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CHILLING SPREE Volume 1 Issue 1 All photos and stories by Riley McMaster unless it says differently. Get peakin’



Despite growing up a three hour trip from the stately city of Victoria, the epicentre of everything off the B.C. mainland’s coast. I have ventured the four corners of America more than I have my own province’s capital. The town’s draw is an awesome skatepark filled with rad locals. The scene there is tight, there is not many other options but to share the park so everyone knows everyone and they’re always hyped for a reason to all get together. Cheifly my knowledge of Victoria existed only from buddies’ riding stories and low budget commercials I watched as a kid that would air during The Price Is Right. the most memorable of these ads were for this furniture store that always ripped off a different catch phrase of any and all cultural icons. The store’s owner was always the star, botched into some greenscreened scene to suit whoever he was he was parodying. Gordy Dodd is the man responsible for delivering the clichéd quotes through his thick east indian accent. Terminator, James Bond, Steve Irwin, whoever, it didn’t matter, Dodd was just trying to push some ottomans, La-z-boys, and whatever else he had stocked in his furniture emporium. This summer, the Vic loc’s were hosting their annual Gorilla Jam at their park. Since I had finally found a bartending job that freed up my weekends, I was psyched to trek over to the island for the occasion. We managed to bum a ride to the ferry terminal, just in time to catch the last sailing of the night. As we docked on the other side, Carl and I were geared up to race off the deck at the drop of the mesh gate. Since the bus that goes into the city has only 2 spots on the bikerack, we know how competitive those spots can be. No problem, we get there first, wait a minute for the bus to show up, and get ready for another hour long ride. Stopping a dozen or so stops through the small towns that stand in the way of the boat and the city. The only thing is, I’ve had an urgent leak pinched in since before we left the car deck of the ferry, and the local transit bus had no facilities of extinguishing my pain. I am blindly following Carl’s lead. He seems to know where he is going, without ever expressing any certainty, I still trust him. Finally dozens of stops go by, what felt like hours of fidgeting and stress, Carl says this is the stop. I hurriedly rip my bike off the front of the bus and head straight for the first bush that I see. Whoooosh, in a split second I am leaking hot coolant all over this stubby upstanding bushes. Man, it feels to good to know that I didn’t just ruin my only pair of pants. After the initial wave of euphoria has passed, I look up between the bushes and who else would be 12 feet tall directly in front of me plastered on the side of a semi-trailer. Gordy Dodd himself. Disguised as the classic host of the Price Is Right, spewing some slogan to hawk ottomans, and welcoming me finally to Victoria. It was just a car, boat and bus ride away.





My experiences of constantly voyaging back and forth across America has brought me to Minneapolis, Minnesota four times. I have spent more time there than I have Seattle, Portland, Victoria or any other major city within a reasonable distance of my home for a roadtrip. And I have never flown there. The majority of westcoasters have a hard time understanding why I would spend so much time and effort to get to some random city in the heart of America’s mid-west. There’s no mountains, there’s no ocean, and the 10,000 lakes they have are all dirty and polluted. But it is still the place I keep going to. When it came to this summer, I had a steady job I didn’t feel like shading off from just yet. Tallboy invited me out to his wedding in Minneapolis on June 9th (6/9/12). I never actually got the invite, he told me about it but the actual invite never showed. I tried to keep it a secret and just show up as a surprise guest. But that got blown out pretty quickly. Flying to Minneapolis, for the first time ever, actually seemed like the only option. For some reason everytime I go through Minneapolis they are in the middle of a heatwave. This time was no different. The days were boiling hot, yet still out of habit I needed a cup of hot coffee everyday. The other guys all opted for ice coffee concoctions, but I wanted the refills that come with the standard simple beverage. I’ve always felt the need to acclimatize to the surroundings. For the longest time when I was a kid, I would get Slurpees in the middle of winter. It just felt natural to have cold drinks on cold days, so the hot drinks on even hotter days was the right thing to do. Because of the heat, we mostly rode at night. Still short sleeve and even shorter shorts weather, the night cruise always meant the streets were pretty much empty. No spots were off limits. So while knowing that the nights would provide the time to shred, we were left with our days open. We hit up some of the 10,000 lakes, watched riding videos and hit up bulk amounts of White Castle burgers. One of the nights we were out riding, I was left out to watch the bikes while the other guys went into some gas station to grab drinks. The poster right infront of me was for this drink I’ve never heard of. Being the touririst that I am, I took a picture and brought it up with the locals. LEAN: the slow motion potion. After we talked about the poster that night, it was apparent that no one had any idea about it. We knew

the next day’s mission had to be finding this slow motion potion. These syrup inspired tallcans claim to have the get high powers of a styrofoam cup filled with coedine cough syrup, Fresca, and a Jolly Rancher. Sold and marketed like their energy drink polar opposites that are maxed out with guarana, caffine and shredly attitudes. It is formulated by a licensed phramacist, and intended for “to chill out sippers of all ages” (taken directly from their site). We cruised around an area that is considered pretty hood. Bink knew one of these places would have it. It was not somewhere a couple of white guys from Canada would want to be hanging out at night. But in the middle of a bright day, we had no problems rolling around from corner store to cornern store. Store after store had all the typical Coke and Pepsi products, maybe some Faygo or other no name brand stuff, but never any Lean. We kept going, and eventually one dimly lit store had a couple cans of the Purp

flavor. Holy shit we were so psyched that we actually found it. We stood loitering outside the corner store, where some of the colourful loc’s were hyped on our drink choice. “Yeah you got some of dat purple drank.” Always around Minneapolis people outside convinience stores would be so friendly. Another guy tried to sell us some brown, after telling me that he shoved a mango in his girlfriend, who was right in front of him. I don’t know if it was the heat, or if the Lean was actually doing its job, but we definitely chilled all day. We chilled hard enough to match our typical daytime happenings but still managed to bounce back and have an awesome cruise that night.

THE TIME I MANUALLED THROUGH A GRAVEYARD I’d been gone from home and living in my car for three weeks. Four thousand kilometers from anywhere I had ever been before. It was my first time ever being in Texas, and my first night in the Houston area when I elbow dropped off a six foot quarterpipe straight to flat. After a couple of minutes my wrist was seized with pain. I spent that night sleeping on Cody’s bedroom floor in Chrix’s parents house, having nightmares about being legitimately injured and be forced to ditch out on this long and potentially permanent expedition. The next couple of days I would come along to the park and watch everyone ride while I held gimped wrist sideways with my other arm. While stressing out about if I should say “fuck this” and go home, or if I should say “fuck it” and keep going. I realized that Houston marks a triangle point between Vancouver and Montreal, and I knew that I had already gone so far, I would be a serious chump if went whimpering back home without ever having driven to the biggest party spot in the country. After all, I had already told a friend there I was coming. So I drove off with a loose plan to get to Montreal about a week later. I slowly worked my way through the deep south and cruising up the eastern seaboard. After driving so much I had to get out and cruise around these brand new (to me) cities and towns on my bike because it’s way more accessible. I could rip around no problem with the bum wrist, but I couldn’t for the goddamn life of me hop up a curb. I figured out that I had to be going fully parallel along the curb, pull up (pulling was fine, pushing killed me) let the back tire drag and tireslide up. Really not ideal when I was heading straight into a curb, having to swerve to get the slide. After meeting up with a bud from San Fransisco in Virginia, then heading up through NY and eventually Boston, where he had just moved. He had to get to work so I needed to keep going North. Right before crossing the border back into Canada, I felt the need to take advantage of my $10,000,000 worth of insurance. I stopped somewhere in Massachussets, following the hospital signs on the interstate. The privatized, non-universal health care seemed to be alright as far as I was concerned. A couple of X-rays told me that I had fractured my elbow, I was quick to ask why my elbow felt fine, my wrist was useless though. The doctor snapped back “I don’t know, your ELBOW is broken”. Great...he’s trained in the science of medicine and helping people and you can’t even give me a simple explanation as to what is going on (the minute I met up with a physiotherapist he knew about exactly why the elbow doesn’t have many nerve endings and it got swollen where it was injured so it twists the whole forearm bone so it irritates all the nerve endings in my wrist-duh). So the hospital as always was a great time. Now to get to Canada. I showed up at a friend from highschool’s apartment with nothing but some cheap whiskey and a case or beer that I had picked up before crossing the border. “Uh where’s all your stuff?” I guess I never told them about what had been happening this whole trip, and just said that I was going to be in Montreal. He figured I had been taking the bus, or flew in, or some other way that meant having my possessions with me at all times. “…In my car” “Ohh you drove, you don’t seem like the type to own a car.” He was right, I am not the type to own a car. I mean, I did, but once the car served its purpose it was useless to me. I bought the car on my 20th birthday, drove around North America twice, went 40,000 km’s in a year and a half and got rid of it. I never drove it around for errands, menial tasks or just getting around the city. I get a weird disconnected feeling of being in a car. It’s like I’m outside, but I’m just watching the outside world go by me. The climate is controlled, the music is blaring, the only thing that is reminiscent of the actual world is the view. I’m always trying to keep track of all the street signs and roundabouts and oh shit! there’s a pedestrian. Highway driving is much more my style. Gun it as fast I can and don’t let the truckers plow over me. I stayed in Montreal just a few days. My buddy had a rickety converted fixie, man that chain was loose. It was a sketchy rig, but he still got around alright. We scoped out the babes of McGill, went up the mountain right beside the school and eventually made it to the gates of a huge cemetery. Posted right front & centre was a typical DO/DON’T DO type sign with red and green circles showing which is which. Don’t do: showed a detailed mountainbiker popping a sick wheelie. Do: a dropbar roadbike, with both tires clearly on the ground. “ONLY” written directly above an arrow pointing down to the ground. A sign clearly marked to indicate that wheelies are not allowed. I don’t understand what is disrespectful of that situation. They shouldn’t assume everyone is so sketchy that if they start manualling around they are going to smash into some headstones. Maybe they’ve had problems with unexperienced kids before. The sloped curving paths that ran all through the sacred grounds was too perfect to not pop up the front wheel and cruise around all leaned back. As usual, I wasn’t going to listen to some cheesy sign. With the bum wrist, a manual was the only thing I could do, and man did it feel great to be blowing past all the rows of headstones locked into a perfect manual, taking the turns, pumping the speed bumps. After I made it back home a week or so later, I couldn’t stop thinking about how all these circumstances came together and made for one of the most memorable parts of this 2 month trip-out. I never thought doing a manual along a road would be the highlight of anything.

HANG째TIME Some photos from Jordan Hango


Exiled after his 5 year stint as a Canadian, Chester the perma-glazed ginger eventually was hastily forced to leave the Great White North. Retreating to what has now become the Blazeguard refugee camp, Chet’s still been doing the most despite being refused to even visit his adopted homeland.















Summer of Huwaei Huwawway Huaeaei Full-time burnout Neighbourhood dead-end kids enjoyed the show Rush relapse PhD Cryptozoologist Diaphragm Alley: We Remember the homeless Horizontal rain blasts I encourage intruders The guy who lives across the street from the T.G.I.Fridays in the Mall of America, he doesn’t even have to leave his house to see if there’s a lineup Marble Point Baked and cooled Big Country Reeves and Joe C. This chud’s for you Don’t make plans Don’t ask questions Just enjoy this Chilling Spree.


oto by Carl Arnett



Chilling Spree  

The Organization of Chillers combine to bring photographic documentation of sporadic events of productivity.

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