The first time I entered a mountain bike race, it was only because my friends were doing it. I’ll admit that sounds dumb, but it was a better bandwagon than smoking.

I wasn’t very competitive, nor especially fast or fit, but I sure did love riding my bike—especially with other people. Back in those days you could buy into casual community races in British Columbia for the price of a single coin. Clubs called them “toonie” races, and they were pretty much ubiquitous. (If you don’t know what a toonie is, get a passport.)

That particular August evening in Golden, B.C., the weekly race was simply where the tribe was going to be, and I wanted in. So, I lined up in the oppressively dry heat ready to spend the next hour and a half getting my ass handed to me as the price of entry. And so it went, as I nearly keeled over and, indeed, finished last.

Still, it was worth it. I didn’t much care about results. My only real goal was to make some new friends. And I did. That carried me for the next 10 years until I moved across the pass to Revelstoke and started all over again. By then toonie races were called “fivers” (inflation, eh) and I was in my mid-30s.