Inside the Garage Where Mountain Biking History Was Made

James Moore · 2026-09-21

There are garages. And then there are garages. Some smell of fresh paint and neatly organized toolboxes. Others smell of gasoline and lawnmowers. Wade Simmons's 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. ### The Morning Ritual on the North Shore 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. Tools rattle, pedals go on, a track pump hisses off a valve in the corner, and somewhere someone's hunting for a helmet. A few moments later, the driveway is empty and the crew have disappeared into the maze of cedar trees, rock slabs, and wooden bridges. ### Where City Meets Wilderness 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 harbor 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. The trails here demand specific qualities that shape every design decision: - Extreme durability for rock slabs and root networks - Precise handling on narrow wooden bridges - Confidence-inspiring geometry for steep, technical descents - A community-focused design philosophy ### The Unwritten Rules of the Ride What makes the North Shore scene so special isn't just the terrain—it's the culture. It's the unspoken understanding that forms in garages like Wade's and on trails that have seen generations of riders. It's about shared knowledge passed down not in manuals, but over handlebars and post-ride beverages. The local riding ethos values a few key principles that every events professional should understand. Respect for the trail builders comes first. These networks of cedar planks and rock rolls don't maintain themselves. Then there's the commitment to progression—pushing limits while looking out for the rider next to you. Finally, there's the understanding that the best ideas often come not from boardrooms, but from the dirt. As one longtime local once told me, "The trail doesn't care about your marketing budget. It only cares if your bike works." Beer tastes better on fallen logs, as the saying goes here. There's truth in that casual observation. The real value of any mountain biking event—whether it's a local group ride or a major competition—isn't just in the riding itself. It's in the conversations that happen afterward. The problem-solving. The shared laughter after a close call. The planning for next week's adventure. That's where the sport's future gets written, one garage session at a time.