The North Shore in Vancouver, Canada was arguably one of the most enticing mountain bike attractions in the world. The three local mountains—Mount Seymour, Mount Cypress, and, most infamously, Mount Fromme—were home to some of the most challenging trails and stunts. The mountain biking scene first started in the 80s, and peaked in terms of difficulty in the late 90s and early 2000s, then softened up in the years later to come, but could still provide a difficult challenge for riders to come.

          In the past, trail building and riding were frowned upon by the district. It was deemed illegal to move dirt, rocks, trees, or any form of forest-like debris without a permit. And back then getting a permit was like trying to sneak into a club underage—it very rarely was going to happen. The district feared that they'd be responsible for anyone who may get injured while using the trails, and throughout the North Shore's most notorious days, fines and jail time were even threatened against those who took place in illegal trail building.

          Yet determined and dedicated, maybe even a little bit stubborn, trail builders refused to abide by these laws, sneaking off into the mountains and building secret, hidden trails. Some builders even went as far as covering their stunts in camouflage nets, as they feared any prying eyes may catch them taking place in their passionate anarchy. 

          During the late 90s and early 2000s, the North Shore was seeing some of its craziest stunts, creating challenges that had yet to be seen in the era of mountain biking.

          "It's just crazy when I look back at it," said Connor, recalling all the wild times. "I think a lot of people, locals even, would be shocked at some of the crazy shit they were building up in those mountains. As much as we hated the district for trying to take away what we loved doing, I can also see why they were concerned. We were nuts. Us British Columbians were pushing the sport harder than ever."

          "The Shore ain't like it was back then," admitted David, who reminisced on the earlier days. "Don't get me wrong, there are still quite a few challenging double black diamond trails that will give you a solid run for your money, no doubt. But if you wanted that gritty, old school North Shore vibe, then you had to be riding here fifteen or twenty years ago."

          David Thorn, twenty-two at the time, had moved to the North Shore with his family in 2002 from Windsor, Ontario. Upon settling into his new environment, David was introduced to mountain biking by a neighbour, John Ramerdy, who he had spotted riding a 1999 Kona Stinky up and down the block. Entranced by the bike and its style, David asked John if he could try riding some of the local trails with him if he were to save up for a mountain bike of his own. John saw no problem in this, and was more than willing to make David's wish come true.

          So David started saving his money carefully, working long shifts at the gas station just up the hill from his house. 

          After two months, David was ready to buy his first mountain bike. He and John, who by this time had built a friendship, made their way to the local bike shop, where David purchased a 2001 Norco VPS—one of the first mountain bikes to provide both front and back suspension. David said it was like love at first sight.

          "It caught my eye the second I walked into the store," he confessed. "It was resting there up against the wall, shining bright lime green with streaks of pumpkin-orange. I looked at John and said, 'This is the one.' "

          "I thought it was a good pick for him," John, too, agreed. "Sometimes, when riders are first starting out, it's suggested that they don't buy a bike with back suspension. The reason for this is because you don't want the rider to become dependent on the suspension; you want them to rely on their skill and hard work. But I didn't feel that way with David. He was tall and had a natural, athletic build. I thought he could skip the beginner stage and move to the more advanced trails right off the bat."

          And it was true. David had played high-level hockey throughout his childhood back in Ontario, so the sport of mountain biking had come more natural to him than the Average Joe. 

          That same day, quite literally right after purchasing the bike, John took David up Mount Fromme for a quick rip. It was a warm summer day as the two rode up the steep Mountain Highway service road, David excited to see just how treacherous and challenging the North Shore mountains really were.

          "We started off with some easier trails," John remembered, sitting down at a coffee shop to recall the first time they rode together. "That's the way the Shore works. If you came here trying to jump right into the gnarly stuff with a cocky attitude, you'd be fucked. Those mountains would eat you alive."

          "There were a lot of trails built by that time," Jacob acknowledged. "Some more acceptable than others. It seemed the district was most concerned about the more extreme trails with the crazier stunts. Little did we know, that further down the road, those would be the trails we treasured the most."

          On that first day, David and John had a great time up in the woods together. David was like a sponge, soaking up all the tips and suggestions John was giving him, learning the ways of the infamous North Shore Mountains. They rode the famous Ladies Only trail, built by Todd "Digger" Fiander, a ride that had been on the North Shore since its earliest of times, and was still there to this very day, at the beginning of the sixth switchback. The trail put a great test to David, giving him his first taste of what would become his passion and hobby, as he rode over roots, down rock rolls, and across wooden ladder bridges.

          "He could definitely ride," John admitted at the coffee shop. "It didn't take long before he could keep up with me on nearly all the public trails."

          Connor also agreed, when asked about David's riding skills, "For someone who was just recently introduced to the sport, he had some serious talent. What he was doing in a set of months, I saw taking some guys years to do."

          Over the following summer of them riding together, David was feeling more and more confident with his proudly bought bike, and was beginning to search for greater and more challenging obstacles. In fact, David's skills were so precise for his level of experience, that even with the tough, technical attributes of the North Shore, he wasn't feeling satisfied any longer with the majority of the public trails and their difficulty. David had always been an adrenaline junkie—one of the reasons he loved hockey—and wanted to push himself out of his comfort zone. Or, as toxic masculinity would say: "Go big or go home."

          "He started complaining one day," John remembered, "about how none of the trails were giving him enough of a challenge anymore. I said, 'Well, maybe we should try riding them faster?' He looked at me and shook his head. He just kept going on and on about it, so I eventually spilled the beans."

          John told David about a secret trail called GMG, arguably the most difficult line in the entire history of North Shore riding. David's ears perked up to this like a rabbit hearing a branch snap in the distance. He became extremely intrigued when John went into detail, describing just how mental and terrifying the trail was. He made it out like a horror movie, explaining all the intimidating stunts and atmosphere that surrounded the trail. David wanted to push his riding skills to the limit, and now he had found the perfect opportunity.

          Jacob laughed when asked about his thoughts on GMG. "Man, that was one scary trail back in the day. Just everything about it gave you anxiety. To me, that was the epitome of North Shore riding—or just mountain biking in general. You could argue that a few more illegal trails on Fromme had more technical stunts, but to me, GMG was the real deal. If you could ride that trail, you could ride anything."

          Connor also mentioned at one point, "I know this sounds cliché, but if you were to look up the definition of the word 'steep' in the dictionary, you'd see a small picture of GMG. Naturally, trails on the North Shore are built on switchbacks to prevent such steepness from the riders. But this one? Nuh-uh. GMG is straight down a mountainside. It's hard enough to hike that bloody trail, let alone ride a bike down it."

          " 'GMG—what does that stand for?' " Jacob mocked. "That's probably the most frequent question that goes through a rider's mind when they're waiting at the top, ready to drop in. Well, if you're a local, you know what that stands for. But if you're an out-of-town camper, sorry, you gotta sit this one out. This hidden gem isn't for just everyone."

          So with David obviously intrigued by the trail, John phoned up the original builders one night and asked if they could ride it. The builders said they had no problem with them using the trial—of course, as long as they kept its whereabouts secret. They also told John that there was a code to follow when riding GMG. 

          The first, was that you never, EVER ride the trail all alone, because if you got hurt, nobody was going to know where to look for you. But, if you couldn't abide by those rules, and absolutely felt the need to be a smart-ass and go alone, you needed to at least let someone know you were riding the trail, and that person needed to know the trail's very discreet location.

          With GMG being another illegal trail, the builders most certainly didn't want to experience what so many other trail builders on the North Shore had, and that was to have their hard work torn down by the district and those who didn't understand it. Blood, sweat, and tears went into trail building. The location in which GMG is built was hard enough to walk, let alone haul in a bunch of tools and supplies through the bush—shovels, chainsaws, hammers, nails, wood—not to mention being one of the longest trails on the North Shore, from top to bottom. That takes serious, serious work and dedication.

          "Finding GMG is like looking for a needle in a haystack," explained John. "If you don't know its exact location, you're not gonna be able to find it. The builders did a fantastic job keeping it hidden from the public."

          The second rule in the GMG code was that you had to wear body armour while riding the trail. Full-face helmets were a new thing at the time for mountain biking, and David still had elbow and knee pads that fit him from his ice hockey days. 

          The builders also suggested that riders rode the trail in groups of four, or at least had a four-some group they could call and let one of them know they were using the trail. This was how John and David were introduced to Connor and Jacob, who were brothers. Little did they know at the time that this would be the start of life-lasting friendships.

          "I got a call one day," said Connor, remembering it as if it happened yesterday, "that two guys were looking for a pair to ride GMG with. I had only ridden the trail twice at that point, and both times were a terrifying yet exciting experience. I let my older brother know, and we exchanged numbers and made plans to ride with them the very next day."

          So John, Connor, Jacob, and David met at the base of the mountain, shaking hands and introducing themselves. They wasted no time, and started pedalling up the service road for the long ride to the trail's secret entrance. Connor and Jacob were hyping up how crazy the trail was the whole way there, never once sugarcoating it to David, who listened carefully to their words. Yet at the same time, David felt like they might just be trying to scare him, and that the trail really wasn't as nuts as they babbled on about.

          "I thought they were kinda phony at first," David admitted, giving his honest first impression of Connor and Jacob. "Like it's not that I wasn't believing what they were saying, but I was sorta like, 'Okay, you've made your point. The trail is hard.' But they just kept going on and on, driving it into my skull that I was about to go on a roller coaster ride. Little did I know they were telling more than the truth."

          Once the four reached the spot, Connor and Jacob made sure the coast was clear, as the last thing they wanted was any prying eyes to spot them. After making sure everything was fine, the boys threw their heavy, old school bikes over their shoulders, crossed the creek, and made way to the trail's hidden entrance. The first thing that David noticed was that the atmosphere was changing, the once green, luscious trees upon the public service road now turning into a dark, deserted area of the forest. It had a rather creepy vibe to it, like someone, or something, was watching their every move. David found it eerie, almost as if it were a metaphor for what was coming.

          "The top half of the trail is in a section of the mountain that doesn't get much sun," told Connor when sitting down to give an interview. "So it's really dark and dingy in there—lots of dead trees and rotten logs. I've had times where we rode the trail when the mountain was fogged in and raining, and it's some of the spookiest shit. One day John and I dropped in alone, and we ran into three other riders, which was surprising because it was rare to see other bikers using the trail, let alone on a wet day like that. And on that day my brakes were squeaking like a motherfucker from all the rain. One of the guys looks at me and says, 'Jesus Christ, man. If I hadn't known this was a mountain bike trail, I would've thought you were a banshee or demon chasing after me.' That's the kind of vibes the trail gave."

          Nonetheless, the four boys all pounded fists and wished one another good luck before starting the trail, most of that luck directed towards David, considering it was his first time, like a virgin on the dance floor. 

          And so they were off, dropping into what would eventually go down as one of the North Shore's most infamous trails, but more importantly—the start of deeply-rooted friendships that would last long into their adulthoods. If David had any doubts about the trail's difficulty before, they were surely humbled now, as they rode through some of the steepest slopes that he had ever been exposed to.

          "I seriously thought I was going over the handlebars," he said. "I was leaning back over my rear tire like a BMX rider, the whole time squeezing the brakes so hard my wrists and forearms were completely numb. To give you an idea of how steep this trail was, my back tire was locked completely from my breaks, yet I kept naturally skidding down the mountainside at a pace that I surely felt I was going to lose control of. I knew at that point I'd gotten myself into some serious, crazy shit."

          "He looked like he'd seen a ghost," were Connor's comments on David's first time riding the trail. "John looked at him and said something like, 'So, David, is this one challenging enough for you?' And David kinda just nods his head and mumbles, 'Yeah.' He was spooked—just as we were too our first time riding it."

          The four continued down the trail, balancing their way over skinny, slippery log rides, and technical ladder bridges and big hucks and massive drops. David was sweating profusely, feeling as if he wouldn't need to go to the gym again for an entire month. GMG was as unforgiving as you could build a mountain bike trail. The room for error was so little. Make the smallest mistake, and the trail would force you to pay the price. Jacob would know this better than anyone, as he was the first to take a small wipeout.

          "I got cocky while riding through a rooted section," he remembered. "I thought I had enough speed to clear it, but I skidded out and took a pretty solid landing on my hip, that left a nice bruise. That wasn't gonna stop me from riding though. I'm not saying I'm a tough guy or anything, but after all the fights I had with my brother growing up, it definitely played a role in my edginess on the mountain."

          After making sure Jacob was okay, the boys reached the midway point of the trail, where the wooden stunts and features seemed to only be getting more intense—if that was even possible. For the first time in his mountain biking career, there were times where David had to get off his bike and walk portions of the trail. Even with his gritty attitude and level of skill, he wasn't quite ready for some of the obstacles, but knew that he'd be coming back to try them again in the future.

          One of the most infamous structures on the trail was called the O-Go-Flow-Go—AKA "the stairway to hell." It was rather difficult to describe the stunt without a visual representation, but try to imagine that you're riding your bike down a set of stairs, yet the stairs are only seven or eight inches wide, and the whole time you're up in the air. The only person who rode the stunt that day was Connor, who seemed to be the strongest rider in the group. However, it took him two nasty crashes and several cuts to complete it. Nothing was given to you on GMG. You had to earn it the hard way.

          Down farther, near the end of the trail, David was exposed to one of the scariest log rides he had ever seen, which stood fifteen feet in height above the ground at its highest point, covered in slippery, wet moss. David was 6'2", and looked like a shrimp standing underneath it. He could only shake his head in awe, as it was Connor once again who rode the stunt, this time, skillfully, and very LUCKILY, not falling off. The other boys applauded once he stuck the landing perfectly. Connor was truly something on a mountain bike. Some would say he had large balls, while others may argue he had little brains.

          "The things is," John pointed out, referring to the log ride at the end of the trail, "if you're falling off that thing, you're busting a knee or ankle, regardless. Every time we'd watch Connor ride it, I'd hold my breath and pray that he'd make it. And don't kid yourself, the log isn't nice and big to support him, it's only like a foot wide, and the whole time you're pedalling slightly upward. The entire trail is just insane. I'm surprised the builders didn't get locked in a psych ward."

          After David's first ride on GMG, he now knew what North Shore riding was all about.

          "I was exhausted by the time we finished," he admitted. "But it was more a mental thing. Don't get me wrong, I was beyond tired in terms of the way my body felt, but I was just done mentally. The trail really breaks you down; it's almost like you leave reality while riding it. Like you go to a whole other world. You're just so focused and in the moment because the trail forces you to be with its technicality, that you don't even think about other things going on. But I knew one thing for sure—that I wanted to ride it again, and as soon as possible."

          Tired and stiff, the four boys shook hands again and made plans to ride the trail the following weekend. 

          The second ride David found himself more content with the trail, since he was no longer riding it blind, but that didn't mean they wouldn't have to work hard. It was John this time who took a gnarly wipeout on the top half, but just like Jacob on their first run, he got back up and kept going. David tried riding the O-Go-Flow-Go this time, and did so successfully on his fourth attempt. The log ride at the end, however, was still just a little too much, so he decided to sit it out and let Connor make it look easy again.

          David and John were also feeling more comfortable with Jacob and Connor, and the four were really starting to get along quite nicely. They found themselves laughing and pulling jokes as they rode up the Mountain Highway service road, riding GMG over and over. The trail was like hard drugs—terrifying—but at the same time, you always wanted more. Before they knew it, they were riding GMG more than all the other trails on the North Shore combined.

          "We fell in love with that trail before we fell in love with a girl," Connor joked. "It just seemed like every time we met up, we were riding GMG. Even on the days when we said, 'Okay, let's take a break and ride a different trail,' we'd find ourselves making our way up there and riding a lap."

          Jacob also stated, looking back, "I think what made GMG cool, aside from the part it was so gnarly, was that we weren't actually supposed to be riding it. I don't condone illegal activity in any way, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the fact that we were going against the district and doing what we loved—and that was to ride crazy mountain bike trails. Our friendships went beyond riding. We started going out for dinner together, visiting house parties, attending concerts. But in the end, it was GMG that brought us together."

          "It's not one of those trails you can just rip through top to bottom," informed David when going into further detail. "In fact, there's a bunch of stunts and features that may take you several tries to complete, even if you've already ridden them successfully in the past. So we'd just hang out on the trail and have sessions on certain stunts, while we talked about life and whatever was new in our worlds—girls, sports, movies. We'd even pack lunches and snacks, spending the whole day on the mountain. It was super chill."

          It seemed like the long, cold winters on the North Shore were spent by the boys waiting for the snow to melt so they could get back up and ride GMG, at least the bottom half. Sometimes they'd go in their puffy jackets and boots and check to make sure everything was okay with the trail, giving updates to the builders and other riders who waited ahead for spring riding. Regardless of the season, time, or weather, it seemed like the trail was always in the back of the boys' minds.

          One spring, John invited some of his cousins from Washington State to drive up for the day and ride with them. John had told the boys that his cousins were fairly strong riders, and that he'd like to give them a taste of North Shore riding. Originally, the plan was they were only going to ride the public trails, as his cousins weren't exactly locals, and they wanted to keep things classy. But it was the pre-riding trash talk that led to them changing their minds and making a rare exception.

          "They were talking a bunch of smack on the phone during the drive up here," John admitted of his extended family. "Saying things like, 'Oh, you Canadians are soft. We're gonna tear up your mountains and trails, no problem.' And we took that kinda personally, you know? So we had no choice but to take them for a rip down GMG, and that shut 'em up real quick."

          The American riders had great difficulty adjusting to the style of their fellow neighbours from across the border. Several of them had to walk the majority of the trail's technical upper half. And by the time they got to the stunts down at the lower section, they were already bloody and bruised, and even had to help one cousin named Camron down the rest of the trail with his bike, as he quite literally limped off the mountain. It was sweet revenge for the locals, who watched with amused grins.

          "Those boys left the Shore shook," Connor said with a laugh.

          And it wasn't just boys who were riding the trail. Mariah, David's younger sister, who had also gotten into mountain biking because of him, insisted that she come one day when catching the boys loading their bikes up in the truck.

          "My sister wanted to join us one time," David started, going on. "And my toxic masculinity kinda took over and I said something along the lines of 'maybe you wanna sit this one out.' She didn't like that one bit, and was even more insistent that she come with us. So, we let her tag along, but warned of what lay ahead."

          It seemed that John was quite fond of David's sister and her mountain riding ability.

          "She was awesome," he said once at a get-together. "A straight trooper."

          Mariah approved of his comments.

          "Every time my brother and his friends would come over, I'd overhear them talking about this so-called 'GMG' trail, so I wanted to see what it was all about," she explained years later at her parents' home back in Ontario. "Obviously, I had a hard time keeping up with the boys, and I had to walk more than half the trail, but it was still a fun, yet scary experience."

          Further down the road, the boys became infatuated with the idea of someone clearing GMG. To "clear" a trail means to ride it top to bottom, without a mistake, and not get off your bike. At first, they thought it may be impossible, due to the trail's extreme length. But the more they thought about it, the more they wanted to make it become reality. It was no doubt that the only person who might be capable of doing so, was Connor, who began studying the stunts as if he were about to take an exam on them.

          "At this point, after riding the trail so many times, I'd literally memorized the lines like an actor," he said. "We started taking this whole 'clearing' idea pretty seriously, and the guys made it clear—no pun intended—that they wanted me to do it. Obviously, if I was gonna pull this off, we wanted to get it on film."

          Back then helmet cameras or GoPros were rare to non-existent, so the boys were stumped at first how they were going to get a shot of Connor riding the whole trail. Determined and dedicated, creative and maybe desperate, the boys ended up strapping an old home camera to Connor's helmet, with excessive layers of electrical and duct tape. Feeling confident that their plan would work, Connor began trying to clear the trail the next afternoon, which he would soon find out was a mentally dwelling battle.

          "It was so fucking frustrating," he admitted. "There'd be times where I'd make it down two-thirds of the trail with no mistakes, ready to get the perfect shot. Then, as I was just about to finish, I'd run out of breath or make a silly error and skid out. THEN, I'd have to walk back all the way to the top of the trail and start over. Not to mention we'd have to return home and recharge the battery to the camera all the time. This went on for a couple of weeks. There were lots of moments where I just wanted to give up. The trail's so long and technical. It's just not meant to be ridden all in one sitting."

          Yet the day finally came where Connor pulled off the impossible. Having another beautiful run, making it down to the bottom of the trail without a single mistake, he approached the notorious log ride with precision, panting like a dog and sweating like a sauna. On the video camera later, the boys could hear him mumbling under his breath, "Come on...come on!" He was so determined. There was even one point in the video where it looked like Connor was about to lose his balance and fall off the log—everyone's worst fear—but he stuck the landing and rode away, marking history on the North Shore.

          "He came out in the clutch like Michael Jordan in game seven of the NBA finals," Jacob joked, praising his younger brother. "We were all waiting at the bottom and mobbed him as if he were Michael Jordan, jumping up and down, cheering with excitement. It was an incredible moment."

          The boys went home that night and set up the camera on the TV to watch the footage. They celebrated by downing beer after beer, acting as if their team had just won the Super Bowl. They watched the segment over and over, which was nearly twenty minutes in length, never once getting bored. Drinking themselves into the night, they slept on the living room couches, where they all awoke to a set of gruelling hangovers, but claimed it was worth it for what Connor had put his body through to get the spectacular footage.

          "John pulled a nasty prank that morning," David remembered with a grin. "He told us that during the night he'd accidentally deleted the video, claiming that he'd gotten them mixed up with all the extra shots we'd taken of Connor's unsuccessful attempts. His acting was very convincing, and Connor was so freakin' pissed. He was literally about to punch John, when he yells with a smile, 'Stop! Stop! I'm joking!' He got him good."

          "I can only dream what some mountain bike companies would pay for that footage nowadays," John confessed. "Can you imagine with all the social media that we have today? That thing would go viral. I've probably watched that video over two-hundred times, and I never once get tired of it. Yet no matter how dope the footage was, we never released it to the public. We just wanted it to be a friend thing—and that's how it always will be—just the four of us up in the mountains together, having a good time."

          And then it happened. GMG took its first downfall. A rider by the name of Dale Stevens  chose to ride the trail alone and didn't tell anyone where he was going. He broke his leg on one of the stunts, and was forced to spend the night on the mountain. After his family declared him missing, North Shore rescue eventually found him when someone confessed that he may be using one of the hidden trails on the non-public side of the mountain. This was how the district discovered GMG.

          "Something was bound to eventually happen," Connor said. "Everything was going so perfect; we were having so much fun. It was almost too good to be true. Then reality hit us, and hit us hard."

          "To say the district wasn't happy would be an understatement," told Jacob while giving a phone call for the documentary. "The builders were in serious trouble, and anybody who was caught riding the trail faced fines or even possible jail time."

          David admitted, "I had mixed emotions to be honest. Obviously, part of me was super pissed off with the guy for riding all alone. Everyone knew that that was the number-one rule to abide, and the goofball didn't even bring a cell phone with him. Then, there was part of me that felt bad for him. Like seriously, the poor guy had to spend the night on the mountain, and it was spring, so wildlife like cougars and bears were coming out of hibernation. I can't imagine how terrifying that must've been. Not to mention all the backlash he received from the riding community."

          After several weeks of debating what to do, the district sent a letter to the builders that GMG was a liability to the community, and that all stunts and constructions must be torn down by the end of the month. Once the builders spread the devastating news, the four boys were beyond heartbroken. Something that had once brought them together like little kids was going to be taken away, along with any of the other locals who loved using the trail and its tough, unique terrain.

          But if GMG was going to be destroyed, then the builders and riders were not going down without a fight. Quite literally, like a protest rally, locals started lining up, going to board meetings with the district, debating why trails like GMG should be allowed to continue. The four boys made sure to voice their opinion, taking on the city mayors and anyone who tried to step foot in front of what they loved doing. They wanted to let everyone know how much the trail meant to them.

          "They weren't very open-minded whenever we tried to give them our side of the story," concluded David. "Their voices sounded like a broken tape recorder. 'But why?' they kept asking over and over. 'Why put yourself or others at risk to hurt themselves?' And John gave a pretty good response to that."

          "I basically told them that that was our way of feeling alive," he explained. "Our way of feeling that rush. Some people go skydiving...some people swim with sharks...but we ride mountain bike trails. Still, it didn't seem to be enough to convince them. They weren't buying it, and by the end of the month, it appeared like we were gonna lose the trail."

          Feeling defeated and dejected, the boys had no choice but to surrender and accept the fact they'd lost. They'd done all they could to save the trail, as if it were a sick, unborn child, but like the saying went: "All good things must come to an end." That was a long summer for the boys. Usually keeping themselves busy on the mountain, they were now at loss for what to do with their days. It had been a long time since David had felt so bored, as he tried other ways to stay occupied, but couldn't seem to function any motivation.

          Then, just as fast as the news spread that GMG was coming down, a rumour started going around that the trail was still intact, and that the district hadn't carried through with their threats. At first, the boys thought this was just some sort of prank to get people triggered and have their hopes up. But the more voices they heard, the more they started to believe it. And one day it was confirmed, when a hiker passed by the trail while his dog caught a scent and chased after it.

          The four boys were shocked; they couldn't believe it. Why on earth would the district make such a big stink and not carry through with their original intentions? Something wasn't right. So John called up the original builders again, asking them what had happened. They went on to explain that they hadn't decommissioned the trail, and that if it was going to come down, then the district could handle it themselves—edgy, but passionate. The builders said they had waited for the trail to be destroyed, but hadn't heard back from the district in over two months, almost as if they had discarded their threats.

          "Talk about an overreaction, hey?" John stated, shaking his head. "These guys tried to make us out as criminals, then they just let us off the hook like that? But it's not like we were going to complain. We weren't gonna call up and the district and be like, 'So, uh, yeah. Are you guys still tearing down that mountain bike trail?' Fuck that. We all kept our mouths shut and prayed for the best."

          "As far as I know, I don't think anyone rode the trail for a solid year after that," Connor remembered. "The fear of getting spotted was too much, so the trail just kinda rested there in the forest all alone for a while, bonding with Mother Nature. We still hadn't heard from the district, and by the time spring rolled around, the urge to get back up there was just too much. So the four of us started riding the trail at night."

          If the boys thought they were hardcore before, riding GMG in the daytime, then they reached a whole other level. They each strapped high-beam lights to their chests and helmets, brightening up a good thirty yards in front and around them. It didn't take long to get back into a groove and wipe the rust off, and the atmosphere was spookier than ever at night. 

          However, the trail wasn't in as good condition as it once was. Since the original builders were no longer doing maintenance on the trail because of the district's threats, some of the stunts and lines were beginning to fade, yet the trail was still rideable at that point.

          "As does every trail, GMG started to take its physical downfall," Jacob recalled at his brother's house. "The woodwork was rotting badly, and a lot of the dirt on the trail was turning into rocky chutes. We were still riding it solidly for about a year and a half longer, then things got ugly."

          By 2007ish, GMG was really beginning to fall apart. The trail was seeing less traffic than ever, and even the boys were starting to lose interest in what had once brought them all together. Even the odd times they found themselves using the trail, there were plenty of sections that they had to walk—but not this time because they were intimidated, but because there was simply hardly anything left to ride. It could be argued that the trail's downfall led to a crumble in the boys' friendships, but they claimed it was only a coincidence.

          "We started going our separate ways," David said of the fours' relationship. "And not in a bad way, but we were just on different journeys."

          Jacob, then thirty, had gotten his girlfriend pregnant, so there wasn't much time anymore for him to be on the mountain. Connor, who was always the strongest rider of the group, chose to return to college, working on his degree that he'd put off for nearly a decade. John got a job offer out of town that he couldn't resist, and within a week, he was gone up North. And last but not least, David, who had spotted John that first day riding his bike up and down the block, moved back to Ontario with his sister.

          "Just because we don't see each other every day doesn't mean we're gonna stop being friends," told John. "To this day, as we sit here nearly twenty years later, we're all still in contact. In fact, it was just about a month ago I got a call from Jacob, asking me how I was doing. We had a long chat on the phone, talking about all the good times we had together up in those mountains. It was lovely to reminisce on it."

           "I actually wrote an assignment about it for school," Connor would later say. "And it got a lot of people interested who read it. They started asking me questions, saying things like, 'Are you really the crazy mountain biker you claim to be?' It was funny to recall all the good times and write them down on paper. It had me emotional at points, and I made sure to email a copy to the boys."

          "I don't know," David answered when questioned if they'd ever have a reunion and rebuild the trail themselves. "First of all, I can't be putting my body through that anymore. I got a wife and kid to take care of now. But I'm not going to say it's impossible. Yes, it's extremely, EXTREMELY unlikely, but it's important to have an open mind in life. Yet I don't think I'd change a thing. I know a lot of people say that and don't really mean it deep down, but I do. Sometimes it's best to leave on a good note. Who knows, maybe some new school riders might adopt the trail. But in my opinion, I think it's time we lay GMG to rest, and let Mother Nature reclaim what we took from her."

          Now over twenty years since it was first built, GMG was nothing more than a forgotten name, but its legend would live on for those were brave enough, or possibly even dumb enough, to drop in and give the trail a chance. 

          The mountain biking scene had changed drastically since those times, and North Shore riders nowadays would be puzzled if you asked them what GMG was. New school kids, with their evolved bikes, would simply shake their heads, having no idea what you were talking about.

          "The North Shore has just changed so much since then," Jacob said, giving his final interview for the documentary. "Trails like GMG don't really exist anymore. Well, they do, but the forest has reclaimed them. The once tough, technical lines of the Shore have been turned into more flow riding, with famous trails like Espresso and Bobsled. And I have nothing wrong with that. Even though I'm not riding anymore, at least not nearly as consistent as I was back in the day, it's interesting to sit there and watch different eras evolve. I can't complain."

          David, now in his forties with two children, had flown back to the west coast for a week, to hang out and catch up with the boys, as John, too, had moved back to North Vancouver. 2020 had been a rough year for the world with COVID-19 and everything that happened, so the boys thought they'd treat themselves to cracking a case of beer, just like the night that Connor had cleared the trail and got it on film over fifteen years ago. They all watched the footage again, laughing at how they literally duct-taped a camera to his helmet. It truly was a great night.

          On the final day of his stay, before flying back to Ontario, David hiked up the mountain by himself to quickly check if there were any remains of the infamous trail. There was now a parking lot near the base of the mountain, and it was clear that North Shore riding was more evolved and popular than ever. When he eventually reached the trail, David barely even recognized it. The entire path was completely overgrown, and the stunts, which were so rotten they could no longer hold themselves up, had bushes and small trees growing out of them. It looked like a war zone, and it was clear that GMG had reached its end, and had done so a very long time ago.

          "It was weird," David said of seeing the trail in its demolished state. "Part of me was sad it was gone, but the other part was grateful it was over. For twenty years that trail has been in the forest, and it never once got taken down by the district. And that's the way a trail should go out—naturally—getting retaken by Mother Nature, so its memories can live on in the minds of those who rode it. There's a good chance that will be my very last time ever seeing it."

          During the final phone call of the documentary, John reminisced on the time he had invited his cocky cousins from Washington State to drive up for the day and ride with them. He laughed, thinking about how they went from talking all that smack, to literally hobbling their way down the mountain.

          "It was the ultimate revenge—taking them down GMG," he said. "We were all killing ourselves laughing. I said, assuming they'd return one day, 'So, when you guys coming back?' And one of my cousins just mumbles as they haul themselves into the van, broken and bruised, 'We aren't coming back.' And that was the last we saw of them. Once they left, the four of us gave each other props and said in unison, 'Welcome to the North Shore.' "