As I’ve been putting together notes for a few highlights to talk about tonight at the at the year-end shindig (it’s 6pm at Rayback, and we hope you make it!), I’ve also been reflecting on the past two years (!!) of BCADV, and what it has come to mean for me. ‘Tis the season, and if you don’t like vulnerability, stop reading now. 
Aside from skills, tech knowledge, and new places to ride, another thing I’ve learned - and certainly the most important thing for me at 51, with chronic health conditions, and the weight that generally comes with being a middle-aged dude facing mortality - is that since starting this club, what we’re doing together is so much bigger than motorcycles. Bikes brought us here via so many different paths, sure, but they’re not the whole story. What I’ve seen that really keeps people showing up, what keeps this thing alive and gaining momentum, aren’t the farkle-show-n-tells you bolt onto a bike. They’re mental health boosts, real friendships, and a genuine sense of community.
I’ve had people come up to me privately - great riders and noobs alike - and tell me that these rides, these meetups, these random Tuesday-night conversations, have helped them get through some really tough stretches. Not because anyone here is pretending to be a therapist, but because having a group that gets you, or even if they don’t get you, shows up anyway with zero judgment and a lot of shared experience, and that makes a difference. Being out in the woods or on the road with people you trust is its own kind of medicine that can’t be bought.
Out on a ride, nobody cares what you do for work or how your week went or what you achieved. We just look out for each other. We suffer together. We laugh a LOT. This is the stuff that matters, and I’d wager cash money that it matters more than most of us admit out loud, at least in public to each other. After all, we’re mostly a bunch of dudes on motorcycles. (I wish we had more women riders, for the record.)
Friendships have snuck up on me as a direct result of BCADV. You show up one day, and start riding with strangers, then suddenly they’re the people you call when you need a hand. They’re the ones who text you to see how you’re doing since you broke your arm or since your dog died. You find out somebody else is dealing with the same stress, the same health scares, the same real life stuff you thought you were handling alone. And all it took was a coffee stop, a Tuesday moto social, or a flat-repair break to open that door. Or in Rich’s kickstand fiasco on that one camp trip to Rollins Pass, there was time to get to know the intimate details of everyone’s lives, where they grew up, where they went to school, then read a book and take nap.
Being in a place where my career is mostly behind me, I’ve come to the harsh realization that community isn’t something you can manufacture. It’s something you nurture, and in the BCADV case it happens ride by ride. It happens by fist bumps, by picking up bikes, experiencing the backcountry, and checking in with someone you haven’t seen in a bit. It happens by giving a newcomer a warm welcome so they feel like they have the opportunity to belong and be a part of this from day one if they want it. All this happens because all of you choose to show up for each other. It’s fucking cool to see.
I started this thing because I was alone, and couldn’t find people I trusted to ride with. Our first meetup was Rich, Chris LeGault, Paulo, Starla, and me at Upslope on a frigid night in winter - five strangers at a table. As a much bigger crew these days, we’ve now intentionally laid the foundations of a space/context/environment where we usually feel better when we leave than when we arrived.
So, thanks Team.
2026 is going to be rad, and we’ll talk about it more tonight. Let’s keep on keeping it strong, keeping it welcoming, and keeping it human.
-Gino