Words By Jeremy Harrison, Photos and Video by Ross Measures
As I wake in a fit of Advil deprived headaches and confusion I abruptly arise to a startling realization. It is Sunday, Sunday May 17, 2009 to be exact. A few weeks earlier I had organized an event for this day. An event I was surely not ready for in in my apparent hung over state. Memories soon flooded my clouded head and I realised this was no time for games. Scrambling for my clothes I race home and prepare for what could only be described as amazing.
The vintage bicycles of various shapes and sizes came accompanied with their owners favourite outfit for the days adventures ,It was to be our second annual booze cruise. We were to pedal our sorry bikes across the legendary north shore from Horseshoe Bay to deep cove. The words of local band Spirit of the West’s “The Crawl” acted as an inaccurate compass as we caroused local bars in search of the next pint. The previous year was an outstanding success and this year looked to be no different. The athletes of this annual ride, or the self proclaimed “Wolf pack,” are a rambunctious group of tight knit friends and mountain bike alumni. It didn’t matter your skill, experience, age, the wolf pack is all inclusive and will certainly leave no wolf behind. 
12:00 had soon rolled by and the wolf pack was scattered and behind schedule, an inevitable reality with such a large group. By 1:00 the first bike pile of the day had amassed outside “The Troller Pub” In Horseshoe bay. Without a single pedal stroke the Pints had begun to flow. Tyler Quarles, A virgin to the ride, had soon raided The Troller’s supply of Hot Rod meat snacks in search for much needed protein. Many others chose to fill up on carbohydrates and after a round of tequila shots we took off.
Well, they did. My bike had already gotten a flat tire. Without touching the bike I was already in dire need of assistance. The wolf pack divided and me and Tyler headed to the nearest bicycle shop to get my tube fixed in time to meet the gang. As we began our pseudo pub crawl via car, the rest of the crew began the most gruelling stretch of the ride. The road from the Troller to the Square Rigger is a long sober stretch, filled with hills and sweat. My absence riddled my conscience of guilt, as I was truly missing the essence of the ride.
I had fixed my tire and begin to drink some casual beers in anticipation for the remaining group that was nowhere to be found. Eventually we united at the Square Rigger for stop #2 and formed one of the highest bike piles of the journey. Onlookers began to take photos from the sunny patio and we were greeted with open arms from the middle aged clientele. Beers began to flow and everything began to feel what could only be described as drunk. Sam Honcharuk, a veteran to the ride, soon found himself infatuated with deer hunter and began to hunt some serious game.
The stack was swiftly deconstructed and the cranks began to spin once again. The route between “the Rigger” and stop 3 was a rough last minute decision and we found ourselves swerving through innocent dog walkers and elderly couples. Honcharuk, with jager flowing through his veins, felt it was important to politely compliment local runners on their god given gifts. Stop 3 was debated and turned into a pit stop of the legendary Earls restaurant. Our friend was unable to attend the ride due to work and we felt it necessary to show him the great time we were currently having. The stop was short and acted to refuel the wolf pack. We left our friend bitter, confused and bound to the walls of Earls.
The Roads soon began to blur, routes became riskier and speed was not slowing down. The Pemberton was on the horizon. A sudden “BANG!” soon came from ahead, Ross had popped his tire. We carried onto the bar as Ross took control and found a bike shop. Jager shots capped off this stop and we grabbed off sales for the journey ahead. Gripping my tall boy of Budweiser in one hand, and my handlebar in the next I pedaled through the streets in a blurry phase of enjoyment.
Sailor Hagar’s came as soon as I had realized what in fact I was doing. Drinks filled my sweaty palms and the seaside atmosphere provided the rough, gritty, grime necessary for such a day. I had never stepped foot in this establishment and found enjoyment in its rough and tumble middle aged grime. The patio provided sunshine and recluse as the drunken haze set in and we were now officially hammered drunk.
I don’t quite remember leaving this stop but we soon found ourselves a mere two blocks away at “The Rusty Gull”, a local favourite for longshoreman and reggae buffs. The staff didn’t appreciate our service and we headed off. Mike Reid, local photographer, had borrowed my bmx and came to realise he had succumb to a flat tire. A fit of madness reign rampant on the streets of industrial North Vancouver. Threats of suicide and denounced friendships could be heard from blocks away as we attempted to soothe the enraged child that was Michael Reid. This was the last we would see of Mike as he had to now bus to the raven to meet us for the final stop.
The drunken route to the Lynnwood brought us through a hiking path where Jordan Carlson, star of NSX7, found it necessary to ride a rather intimidating slope. In his drunken state he conquered the hill but soon met his old friend mother earth as he was flung over the handlebars upon victory. We hiked through the prickle bushes and, after a McDonalds pit-stop, found the Lynnwood. We chose to buy off sale liquor and hike the large pile of the dirt in which sits beside this classy establishment. Known for prostitutes and truckers, we sat in a gaze of the legendary Lynnwood sign atop this large mound of dirt. The details of this stop are of little to no recollection as by this point I was truly blitzed.
I don’t remember riding my bike to the Maplewood, but I was in fact there. This was one of the least enthusiastic stops as most sought rest. The pitchers once again began to flow and the ride was back on track. I then received my second flat tire. I began barking at ross, blaming him for my bad luck with little reason. I continued riding with my flat and somehow in my drunken state made it to the raven.
The final stop came abruptly. There we were, we had made it. Drunk and in one piece. Reid had been waiting patiently and we were welcomed with frothy mugs of cold beer in which sent us into a state of delirium. Then myself and wolfpack veteran Jim Keenlyside kept the party alive and bought twelve more beers for us to drink into the abyss.
THE END
