TROLLER TO RAVEN Text: Riley Passant / Photos: Haruki “Harookz” Noguchi
Adrenaline hammers through my arteries into my locked fists. The hairs on my flexed
arms salute in the wind as I squeal around the corner. Taking one hand from the bars, I
look back over my shoulder in the direction of the shouting mob, throw my fist high into
the air and let out a “WOOO!” of my own. Then, like a 9 year old sprinting up the stairs,
fleeing from unseen basement monsters dwelling in the abyss below, I put my head
down, stand up on the pedals and pump the cranks, tossing the bike from side to side like
a maniac. A faint muzzle flash sparkles at my two o’clock. BOOM! A mortar blast
explodes just off my left rear followed by a gust of hot air and stinging metal. Panting
and dripping, my only thoughts are, “keep pedaling, keep pedaling, you’re almost out of
the shit, soldier”
Then I remember that I’m six beers deep. The enemy fire I’m dodging doesn’t exist. I’m
just an office jockey in a costume. A fucking badass costume: military surplus fatigues
from head to toe. I turn around once again to glance at the mob in sweaty pursuit as the
phantom rice paddies in my peripheral fade back into coniferous firs and hemlocks. I sit
down and slow my cadence to let the group close the gap. One-by-one they whiz by,
yelling, whooping, slappin’ ass and presenting fists for bumps. Ride of the Valkyries
blares out of a camo painted iPod speaker attached to someone’s bike. Our entire brigade
is decked out head to toe in army-issue accessories. The theme this year is military, and
troop morale is higher than ever.
Welcome to the sixth year of the annual Troller to the Raven cycling pub-crawl–a 36 km
two-wheeled journey from Horseshoe Bay to Deep Cove on the North Shore inspired by
the 1986 Spirit Of The West song The Crawl. The song chronicles the “good old boys
from the North Shore” and their pilgrimage of drunken merrymaking from the Troller to
the Raven, with all stops in between. Inadvertently paying homage to the decade that this
ear-fuck of a track was produced, we’re riding on old, shitty, rigid mountain bikes,
Raleighs from Sport Swap, rusty BMXs, dirt jumping hard tails and even the odd fold-up
bike. Purposely paying homage to the song’s wise and glorious lyrics, we drink like
tomorrow is a myth.
With a taut, well-lubed road bike this ride would be a piece of cake, but this crew prefers
a challenge. It’s not about getting from point A to B as quickly, or as smoothly as
possible. It’s about all the stops in between: the shotguns, the cheers, the chants, the
honks, the high-fives, the bro-hugs, the wheelie-drops, the skids, the looks of terror on
bar managers’ faces as we roll up and ghost-ride our bikes into the nearest bush.
It’s about a bunch of grown-ass men, playing dress-up, turning 23 miles of road into a
giant sandbox and living out a childhood fantasy. It’s ignoring stop signs, traffic, honking
cars and your give-a-fuck muscle. Most of us work office jobs from nine to five, Monday
to Friday, have girlfriends and lead normal, respectable lives. It’s one day of the year
where a man can throw on a costume and focus on nothing but wrecking his liver and
pushing pedals. It’s a day to do you, and you only.
Some find release through sitting cross-legged in a room with other sweaty people
chanting “ohm” and stretching. Some pray at church. Others swim, or write in their
journal, or listen to the Richard Simmons audio book while digging lint out of their belly
button.
For some, release is getting into a wild costume, saddling up on a piece of shit bike,
throwing two middle fingers high into the air, power-spraying warm Caribou through
clenched teeth and letting its sweet mist cleanse away the bore and drudge of
reality…BRRAAPP! BRAAPP! “Get your head down, soldier! Enemy fire! Zero one
niner requesting air support! I repeat–Charlie is firing at will! Bring the rain!”
