Whistler 2004 - Johnny Two-Wheels

It's a funny thing, those random invitations in life. They come and go, some interesting, others not as much. When cousin-by-marriage Jeff Murray invited me to ride mountain bikes in the Whistler area of Canada, I didn't have to think very hard. Not that the 2004 period of my life required much thinking beyond my own two eyes, for that matter, but Jeff's invitation was accepted immediately. This was Whistler for god's sake. The mountain bike paradise rivaled in North American only by Asheville, North Carolina. I would go. Jeff need only tell me when to be there.

Jeff's friend Johnny "J.J." Johnson would fill out our mountain biking trio. The plan was to meet in Seattle, rent an RV and drive north to Whistler. The RV would serve as a base camp while we explored the area. Our time schedule allowed for 5 full days of riding. I could not have been more excited.

Once I'd secured my spot in the group, I scoured the internet for all things Whistler. Photos and videos and discussion groups universally agreed on two things. First, it's an awesome place. And second, bring a bike with a lot of suspension. My Giant NRS-1 would have to do. I'd bought it used the year before and loved how it rolled over the rocky Missouri hills and valleys. But with only 3 inches of travel at each end, the bike was a bit under-suspended for this trip, Even so, the NRS was lightweight, handled well, and could get get me through days of rough terrain relatively comfortably.

The internet raved about Whistler partly because of its altitude. Tall mountains exist in British Columbia, but they start at sea level. Colorado, for example, begins at 5,000 feet and goes up from there. Thin air would not be an issue at Whistler.

Mountains, on the other hand, could be a problem. I'd never ridden a bike in anything resembling mountainous terrain. I imagined endless climbs up steep hills for five days straight. Leading up to the day I shipped my bike to Seattle, I spent evenings after work practicing on the biggest hill in St. Louis County. The Chubb Trail, at the West Tyson county park, included a 300-foot climb near the trailhead at the northwest edge of the park, easily accessible by car. It wasn't exactly a mountain, but after 5 or 6 climbs, I was usually dead tired. These were my Whistler workouts.

Next up was gear. I needed enough riding shorts, jerseys and socks to last the week, as well as energy bars and gels. Thus began an online search to find clearance-rack gear, something I had a knack for. When my departure date approached, I'd assembled a small arsenal of gear to stuff into a airline-sized bag.

A week before departure, I packed my bike in its original shipping box, dropped it off at a UPS service center and shipped it to a Cruise America RV rental office in Seattle. I bookmarked the tracking website and reviewed its progress several times each day. Thankfully, the bike arrived the day before my flight. All I had to do now was get on a plane.

My journey to Whistler began with a flight to Seattle and a rendezvous with Jeff and J.J. in the baggage claim area of the Seattle airport. Jeff had reserved a shuttle to drive us north of Seattle to Cruise America, a recreational vehicle rental place in Everett, where a sweet 24-foot motorhome would be waiting for us. A shuttle dispatch screw-up turned an easy 40-minute ride into 90 minutes of confusion. Two couples shared the shuttle with us, and all the names and destinations were wrong. One couple, traveling with an infant, wasn't even supposed to be on our shuttle.

When we finally arrived at Cruise America, our bikes were waiting. My shipping box appeared as if it had spent an afternoon with the baggage handlers at the St. Louis airport, while Jeff’s and J.J.’s boxes were treated more nicely by FedEx. Since UPS rendered my box pretty much unusable for the return trip, we made plans to bum a new box from a bike shop prior to our departure the following week. The Bowling Green Boys had also shipped a hitch-mounted bike rack that worked perfectly with the RV. We signed the paperwork, loaded up our gear, and began driving north on I-5 just in time for Friday’s weekend traffic jam.

A couple hours later we arrived at the Canadian border and crossed over into the Great White North without any hassle whatsoever. All it took was a drivers license and a brief explanation of where we were going and how long we'd be there. For me, it was my first-ever venture outside the continental United States.

Vancouver came quickly, and we were amazed by the city. Even though it’s just about within shouting distance of the U. S. border, Vancouver has a modern, European flavor and amazing architecture. We accidentally took the business Route 99 through downtown instead of the expressway, but it was worth the extra time.

The scenery was dramatic as we climbed the mountains north of Vancouver on Highway 99. Our next stop was for gas in the town of Squamish, about 30 miles south of Whistler. I took over driving duties from there to Whistler on the narrow, twisty highway. The skiing portion of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games was to be held at the Whistler-Blackcomb ski resort and road crews were already starting the process of widening Highway 99 to accommodate the traffic. Some of the blast zones were interesting, to say the least, in a wide, top heavy motorhome.

We arrived at Whistler Village well after dark and searched for dinner. Food is easy to find in the village, and we settled on Italian cuisine at Milestone’s. Here we discovered Whistler’s best and most abundant natural resource: The 6-foot blond. Our waitress was a prime example. Not only was she beautiful and friendly, but a mountain biker as well. We were in awe.

With help from the natives, we located the Riverside RV park a couple miles up the road from the village. With no advance reservations and a full campground, we settled in for the night in the overflow parking area. The first night in the motorhome was downright frigid and uncomfortable for Jeff and I. The interior had enough beds for all of us, but in an effort to pack as lightly as possible we didn't bring pillows or anything to keep us warm. The smart one of the bunch was J.J., who had used a $10 sleeping bag to pad his bike for shipment. He stayed warm while Jeff and I shivered the night away. The next morning we didn't waste any time firing up the engine and driving into the village for breakfast.

Early Saturday morning we learned the first of many interesting facts about Whistler.

Fact #1: Not much happens in the village before 10:00 a.m.

We sat in front of McDonalds with two college girls from the suburban Vancouver town of Surrey, who were winding down after a Friday night which turned into Saturday morning. They provided two nuggets of critical information: 1) Stay out of North Vancouver unless you want to buy crack and 2) Try to locate the Australian girl they’d partied with the night before because she was hella wild.

Fact #2: If you give McDonalds $20 U.S. for a $5 Canadian breakfast, they’ll give you back $15 Canadian, exchange rates be damned. Not such a good deal in July 2004.

We ate our McMuffins and drove out to a trail called River Runs Through It, as recommended by our mountain biking waitress at Milestone’s. We would discover many times over the next week that our trail maps provided enough detail to get us to the general vicinity of a particular trail, but a little extra searching was usually required. We eventually found the trailhead and began our first ride. What we saw was unlike anything I’d ever ridden before. River Runs Through It is a relatively flat trail filled with man-made “stunts” of all sorts. For the non-fanatics, here’s a few examples of the stunts we saw:

The stunts were designed to be ridden in one direction, more or less, and the direction we began riding was clearly not the intended one. That combined with morning dampness made each stunt extremely challenging. My lack of experience riding stunts had me scared crapless every time I tried. After a couple hours on the trail we were beating up ourselves and our bikes, so it was time to go back into the village for food and repairs. Jeff dropped off his Epic at one of the village’s many bike shops to get its shifter cables replaced. While dining at an outdoor pub, we discovered yet another fact about Whistler:

Fact #3: It ain't no Disneyland. Whistler is a culture of physical fitness and everything is real. Want a log ride? Go get a log, drop it in the river and ride that thing.

After lunch we strolled around the village and admired the bike park on the ski slopes. Never in my life had I seen so many $5,000 downhill bikes in one place, all congregated at the base of the mountain and ridden by people of all shapes and sizes. On the mountain, bikes sailed through the air over motocross-style jumps and flew off a set of rock ledges called the GLC Drops. These drops were the finale of a trail called A-Line, about 30 yards off the outdoor patio of the Garabaldi Lift Company (GLC) bar/restaurant. The largest drop was 6 or 8 feet, depending on where the bikes landed, and riders launched themselves off the ledge with ease. Two smaller drops were available for the slightly less insane.

Back at the bike shop, the mechanic suggested we drive a few miles down the road to Function Junction and ride a trail called Trainwreck. The trail loosely followed a set of railroad tracks and derived its name from a section of woods strewn with old boxcars from a train that jumped the tracks many years ago. Like River Runs Through It, the Trainwreck trails were meticulously maintained by the local bike clubs. Wherever large trees had fallen across the trail, rather than take a chainsaw to the offending tree, it was often converted into an interesting stunt. Makeshift wood platforms were built across many of the low spots or other areas at risk for riders taking alternate routes (and potentially widening the trail). Meticulous maintenance, however, doesn't mean easy trails. By the end of the day, we had learned our fourth Whistler fact:

Fact #4: For the Midwesterner, trails marked “Intermediate” are hard, and those marked “Hard” are generally insane.

It was the Trainwreck trail which introduced me to the insanity of stunts in the woods. They appeared randomly, as if a bike club were looking for something to do on a Saturday morning. At one point on Trainwreck, a little spur of trail had been cleared up a hill, its purpose seemingly to let gravity pull you and your bike a short distance down the trail, where you would drop off a ramp built against a fallen tree about 36” in diameter, then jump a 20-foot gap using a man-made dirt ramp, and for the grand finale, launch your bike (with you attached, possibly) onto the top of a boxcar. The idea that a railroad boxcar could somehow have made its way into a forest was almost as intriguing as a bunch of mountain bikers deciding they must launch themselves on top of it. This run was still under construction, but I would really have enjoyed seeing someone attempt it.

We continued riding a couple more hours and finished a loop that a guy in the Function Junction parking lot had suggested. By this time it was raining steadily, so we headed to Squamish to get sleeping bags, pillows, and beer (Kokanee, of course). Back at the village we attended a comedy show featuring five of Canada’s funniest comics. And they just may have been, had we any understanding of Canadian politics. They did offer an interesting insight on how the U.S. is perceived by Canadians, and it was mostly based on a single concept: In the U.S., everyone carries guns and they’re not afraid to use’em. Yee haw.

More Photos - Day Two

On Sunday morning we awoke to cool temperatures and an overcast sky. While we fumbled around the inside of the RV to get dressed, we noticed a nasty aroma that could only be one thing. No one would take credit for polluting the bathroom, but one thing was clear: the shitter valves were open. A small trail of “material” was lying on the concrete pad on which we were parked. The smell didn't go away after we cleaned up the mess and closed the valves until J.J. noticed one of the stove burners had been turned on. One of us had bumped up against the knob just enough to let propane start flowing. I shut off the propane at the tank since we didn't have any plans to use the stove, and we thanked our lucky luck that nobody made a spark inside the RV.

After breakfast at Riverside Junction Cafe, we drove north to find the Comfortably Numb trailhead. Previously described to us as the mother of all trails, the 'Numb was 25 kilometers from point-to-point. This length of trail in the Midwest might take a couple hours to ride, but the folks in the bike shops suggested we allow at least 5 hours. We parked the RV in a gravel lot near the trail and began climbing a dirt road to locate the trailhead. After a quarter-mile or so of a relatively steep incline, we found a trail called “Secret Trail North”. It wasn't on our map, so we kept climbing. Ten minutes later, finding no other trails, we turned around and looked more closely at the map posted at the start of Secret Trail. As it turned out, this was an old trail that had recently been linked to another old trail, and the combined trail was renamed Comfortably Numb.

We entered Comfortably Numb around 11:30 a.m. We exited the trail at about 5:00. In between was endless, extremely technical singletrack and some of the most beautiful forest I’d ever seen. In places, green moss had carpeted every square inch of the surface. From my view behind Jeff, I could see his tires compressing the spongy moss about half an inch, and then the moss would rebound to its normal shape almost immediately.

Throughout the day we encountered a handful of other riders and stopped often to chat. Breaks were good, since the trail required every ounce of my concentration. Tree roots, rocks, and the occasional wood-constructed stunt kept me in my bike's lowest three gears while rock drop-offs kept my sphincter fully tightened.

Comfortably Numb is divided roughly into two parts, both of which were formerly separate trails. The two trails were recently linked by an incredible bridge over a 40-foot gorge filled with whitewater rapids. Moving the steel and wood so far up in the mountains must have been quite a feat, but its main triumph was creating 25 kilometers of uninterrupted joy and suffering, all within the same trail.

The highlight of the first half of the trail was a gorgeous, rushing mountain stream near the end of a long, straight climb. This climb and the short section of trail which followed were the last we’d see of anything resembling wide trails. After crossing the big bridge and entering the second half of the course, we fumbled through a mile or so of the toughest singletrack I've ever seen. Through this root-infested section I pushed or carried my bike as much as I pedaled it. The climbs weren't terribly steep or long, but the endless slippery tree roots and rocks killed my momentum over and over again. If I stopped pedaling, I lost my rhythm, and getting it back was nearly impossible.

Overcast skies and temperatures in the 60's made rest stops a chilly proposition. The thick forest canopy would have kept out most direct sunlight, had there been any on this day. Our breaks were brief.

Around 2:00 fatigue was already setting in and we’d barely made it halfway. The most mentally challenging aspect of Comfortably Numb is that once you pass the one and only cutoff just before the big bridge, you’re pretty much committed to do the whole thing. And since we’d never ridden the trail before, we had no way of knowing how far to the end. All the while my body was taking a beating. I’d whacked my knees against the handlebars about a dozen times and fallen backwards to the ground, directly on top of a downed cedar tree. J.J. chugged along without a single complaint, while Jeff scared away bears with gastrointestinal issues. Meanwhile, I tried to forget about the Power Bars I’d forgotten to pack in my Camelbak. We rested at a clearing that doubled as a heli-pad and talked to a group of guys who included a Provincial forest employee. He explained that Comfortably Numb was one man's five-year project and the big bridge had been the final piece of the 25-kilometer, point-to-point trail.

The hours passed and I felt like I was at the end of a 90-mile enduro, yet we still had an hour to go. Other riders told us the last of the trail would be mostly downhill when we could see the Jack Nickalus golf course north of Whistler village. We'd been gradually climbing for most of the day and finally, golf course now visible, were rewarded with a long descent.

I really wanted to enjoy that descent but was completely spent. Jeff and J.J. had run out of water long ago and I had run out of energy. Jeff tossed me a shot of Goo, which was just enough boost to get me going again. The suddenly increasing grunts of bears also helped, Any time I thought about pausing to rest, the grunting started up again and I kept pedaling.

At the end of the descent appeared a gravel road and a paved bike path leading to Highway 99. The RV was parked a couple miles up the road, and J.J. volunteered to retrieve it. Jeff and I pedaled a short distance to a small resort just off the highway, hoping to find something to drink. We found Snapple and chatted with a college-aged Australian girl working at the resort’s lodge. Sadly, she wasn't the hella wild chick the girls from Surrey were talking about yesterday.

Hot showers at the RV park felt very, very good. We turned in early and slept well.

Comfortably Numb Photos

After two days of cross-country riding, the sun came out of hiding and we were ready for a change of pace. With barely a cloud in the sky, we thought it would be a good day to try out the bike park on Whistler mountain. The previous day we’d talked to a downhill bike rental shop next to the ski lift and found that they would rent us all the necessities – bike, helmet, pads, and even a guide if we wanted. Since we’d never spent any time on full-on downhill bikes and didn't know the trails, we decided a half-day with a guide would be the hot ticket. We geared up, got our bikes, met our guide, and hopped on the ski lift.

Unlike a ride to the top of a ski hill in winter, this lift was warm and pleasant. Down below we could see a large assembly of motocross-style dirt jumps arranged near the bottom of the mountain. An upcoming bicycle competition called CrankWorx was in preparation, and the mountain was being groomed with ridiculous jumps. I could only imagine being the first person to attempt any of them, knowing a practice crash could not only end my competition before it started, but put me in the hospital as well.

At the top of the hill, two young men unloaded our bikes while I pondered the odd feeling of not having to panic while I exited the chair. Our guide assembled our tour group on a grassy area and began explaining the basics of our Kona downhill bikes. And I do mean basics. Meanwhile, my mind drifted and I became distracted by the drool oozing from my mouth as I witnessed bike after bike flying down the mountain. The pleasant guide matched us up with a pair of beginners and had us perform some basic riding techniques. One of the beginners fell while attempting to turn his bike on grass. I was having second thoughts about the tour guide decision.

Our guide eventually led us to a "Green" trail, where Ira the beginner wasted no time breaking his gear shifter. Jeff, J.J. and I were demonstrating a bit more skill, so our sharp-eyed guide transferred us to a different group of 5 or 6 riders with similar skills. We rode to a second ski lift which took us further up the mountain to the highest point of the bike park. The best singletrack was up here and the trails were new for 2004.

I noticed my Kona had its brakes reversed from the typical mountain bike standard. The right brake lever activated the front brake, just like a motorcycle. That part was fine with me but I didn't care for the levers having to be pulled almost to the handlebars before they would engage the calipers. The suspension clanked and bottomed when I tried out a basic teeter-totter stunt with the rest of the group. My cross country bike would have handled it better, and now I fully understood our mistake at the bike shop. Asking for a guide gave them the impression we were novices, which was somewhat accurate as to downhill biking itself, but not for mountain biking in general. They didn't know we'd ridden all 25km of Comfortably Numb the day before, so they gave us crap downhill bikes. Our man Ira needed only about 2 inches of travel, but I was ready hammer the bejesus out of this mountain and my bike sucked.

For the next hour our group of eight followed our guide, single-file over moderately difficult singletrack. The going was slow and I was bored enough to consider ditching the group, which would have been easy given my place at the end of the line. But I suspected that would have made me unpopular with Jeff and J.J., so as an alternative, I paused while the rest of the group continued down the trail. After a minute or so, I hopped back on the bike and rode as fast as I could to catch my group. This was a bit more entertaining.

The high mountain trails reminded me of a Missouri motorcycle hare scramble race, except it was all downhill of course. Rocks and tree roots, ledges, mud...all present and fun on a bicycle. After a few pauses to let the group get ahead, I picked up the pace and started having some fun. But alas, rounding a corner I slid out and tried to hop off the bike but landed on my right knee. This was the same knee that was almost recovered from the whacking it took at a Missouri hare scramble a couple weeks before. With this minor get-off, I had aggravated it and could tell I was going to be sore.

After a couple hours of riding together as a group, the guides finally set us loose to ride on our own. Jeff and J.J. and I went back up to the highest part of the park and tried out a trail called No Joke. I was having a blast leading J.J. down the mountain but Jeff was hating the mud. Then, about halfway down, my tubeless front tire went flat. One of us was carrying a spare tube, which we tried to insert into the tire but the sidewalls were too stiff for our basic tire-changing tools. We gave the tire a shot of CO2 and I slowly rode down the mountain. I was not happy.

Jeff and J.J. took off and waited for me at the bottom, where I got a different bike at the rental place. This one, also a Kona, was a huge improvement. The brakes were better, the fork was better, and it handled like a dream. Even though we were supposed to have turned in the bikes at that point, the shop guy let us go back up for one more run. Again, we started at the top and Jeff continued to hate the mud. J.J. and I eventually lost Jeff and we ended up on the A-Line trail, which is probably the most fun trail on the mountain. It’s smooth, fast, and has lots of what I would call “manicured” jumps with nice approaches and smooth landings. Despite this, I did witness a guy screw up the landing on a tabletop and crash hard in front of me.

The jumping felt different on the downhill bike, compared to my cross-country bike. On my Giant, as I lift off a jump, I tend to pull up on my clipped-in pedals. The first time I tried that on the Kona, my feet came off the pedals and my body separated from the bike. The jumping technique on a downhill bike was more like that of a motorcycle: Hang on and let the bike do its thing. On the A-Line trail I wasn't yet comfortable enough to get much air, but that didn't stop me from admiring the work of the insane guys flying past me. Near the bottom, the trail split off into two routes, one hard and another absolutely crazy. The crazy option was a drop-off down a rock face, probably 15 feet, where it linked up with the easier route. J.J. and I took a look at it, then witnessed a guy launch himself down the drop like it was nothing. Unbelievable.

The A-Line trail ended at the GLC drops, and I was determined to do the big one. When I declared to J.J. I would launch myself off the 8-foot ledge, I don't think he believed I was serious. We looked it over from the landing area and paused to view the techniques of other riders. I pushed my bike back up the hill and began my descent. I don’t remember much about flying over the drop except I was afraid. Very afraid. But I did it, and pretty well, with J.J. as my witness. He pushed his bike back up the hill and did the same thing, all the while thinking to himself, “John doesn't have kids…I don't have to do this!” But he did just fine.

At the bottom we met up with Jeff, who showed us his swollen hand from a nasty crash on the Clown Shoes trail. We told him about our experience at the big GLC drop. He thought we were joking. We said it was easy and he should try it. Jeff attempted to extend the middle finger on his swollen hand but gave up. We gimped back to the RV, showered, and headed back to the village for dinner.

Whistler Mountain Pics

Jeff and I woke up on Tuesday morning very sore. My knee had swelled to the size of a baseball and his hand was puffy. We tried to get breakfast at the Southside Deli, highly recommended in a Whistler mountain biking book Jeff had bought, but it had mysteriously disappeared. Our alternate choice at Function Junction was excellent. We drove back north to drop off J.J. at a trail called Thrill Me Kill Me. While J.J. rode the trails, Jeff and I returned to village and stopped in multiple bike shops. We ran into a young guy from England who we’d ridden with up the ski lift the day before. He had worked nine months at a factory so he could save enough money to live at Whistler for the summer season and ride the mountain 7 days a week. On this day he was unpacking a dirt-jump bike he’d shipped from England and was complaining about the attempted screwing he was getting from customs. Tough life, kid.

The mountain was active with bikes around lunchtime, so Jeff and I hung out on the Garabaldi Lift Company patio and watched guys jump off the GLC drops. Excavators and loaders were working part of the mountain to prepare for an upcoming competition called Crankworx. Some of the stunts were truly insane. The most interesting was an elevated teeter-totter. An approach ramp launched the bike and its rider onto the teeter-totter (about 10 feet above ground), then it pivoted to drop off the bike (and, presumably, its rider). One of our guides from the day before said no one had yet attempted the elevated teeter-totter, but as the Crankworx videos later proved, a few guys were crazy enough to try it – and pull it off.

Back at the RV camp, J.J. returned from his ride. We hung out for awhile and then J. J. took off again for a nearby trail called Cut Yer Bars. Jeff and I practiced our putting skills at the Riverside putting greens, looked for bears by the river (didn't find any), and iced our injuries. Late in the afternoon I pedaled around the park to see how my knee felt, and it was still a little tender. About the time J.J. made it back from the trails, we were talking to a nice gal named Mary who was parked next to us. She had driven up from L.A. by herself and revealed that she was a 47-year-old L.A. County Sheriff's officer. Thus, Jeff and J.J. declared that Mary was going to be my girl. After dinner at Earl’s Bistro, the Bowling Green Boys spotted Mary leaving the village and decided Mary must join us. Mary said O.K. We walked over to the Savage Beagle, a trendy bar that was just opening for the evening. Not wanting to be the first to enter the bar, we spotted some cool log chairs perched on an elevated storefront – perfect for people watching. The chairs were intended for smoking expensive cigars outside a cigar shop, so Jeff obliged and came out of the store with a $25 Cuban. After half an hour of observing the beautiful people of Whistler, the Savage Beagle remained empty. We moved on to a street-side pub for drinks, where the highlight of this particular bar was the female bartender who spit whiskey into a lighter to make a cool fireball. The second time she did this, she lit a patron’s hands on fire and also a stack of receipts from the cash register. By this time Mary was ready to retire, but the boys had more business to attend to.

Since Tuesday night was to be our last night in Whistler before heading south to Squamish, we decided to end our stay with a trip to a bar called The Boot Pub. We had scouted The Boot Pub the previous evening after learning that it was hosting special events on Tuesday. The bar was located a few minutes outside the village and was roughly crawling distance from the RV park. Perfect. On our previous visit, the bar appeared to have a very local flavor. On Tuesday night, it was even more local. We sat down next to a married couple from San Francisco (the only exception, besides us, to the local flavor) and a British guy working construction in the village. The special stage show was taking a short break, so Jeff and Mike the construction worker played pool. Mike was the kind of guy who, if you spent enough of your night with him, might lead you into the kind of affairs which cause normal, law-abiding citizens like me to spend a night in the local pokey. His pool shooting technique was all about power, and lots of it. Balls were flying off the table, landing in the laps and against the heads of unsuspecting patrons. In the lower 48 states this surely would have caused, at minimum, an exchange of words, but in Whistler they have a saying for things like this: “No worries.”

After a couple more hours with the locals, we walked back to the RV park in complete darkness and retired for the night. Jeff and I were healed enough to ride again the next day.

That morning we checked out of Riverside and pointed the motorhome toward to Squamish. My knee was in good enough shape to ride but Jeff's hand was still sore and swollen. J.J. and I planned to ride trails at the top of Garabaldi mountain, just east of town. We tried our best to follow a map we’d found in Whistler, but after about 15 minutes of forcing the RV straight up the mountain on narrow gravel roads, we turned around and located a bike shop in town, just opening for the day. They recommended a route shown on a more detailed map. Jeff dropped us off near the trailhead and we succeeded in getting lost almost immediately. We had our choice of trails in the general area where Jeff left us, and of course we chose the wrong one. It went down, quickly, in a field of boulders and ledges. J.J. and I carried our bikes most of the way. Eventually we linked up with the correct trail, but it was hard for us to imagine this trail could be ridden at all. After spending nearly a week here, though, we knew it possible the locals probably ride that trail every weekend.

We continued on a generally downhill path into a sweet section of smooth singletrack. The trail was an old logging road inside the forest, now grown up in trees, and it reminded me of a hare scramble course. I couldn't help myself and took off ahead of J.J. while doing my best impression of a hare scrambler on a mountain bike. After this section we encountered a group of riders who were on a guided tour. We followed them for awhile, then tried to figure out where we were (again) and how to stay on the route we’d been shown in the bike shop. We remained on our route for several miles, and then I suddenly forgot how to ride a bike. After crossing the mountain road we’d ridden up in the RV, I took a nasty fall where the trail dropped back down into the woods. Now I had a bloody elbow and my good knee was sore. Later, we were descending a tricky switchback section where I crashed about five times in 30 yards. J.J. decided my problems were due to me following him instead of leading. Naturally, when I took the lead position the trail became easier and the crashing subsided.

We eventually chose to diverge from the bike shop’s route and follow a marked trail which was to be part of an upcoming 67 kilometer race. A guy riding by himself was also following this trail and we were able to compare notes with him on where in the heck we were on the map. We found a cool bridge over raging water, and at that point the major descending from the mountain ended and we entered several miles of tight, rolling singletrack. One of the highlights of craziness in this section was a stunt called Double Dog Dare. Only pictures can do it justice.

We rode several more miles until reaching the outskirts of Squamish, where the singletrack ended and the pavement began. Jeff called my cell phone and we met up at a Quizno’s restaurant. He had toughed out his sore hand and put in about half a day’s ride by himself on some of the same trails J.J. and I had been riding.

Thus ended my mountain biking in Canada. We drove south to Vancouver and set up in an RV park in Burnaby. That evening Jeff and I took the train to the Waterfront while J.J. got some rest. The next morning we crossed the border into the States, where the border patrol is more serious and they made us produce passports or birth certificates as identification. In Everett, Jeff and I dropped off our bikes at a bike shop to have them pack and ship our bikes home, then took off to visit relatives while J.J. got in yet another day of riding at nearby trails.

Squamish Photos

In the years to come, I would do more mountain bike getaways, but none like Whistler. It was an amazing trip, one that we all agreed would have to be done again.

Would we have done anything differently? Sure. We might have shipped our bikes directly to Whistler, skipped the RV rental in favor of a truck or SUV, and rented cabins at the Riverside campground. Instead of renting guides in the bike park, I would have rented a downhill bike for the whole day. In fact, I could go back just for the downhill riding.

Whistler is it, if you’re a serious mountain biker. My three inches of travel were an inch or two shy of ideal for the kind of cross country trails in the Whistler/Squamish area. If you lived there, you’d need three bikes: one for cross country, one for downhill, and a freeride bike for playing in places like River Runs Through It. And if you lived there, my bet is you’d never live anywhere else. It's that good.

Certified World Wide Website

Whistler

2004

That time i rode my mountain bike in canada

preparing for whistler

Getting There

Day One
Friday, July 9th

Let's Ride

Day Two
Saturday, July 10th

GLC Drops

scale on the left is 8 feet

Comfortably Numb

Day Three
Sunday, July 11th

The Mountain

Day Four
Monday, July 12th

A Time to Heal

Day Five
Tuesday, July 13th

Squamish

Day Six
Wednesday, July 14th

Epilogue