Home Turf – Between Garage Doors and Loamy Trails With Wade Simmons on the North Shore

There are garages. And then there are garages.

Some smell of fresh paint and neatly organised toolboxes. Others smell of petrol and lawnmowers. Wade Simmons’ garage smells of chain lube, fresh tires and mountain bike history. An old Rocky Mountain rests between two work stands. Next to it sit Wade’s motocross bike, a pair of skis and boxes packed with spare parts. A workbench is covered with a hundred bolts. Or maybe a thousand. Chances are only their owner knows where they all belong. We’re looking for an 8 mm Allen key. “Just help yourself,” says Wade, pointing towards the bench. You get the feeling that this is a place where, for years, people haven’t just repaired bikes. They’ve also dreamt up ideas, shared stories and planned their next adventures.

First things first: watering the garden

Wade belongs to Rocky Mountain much the way maple syrup belongs to Canada. The “Godfather of Freeride” is also the social glue that holds the entire North Shore riding scene together. More than anything, though, he’s just a genuinely down-to-earth guy with no airs or graces. After crashing at his place following yesterday’s ride together, there’s an early knock at the door the next morning.

The morning crew starts rolling in: Margus Riga, the photographer, Eric Lawrence (Lornny) with his camera, plus Ken, Lyle and Tom, Rocky Mountain’s product managers. They’re the kind of people who spend their mornings working on geometry charts and their afternoons thrashing test bikes through the dirt. We do one last tire pressure check. Someone else adds two clicks of rebound damping. Another is hunting for his helmet. Meanwhile, Wade is watering the garden. Luna, his dog, wanders casually between the bikes as if she’s seen hundreds of mornings like this.

Nobody mentions when we’re finally going to leave. Yet fifteen minutes later, everyone is clipped in and ready to roll. Just another Friday on the North Shore, it seems.

Welcome to the North Shore: where mountain biking has never stopped being a community

Vancouver has two faces. The Pacific Ocean lies right on its doorstep, while mountains rise behind the city. In between, ferries cross the water, skyscrapers reflect in the harbour and one of the densest rainforests we’ve ever ridden begins. People here head out for a post-work ride in places others travel halfway around the world to tick off their bucket list. Few places blur the line between city life and wilderness quite so effortlessly. The tarmac ends. The moss takes over.

The Rocky Mountains lie hundreds of miles to the east. Rocky Mountain Bicycles, however, was born right here, in the basement of a bike shop in Vancouver, where three friends, Grayson Bain, Jacob Heilbron and Sam Mak, started modifying their road bikes in the late 1970s with wider tires, flat handlebars and tougher components to tackle the North Shore trails. In 1981, that project became a brand of its own. Legend has it that Bain came up with the name while looking out of an airplane window at the snow-covered peaks of western Canada. More than four decades later, Rocky Mountain has become a true icon, surviving turbulent times and even insolvency before turning the page under new ownership. One thing, however, has never changed: the North Shore is not only the brand’s birthplace, but to this day it remains the ultimate proving ground for their bikes.

Beer tastes better on fallen logs

Towering western red cedars rise like cathedral columns into the sky, while the forest floor is deep, dark and soft beneath our tires. We keep climbing, with the occasional blast back downhill on jump lines built and maintained by local kids. Everywhere you look, there’s evidence of work in the woods. Not by machines, but by people giving up their free time so the next ride is just that little bit better.

After a while, we notice something odd. There’s an awful lot of timber in these woods, but very little of it is where nature left it. The North Shore’s famous wooden features weren’t originally built to create spectacular photos. They were simply the only way to get through the soggy coastal rainforest. Wherever the ground disappeared into thick mud, the first riders laid down logs. Those became boardwalks, then bridges and eventually the legendary skinnies that still define the character of the North Shore today.

After about an hour, Wade comes to a stop. He grins, reaches into his backpack and pulls out five ice-cold beers. Of course he does. What else would you expect? On the North Shore, beer breaks seem to be just as much a part of the ride as roots, rocks and wooden bridges. We sit down on a fallen log, crack them open and the stories start flowing. Margus tells us about his cougar encounter last year. The conversation drifts to the upcoming Hardline event on Cypress, the World Cup at 1199 and Crankworx. “It’s going to be good,” says Wade.

Wade leans back and gazes up through the dense canopy. Back in the day, he tells us, anyone who wanted to experience mountain biking came to the North Shore. These days, many riders head straight for Squamish, Whistler or Pemberton instead. The big boom of the 1990s and early 2000s has moved on. “But the Shore has never lost its character,” he says. “The trails are every bit as brutal and unforgiving as they were back then.” What has remained are the people and the trails that have always been here. And perhaps that’s exactly what makes the North Shore so special once again.

Later, as we start pedalling again, Wade drops a line that stays with us for the rest of the day. “We actually love loam climbs.” And suddenly it all makes sense. On the North Shore, mountain biking works differently. The climb isn’t just something you have to endure to earn the descent. It’s an essential part of the ride.

“You wanna be famous?”

Deep in the forest, an elderly man appears coming towards us. He’s 86 years old, pushing a wheelbarrow with a shovel in hand. He’s not out for a hike. He’s not foraging for mushrooms. He’s building trails.

“Hey, Peat!” Everyone in the group knows him.

For decades, Peat has been building trails on the North Shore, no pay, no ego, no wish for recognition. His only motivation is the simple joy of making sure every rider who comes here has the best ride of their life. While most people enjoy retirement, he heads into the forest almost every day, clearing fallen branches, repairing berms, digging out drains and keeping the trails alive.

Maybe mountain biking really does keep you young. Or perhaps it’s just the North Shore mud that preserves you. 😉

These are the people who keep mountain biking alive. The ones whose names never appear on podiums, yet make it possible for generations of riders to have trails worth riding in the first place.

When we reach the top, the dense canopy opens for a moment. Shafts of sunlight break through, and far below us Vancouver’s skyline glitters in the afternoon sun. Barely ten kilometres as the crow flies separate gleaming glass towers from dense conifer forest, yet the two worlds feel as though they’re continents apart. Up here, the air is filled with the sweet, resinous scent of ancient cedars.

Drop the saddle. Take one last look. Drop in.

What follows is pure sensory overload. Our tires dig deep into the soft soil, clumps of wet loam spray against our shins, and our laughter echoes through the forest. “Joooo!” Probably Wade. Maybe us. Hard to tell. We skim across narrow wooden features, drift in control over damp granite slabs and weave through impossibly tight gaps between the trees.

Wood. Loam. Rock. Roots.

“Wooooah!” We miss deadfall by centimetres, hammer down rocky ledges, charge full speed into deep compressions. The suspension is working overtime as the forest blurs past. Thinking can wait. Right now, we’re completely locked into the flow. Up front, Wade sets the pace. Behind us, all we can hear is Lyle and Lornny laughing. So are we.

In the middle of nowhere, we come to a stop. Ahead of us is a feature that looks more like a dare than part of a trail. A long, wobbly wooden bridge climbs onto the top of a huge freestanding boulder. From there, an almost vertical rock chute drops straight into a landing hidden in the undergrowth.

Wade turns around with a grin.

“You wanna be famous, Bene?”

We look at the wooden bridge. The rock chute. The landing, which only comes into view once it’s far too late.

“Maybe next time.”

We laugh. Common sense wins over ego. Instead, we all drop into the parallel loam line, railing from one berm to the next before exchanging nothing but wide grins at the bottom of the trail.

Cheese at shin-pad height…

We roll the final few miles back down, trade grinning high-fives at the bottom, then leave the trails behind. Before long, the bikes are lined up outside Wade’s garage once again. Luna comes trotting over, tail wagging, and on top of a cooler full of beer sits a spread of cheese, crackers and a few snacks. The sun slips slowly behind the mountains as the talk drifts easily between bikes, old stories and plans for the weekend ahead.

Nobody checks the time or asks how many vertical metres we’ve climbed. We simply sit together. Tired, covered in dirt and filled with that feeling only a truly great ride can give you. Content. Happy. Like we’ve found exactly where we’re meant to be.

“Cabin crew, prepare for take-off”

The voice from the cockpit sounds calm and familiar. Two days later, that same helmet is back in our hand luggage as we settle into our seats on the flight home. Our shoes still smell of fresh loam. We reach into the overhead locker for my beanie, hoping to get a bit of sleep. As we shake it out, something drops onto the tray table: a single, dry cedar needle. A few moments later, we’re looking out of the tiny window at the clouds below. It doesn’t take much to find ourselves back in the Canadian forest, if only in our minds. Among the worn roots, Wade’s garage and the unmistakable smell of fresh loam.

Where garage doors are always open

It’s easy to believe the perfect day on a bike comes down to the right place, ideal conditions or the most powerful motor. The truth is, you can have a pretty miserable time on the world’s best trail aboard the perfect bike.

The best memories are made where garage doors stand open to the community. Where an 86-year-old still heads into the woods with a shovel so complete strangers can have the ride of their lives tomorrow. Where people spend less time obsessing over bikes and gear and more time becoming part of the group, before simply rolling out together.

In the end, that easy-going way of riding, and of spending time outdoors, is worth far more than forever trying to optimize yourself or your kit.

When we boarded the plane two days later, it didn’t feel like we were leaving Vancouver.

It felt like we were leaving friends.

Words: Benedikt Schmidt Photos: Margus Riga