Mulege. I was in Baja Mexico now and I wanted to go further. La Paz and finally Todos Santos. I had driven about as far as one can down the Pacific Coast before land turns into sea.
The little Mexican agricultural town with its mix of local farmers, gringo (the local word for white, especially American, visitors to Mexico) artists and surfers there for the winter waves sucked me right in. I turned into Playa San Pedrito, the beach that was about to become my home break. I bought a surfboard.
I tried, I tried, I tried too hard. Day after day, week after week I got in the water with my longboard. I spent hours in the water and the only thing I caught was a rip tide that nearly ended it all. I’d like to blame my surf skills, or lack thereof, on the fact that I grew up 1,000 miles from the closest break, but really I was out of my element. It was becoming clear that I wasn’t destined to surf, and my interest started to wane.
The beach, however, infatuated me. One of the most interesting aspects of beach life were the people on it. Surfers, hippies, travellers like me, super fit outdoor types, all sorts of good people.
Todos itself attracted a slough of characters. The beach community extended into town and I would often see friends and familiar faces on my frequent visits there. It became my home for close to two months and I felt comfortable there.
At a town festival one Saturday night I encountered an Irish Vagabond named Seamus who had long ago given up the rain and cold of Ireland for the sun and sand of Mexico. Seamus made his living selling carvings and “magic” bracelets that came equipped with one wish for the wearer. Not only were the leather bracelets cool looking, they granted wishes…I couldn’t let this pass.
I handed my American ten-dollar bill to the stout old man and he tied the bracelet around my wrist. While Seamus recited the Gaelic magic charm I thought to myself “I wish to find my passion in life.”
While the surfing wasn’t going so well, I was loving life. Making friends on the beach I casually, almost without thought, started riding my KHS up and down the coast visiting local surf breaks and a local girl in the area. I began to understand just how much fun the old neglected bike could be.
Touring Playa San Pedrito was like a lesson in geography. Montana, Alberta, Oregon. Licence plates from all over North America were parked alongside small palm beach huts called Palapas. But by far the most common plates were those from California and British Columbia. Cali because of its closeness, relatively speaking, and its abundance of wave chasers, and B.C., well I think it’s a coastal thing. B.C.ers are coastal people and a trip up or down the coast is a natural thing, whether by boat or by car.
One morning, with my bike giving me trouble after a ride around the beach and surrounding countryside, I became acquainted with a couple whose vehicle carried those familiar B.C. plates. It was a meeting that would change my life.
Merle and Allison were a couple in their early thirties. Originally from small town Alberta they had moved to Williams Lake B.C. when Allison finished her degree in forestry. They were an adventurous couple and they had made the drive to Baja before. Of all the people on the beach Merle was by far one of the hardest to miss. He stood out from the crowd of surfers, instead of the requisite surfboard he rode the waves on his stubby Necky whitewater kayak.
Along with the kayak and various other goodies Merle had brought an old mountain bike down to Baja. Needing repairs I thought the mountain biking pair with a truck full of toys may be able to help. I approached the couple and they greeted me warmly with the typical campground friendliness found all over Canada. It turned out Merle had the tools and the know how to fix my ride. As he worked on my little Grizzly we started talking bikes, and as the conversation continued my excitement grew.
Merle began to tell me about the bikes and riding that he and his buddies did in the Cariboo Country of interior British Columbia. He told me about bikes with eight inches of suspension and of driving to the top of a mountain and then streaming down. This blew my flatland mind. It sounded incredible.
“On your way home you’ll have to come visit us in Williams Lake and do some riding,” Merle said casually. I was sold. Even though I hardly knew Merle and Allison this was one opportunity I knew I couldn’t miss.
Merle and Allison left San Pedrito a few days later but they left me their phone number and an open invitation. My time in Baja was also starting to wind down. As the spring approached the swell began to shrink. The sea was becoming unrideable and the surfers were starting to leave. The beach became more sketchy and the remaining campers started complaining about things like surfboards and wetsuits disappearing as our gringo oasis was being frequented by some of the shiftier locals. It also turned out that the girl I had been seeing in Baja was seeing a few other guys as well. It was time to leave. I packed up my Dodge and began the long drive north. A drive that would take me from a surfers’ paradise straight to the heart of mountain bike heaven.
The drive was a marathon. Through Baja, into California, further up the coast. I slept in rest areas to save money, knowing that a warm bed awaited me at my aunt and uncle’s place in Delta, B.C., a Vancouver suburb.
Probably the only truck with Saskatchewan plates ever to cross the U.S. - Canadian border with a surfboard strapped to the roof, I arrived in Delta early one morning. After spending a couple of days recharging my batteries, days that included a solitary run down a trail called Ned’s Atomic Dustbin on Mount Seymour in Vancouver’s North Shore, I called Merle and Allison and was on my to Williams Lake and the unknown.
Upon arrival in the small interior B.C. town I was graciously invited into my new friends home. Merle and Allison were remodelling their basement and thinking of turning their home into a bed and breakfast/adventure sports guiding business. Over spaghetti and cold beer Merle told me of his plan to take me riding in the hills surrounding Williams Lake the next day. I couldn’t wait.
The next morning, equipped with Merle’s old hockey shin and elbow pads, a pair of work gloves and safety glasses I was ready to ride. Allison and Chilko the dog, a one-year old Golden Retriever, shuttled up Merle and I up into the hills surrounding the town.
Merle on his Rocky Mountain RM6 bike and me on the zero-travel XC rig headed down the hills. It was now mid April and snow still covered a lot of the trails. Merle with his big bike and polished skills led the way. I lagged behind but it didn’t matter. I was excited to be shown what real B.C. riding and trails were all about. Merle showed me big wooden stunts and burly local trails that blew me away. Toward the bottom of the run we came to the trail head of Sick n’ Nasty, a sheer 40’ descent that pretty much told me all I needed to know about B.C. mountain biking.
Later in the day Merle took me to his local bike shop, Red Shreds, where I was introduced to the owner, Marc Savard. After Merle explained that I needed a bike, Marc in supercool fashion hooked me up with a used Rocky Mountain Spice telling me only “Anything you break you replace.” We loaded the spice, along with Merle’s Rocky into the truck and along with a number of locals headed up into the sandy hills for a freeride about 45 minutes outside of town.
Although a grommet, I possessed a desire to ride everything, even if my skills didn’t yet match the terrain. On the first truck drop I went over the bars on a short steep descent. I had failed to get my weight over the rear tire. I landed hard in the ditch below and totally winded myself. For about five seconds I thought I was going to die, then I started breathing again and the pain went away.
I rode the rugged terrain for the rest of the day. During breaks all the guys kept talking about riding the “The Hourglass.” To call it steep and sandy wouldn’t do it any justice. When it came into view I got chills and I think the words “I don’t know” escaped my lips.
The Hourglass is probably about 500 feet high. It is basically a huge section that was formed when the side of a huge sandy hill collapsed to the valley below. For someone new to B.C. freeride it was intimidating. All I could do was think of ways to back out, but being at the top of the hill I was out of options. Merle with his mischievous grin told me something like “No problem, you can ride it.”
I watched rider after rider huck off the top. It was a good five to eight footer depending on where you dropped in. A couple of guys even kept mach speed all the way down. I waited. Finally after nearly everyone else had gone I swallowed my fear and dropped in. Possessing all the style of a newbie on an XC bike I rode the Hourgless with my right hand clamped on the break lever. My locked back wheel made control difficult and as I surfed down the hill I took chunks of sand behind me. I held on and made it! The feeling was incredible, euphoria. I knew anything was possible.
My stoke for mountain biking was obvious. I stayed around Williams Lake for awhile and got to sample more magnificent terrain. My time riding in Williams Lake blew the doors off what I thought was possible on a mountain bike, and certainly what I thought I could do on a bike. I now knew that a mountain bike was a go anywhere, do anything machine. All that was required was time and skill, honing those skills would become my destiny.
I returned home to Saskatchewan and bought myself a proper bike, a Kona Scab steel hardtail that along with a couple other bikes I possess to this day. I ride as often as I can and after three years and a number of scars I’m happy to say my skills are much improved.
I still don’t possess the skill to match everyone I rode with in Williams Lake but as a freerider I try to continually push it. For me freeride is about stretching your personal limits, not necessarily about trying to keep up to someone else’s. Sometimes I complain out loud about wishing I'd started earlier, but usually I'm just happy to be on my bike.
I try to ride everything that’s out there and along with hooking up with some other crazy flatlanders also bitten by the mountain biking bug I try to ride B.C. as often as possible. Since Williams Lake I’ve ridden other terriffic B.C. locales like Golden, Fernie and Nelson. In fact as I write the finishing touches to this story I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Fernie. I've been it town for a week riding and waiting out the rain. The rugged terrain reinforces in my mind the type of skill it takes to ride these mountains well. Steep and rooty sections are everywhere, the stunts are diabolical, and last week I saw some kid pull off a no foot-one hander over a table top at the Fernie Mountain Resort. This kind of riding, the people I meet and the friends I make along the way keep me high on mountain biking. My eyes are still being opened to new mountain bike trails and adventures. The possibilities are infinite. Destiny awaits.
Gone Riding by Adrian Bergles
I’m a late bloomer...Always have been. It took me most of my teenage years to grow into my 6’3” body, I started listening to Sublime about 5 years after their lead singer Bradley Nowell died, and it took me 23 years to find my destiny, freeride.
Travel back with me to a long forgotten time…spring 2002. The United States was still licking its wounds from the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, Most good people hadn’t heard of Michael Moore, and a lot of respectable ones still thought Nickelback was cool.
I was a freshly minted university graduate with a keen sense of wanderlust and $5000 given to me by my grandfather when he sold his house on Vancouver Island. Along with the money I possessed a sense of urgency. Graduation had been kind of anti-climactic, I had the degree now what to do?
Possessing as much direction as a blind man in a snowstorm I decided to take that wanderlust and sense of urgency and apply it to something important. I was going to find my passion, my zest for life. I made up my mind to hit the road and learn how to surf!
The decision to put off starting my career as a junior paper pusher somewhere was an easy one. I loaded my Dodge pick-up truck with my meagre possessions, including a metallic brown’94 KHS x-country bike nicknamed “the Griz” and headed south, determined to avoid as much of the winter in my hometown of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan as I could.
The drive was a blur, the hours passed and I remember the excitement of entering California for the first time. San Francisco, Santa Cruz, San Luis Obispo, Los Angeles, I kept on. San Diego, Tijuana, Ensenada, Mulege. I was in Baja Mexico now and I wanted to go further. La Paz and finally Todos Santos. I had driven about as far as one can down the Pacific Coast before land turns into sea.
The little Mexican agricultural town with its mix of local farmers, gringo (the local word for white, especially American, visitors to Mexico) artists and surfers there for the winter waves sucked me right in. I turned into Playa San Pedrito, the beach that was about to become my home break. I bought a surfboard.
I tried, I tried, I tried too hard. Day after day, week after week I got in the water with my longboard. I spent hours in the water and the only thing I caught was a rip tide that nearly ended it all. I’d like to blame my surf skills, or lack thereof, on the fact that I grew up 1,000 miles from the closest break, but really I was out of my element. It was becoming clear that I wasn’t destined to surf, and my interest started to wane.
The beach, however, infatuated me. One of the most interesting aspects of beach life were the people on it. Surfers, hippies, travellers like me, super fit outdoor types, all sorts of good people.
Todos itself attracted a slough of characters. The beach community extended into town and I would often see friends and familiar faces on my frequent visits there. It became my home for close to two months and I felt comfortable there.
At a town festival one Saturday night I encountered an Irish Vagabond named Seamus who had long ago given up the rain and cold of Ireland for the sun and sand of Mexico. Seamus made his living selling carvings and “magic” bracelets that came equipped with one wish for the wearer. Not only were the leather bracelets cool looking, they granted wishes…I couldn’t let this pass.
I handed my American ten-dollar bill to the stout old man and he tied the bracelet around my wrist. While Seamus recited the Gaelic magic charm I thought to myself “I wish to find my passion in life.”
While the surfing wasn’t going so well, I was loving life. Making friends on the beach I casually, almost without thought, started riding my KHS up and down the coast visiting local surf breaks and a local girl in the area. I began to understand just how much fun the old neglected bike could be.
Touring Playa San Pedrito was like a lesson in geography. Montana, Alberta, Oregon. Licence plates from all over North America were parked alongside small palm beach huts called Palapas. But by far the most common plates were those from California and British Columbia. Cali because of its closeness, relatively speaking, and its abundance of wave chasers, and B.C., well I think it’s a coastal thing. B.C.ers are coastal people and a trip up or down the coast is a natural thing, whether by boat or by car.
One morning, with my bike giving me trouble after a ride around the beach and surrounding countryside, I became acquainted with a couple whose vehicle carried those familiar B.C. plates. It was a meeting that would change my life.
Merle and Allison were a couple in their early thirties. Originally from small town Alberta they had moved to Williams Lake B.C. when Allison finished her degree in forestry. They were an adventurous couple and they had made the drive to Baja before. Of all the people on the beach Merle was by far one of the hardest to miss. He stood out from the crowd of surfers, instead of the requisite surfboard he rode the waves on his stubby Necky whitewater kayak.
Along with the kayak and various other goodies Merle had brought an old mountain bike down to Baja. Needing repairs I thought the mountain biking pair with a truck full of toys may be able to help. I approached the couple and they greeted me warmly with the typical campground friendliness found all over Canada. It turned out Merle had the tools and the know how to fix my ride. As he worked on my little Grizzly we started talking bikes, and as the conversation continued my excitement grew.
Merle began to tell me about the bikes and riding that he and his buddies did in the Cariboo Country of interior British Columbia. He told me about bikes with eight inches of suspension and of driving to the top of a mountain and then streaming down. This blew my flatland mind. It sounded incredible.
“On your way home you’ll have to come visit us in Williams Lake and do some riding,” Merle said casually. I was sold. Even though I hardly knew Merle and Allison this was one opportunity I knew I couldn’t miss.
Merle and Allison left San Pedrito a few days later but they left me their phone number and an open invitation. My time in Baja was also starting to wind down. As the spring approached the swell began to shrink. The sea was becoming unrideable and the surfers were starting to leave. The beach became more sketchy and the remaining campers started complaining about things like surfboards and wetsuits disappearing as our gringo oasis was being frequented by some of the shiftier locals. It also turned out that the girl I had been seeing in Baja was seeing a few other guys as well. It was time to leave. I packed up my Dodge and began the long drive north. A drive that would take me from a surfers’ paradise straight to the heart of mountain bike heaven.
The drive was a marathon. Through Baja, into California, further up the coast. I slept in rest areas to save money, knowing that a warm bed awaited me at my aunt and uncle’s place in Delta, B.C., a Vancouver suburb.
Probably the only truck with Saskatchewan plates ever to cross the U.S. - Canadian border with a surfboard strapped to the roof, I arrived in Delta early one morning. After spending a couple of days recharging my batteries, days that included a solitary run down a trail called Ned’s Atomic Dustbin on Mount Seymour in Vancouver’s North Shore, I called Merle and Allison and was on my to Williams Lake and the unknown.
Upon arrival in the small interior B.C. town I was graciously invited into my new friends home. Merle and Allison were remodelling their basement and thinking of turning their home into a bed and breakfast/adventure sports guiding business. Over spaghetti and cold beer Merle told me of his plan to take me riding in the hills surrounding Williams Lake the next day. I couldn’t wait.
The next morning, equipped with Merle’s old hockey shin and elbow pads, a pair of work gloves and safety glasses I was ready to ride. Allison and Chilko the dog, a one-year old Golden Retriever, shuttled up Merle and I up into the hills surrounding the town.
Merle on his Rocky Mountain RM6 bike and me on the zero-travel XC rig headed down the hills. It was now mid April and snow still covered a lot of the trails. Merle with his big bike and polished skills led the way. I lagged behind but it didn’t matter. I was excited to be shown what real B.C. riding and trails were all about. Merle showed me big wooden stunts and burly local trails that blew me away. Toward the bottom of the run we came to the trail head of Sick n’ Nasty, a sheer 40’ descent that pretty much told me all I needed to know about B.C. mountain biking.
Later in the day Merle took me to his local bike shop, Red Shreds, where I was introduced to the owner, Marc Savard. After Merle explained that I needed a bike, Marc in supercool fashion hooked me up with a used Rocky Mountain Spice telling me only “Anything you break you replace.” We loaded the spice, along with Merle’s Rocky into the truck and along with a number of locals headed up into the sandy hills for a freeride about 45 minutes outside of town.
Although a grommet, I possessed a desire to ride everything, even if my skills didn’t yet match the terrain. On the first truck drop I went over the bars on a short steep descent. I had failed to get my weight over the rear tire. I landed hard in the ditch below and totally winded myself. For about five seconds I thought I was going to die, then I started breathing again and the pain went away.
I rode the rugged terrain for the rest of the day. During breaks all the guys kept talking about riding the “The Hourglass.” To call it steep and sandy wouldn’t do it any justice. When it came into view I got chills and I think the words “I don’t know” escaped my lips.
The Hourglass is probably about 500 feet high. It is basically a huge section that was formed when the side of a huge sandy hill collapsed to the valley below. For someone new to B.C. freeride it was intimidating. All I could do was think of ways to back out, but being at the top of the hill I was out of options. Merle with his mischievous grin told me something like “No problem, you can ride it.”
I watched rider after rider huck off the top. It was a good five to eight footer depending on where you dropped in. A couple of guys even kept mach speed all the way down. I waited. Finally after nearly everyone else had gone I swallowed my fear and dropped in. Possessing all the style of a newbie on an XC bike I rode the Hourgless with my right hand clamped on the break lever. My locked back wheel made control difficult and as I surfed down the hill I took chunks of sand behind me. I held on and made it! The feeling was incredible, euphoria. I knew anything was possible.
My stoke for mountain biking was obvious. I stayed around Williams Lake for awhile and got to sample more magnificent terrain. My time riding in Williams Lake blew the doors off what I thought was possible on a mountain bike, and certainly what I thought I could do on a bike. I now knew that a mountain bike was a go anywhere, do anything machine. All that was required was time and skill, honing those skills would become my destiny.
I returned home to Saskatchewan and bought myself a proper bike, a Kona Scab steel hardtail that along with a couple other bikes I possess to this day. I ride as often as I can and after three years and a number of scars I’m happy to say my skills are much improved.
I still don’t possess the skill to match everyone I rode with in Williams Lake but as a freerider I try to continually push it. For me freeride is about stretching your personal limits, not necessarily about trying to keep up to someone else’s. Sometimes I complain out loud about wishing I'd started earlier, but usually I'm just happy to be on my bike.
I try to ride everything that’s out there and along with hooking up with some other crazy flatlanders also bitten by the mountain biking bug I try to ride B.C. as often as possible. Since Williams Lake I’ve ridden other terriffic B.C. locales like Golden, Fernie and Nelson. In fact as I write the finishing touches to this story I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Fernie. I've been it town for a week riding and waiting out the rain. The rugged terrain reinforces in my mind the type of skill it takes to ride these mountains well. Steep and rooty sections are everywhere, the stunts are diabolical, and last week I saw some kid pull off a no foot-one hander over a table top at the Fernie Mountain Resort. This kind of riding, the people I meet and the friends I make along the way keep me high on mountain biking. My eyes are still being opened to new mountain bike trails and adventures. The possibilities are infinite. Destiny awaits.
Author Info:
Chilliwack, BC, Canada
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