The Crazy Lettuce

We’d just decorated Trevor’s Hyundai Pony with a plump plastic Cactus, generously donated by Taco Time in Chilliwack. It fit perfectly on the end of the passenger-side two-by-four that served as a bike rack atop Trevor’s five-door Korean hot rod. It was 1997 and we were bound for the trails of Rossland B.C. in the southern Kootenays. 

Somehow, in a time before the internet and even before Trail Forks, Trevor had heard about good trails there. Lots of good trails. I had been a mountain biker for more than a decade by that point, and I was keen, but it hadn’t yet become my most preferred activity. 

After we set up our tents in the campground, we saddled up and headed to the meeting point. Earlier in the day we’d dropped in at the bike shop and were told about a local ride we could join. Rossland to this day has a benevolent wild west feel. It’s easy to imagine horses tied up in front of businesses and a time when even Main Street was unpaved. Riding through town in high summer was intoxicating. We rolled up and the welcoming locals seemed pleased to have some fresh blood along.

We pedalled along an old rail grade for a good stretch when the leaders stopped unexpectedly. The locals dug patch kits out of Camelbacks and assembled in a circle. This was not my first safety meeting, but riding under any influence is something I would never recommend,* but intoxicated by the town, the crew and the season, I joined in.

*not publicly

As the crushed gravel cracked under our wheels, I overheard two of the locals talking. I couldn’t quite make the conversation out but the impression I got was that we had partaken in something that was a little beyond the ordinary; this was the Crazy Lettuce. 

What the hell was I doing? Crazy Lettuce? That seemed a step too far, a bridge I should not have crossed. Jesus Christ! This was a crisis! We started to climb and my heart rate began to outpace our effort, at a time when I was cross country fit. The holder of the Crazy Lettuce was ahead of me. It became clear: the Crazy Lettuce was laced with something sinister. Why else would it be called Crazy Lettuce? I was unprepared for this! My heartrate ramped up five beats. 

“Trevor, what was that stuff?” He looked at me quizzically. “What do you mean?” I felt annoyed at having to explain that the Crazy Lettuce was clearly something dangerous and unintended for city boys like us. “I don’t know,” he said, “why don’t you ask Jimmy?” And then the fun began. 

I had ridden some challenging North Shore trails by that time but nothing that was really steep. As it turned out, Rossland was all steep. Next-level steep. Every rider except one, on a Turner Burner, was on a hardtail, and I had just traded my Marzochi XC 400 for a RockShox Judy with 3” of travel. I had buyer’s remorse. It seemed like too much for my Dekerf, despite the orange colour and the smooth action, but I was stuck with it. 

Despite my unshaven legs and my lack of talent, I had the heart of a racer. Lowering my saddle was out of the question. It was a matter of principle to be sure, but it was also practical; I had to be able to ride everything with my saddle up during a race so why the hell would I lower it in “practice?” How dare you even suggest it. Trevor was far more practical. He could ride more lines and avoid peril and have more fun. These sounded like trivial factors for me. He presented his arguments but was resigned to my stubbornness. He clearly had no principles.

We dropped into the first line and I found I was out of my element. I was used to having my gut on my saddle but I needed to push even further, back to my sternum. It’s hard to say if I was more terrified or thrilled but the experience cracked something open. I had barely survived and my eyes were like saucers. Ho.Lee. Shit.

We descended further and then started to climb again. I finally saw Jimmy in striking distance ahead of me, laughing and smiling despite the effort we were putting in. I pushed a little harder and Trevor and I finally caught up with him on a steep section. 

“Hey Jimmy,” I said, “that stuff we smoked, what was it?”

He laughed and his eyes wrinkled into a smile; “duuude, that was the Crazy Lettuce!” 

Every word that came out of his mouth was peppered with laughter and he was oblivious to my concerns. How was this information helpful? I knew it was The Crazy Lettuce. I hadn’t yet made a complete fool of myself, so I continued; “so what’s in the Crazy Lettuce?” 

“Dude? Huh?” 

Before I’d even thought about my response I was saying the words. And I felt confident saying them. I was using the local term. “You mean it’s just… lettuce?”

Jimmy, who hadn’t stopped smiling for a moment until this point, whose infectious laughter was constant, swivelled a serious chin towards me. I watched as all the joy drained from his face. “No dude,” he said, “it’s marijuana.”

Feeling equal parts relieved and embarrassed, with Trevor giggling by my side, I put my head down and continued to grind. As we reached the next descent, something had softened in me. The locals were all looking at the opening move so I went and peered over the edge. It was steeper than the last, and more exposed. I pulled out my Allen key and pushed my Syncros post down a good four inches, swung a leg over, and dropped in.