At 6 a.m. the five pagans converged on McDonald’s to celebrate summer solstice. After choking down six hash browns, two muffins, five cookies, three pancakes, six McMuffins, two McGriddles, four burritos, two bagels and five coffees in a matter of minutes, they began pedaling off into the glowing morning light to complete a North Shore Triple Crown. Eighty-nine kilometers (55 miles) and 3,300 meters (10,826 feet) of climbing later, they’d be finished. And there was one other small stipulation: They could only subsist on McFood.

The Rules:
-Do a North Shore Triple Crown**
-All Calories Must come from McDonald’s
-No F*****g Salad
-Eat the menu

**The North Shore Triple Crown climbs a minimum of 3,000 meters vertical attained over at least 75 kilometers: Ride from sea level up to each of the three ski hills on Vancouver’s North Shore. Execute the route correctly by skipping all the amazing riding that’s around you and finish by riding down the chunder pit of Jet Boy trail. Triple Crown Complete.

Today is gonna leave scars.

Preface

Ever since mountain biking diverged from the evolutionary tree of cycling, it’s tried in vain to acquire respect from other sporting cultures.

Those who are logical choose soccer, rock climbing or jogging. Those looking to take part in culturally dominant sports choose football and hockey. Purists choose alpinism. Those who seek connectedness to nature pick surfing, snowboarding or skiing. Finally, the leftovers whose pregnant mothers kept their jobs at the paint store too long choose mountain biking.

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While the rest of the world of sport mills about the schoolyard, mountain biking sits in the sandbox alone eating dirt, pretending it invented fois gras. Between mouthfuls, with drool dripping onto its calf-high socks, it compliments itself on how quickly it’s learned and changed, but nobody cares to listen.

McDonald’s food seems to be subject to a different family of physics. The calories per gram is off the chart, we all know that. The really weird part is that the food is subject to more than 9.81 m/s^2 of gravity. This special ability of McFood creates wicked speed bumps while descending from the mouth to the stomach, colliding into the upper intestine like a falling bowling ball hitting an unsuspecting tube sock.

In its attempt to justify itself to the world, mountain biking sends its most acrobatically inclined to face hellfire in Virgin, Utah, nearly committing suicide in attempt to claim the payout a hockey player receives when he assists a goal. It exiles its most rugged outdoorsmen to big-ish mountains to traverse them, where they spend their time carrying or pushing their double-penny-farthings across rugged terrain, calling it a success. It banishes its fit-and-fast athletes off to enduro races more convoluted and confusing than the U.S. electoral college. And, they do goddamn Triple Crowns, proving confirmation to none other than themselves of their enjoyment of this misguided and deranged selection of sport.

Stephen Matthews. McTriple finisher.

Which brings us to the McTriple: It’s like a bad case of short man’s syndrome infected an entire subspecies of the human race. Did it work out? Peep the photo gallery to observe gluttonously painful good/bad riding. Is there any other kind?

Seymour? Check. McGriddle? Double check. Heart attack? Questionable. Type II fun? Definitely.

Distance: 89 km, Elevation Gain 3,378 meters

‘Athletes’
Stephen Matthews
Dennis Beare
Reuben Krabbe
Sam Richards
Jon Staples

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This misadventure is carbon neutral, with carbon offsetting by Reuben Krabbe Photography.