The Beer Run

It was 1976 in south eastern Ontario and my friends, Steve and Greg, and I were entering our senior year at high school.  We were average kids, not the most recognizable or popular, just a nondescript bunch blending in with the general school population.  And like many boys our age, our thoughts revolved around cars, girls and beer.

Steve had two older brothers already at university studying engineering, as evidenced by the crude dune buggy parked at the side of his parent's garage, a Volkswagen beetle with the body removed and the chassis shortened by a foot and a half where the rear seats used to be, and in the basement rec room by the home-made strobe light consisting of a wooden box, three feet per side, with a six-inch diameter hole in the front.  Inside was a cardboard disk with a matching hole, an old turntable motor and a light bulb.  It had two speeds:  45 and 78.  It was in this rec room, listening to The Doobie Brothers, Santana and Grand Funk Railroad, and playing snooker by strobe light, that we first experienced a Molson product known as Brador.  Never mind that we were far too inexperienced to appreciate the difference between ales, lagers and pilsners… this beer was a malt liquor with 6.2% alcohol.  That was a whole 1.2% better than regular beer.

Brador was only available in Quebec and one of Steve's brothers, attending university in Ottawa, had crossed into Hull and brought a supply home earlier that year.  I am not entirely sure if he agreed to let us try the beer or if Steve had simply liberated some of the stubby bottles, but we imbibed on a few occasions.  I distinctly remember an altercation between Steve and his brother upon the latter's discovery that his stash was severely depleted.  The Brador was gone, but a seed had been planted which led to the formulation of a plan in our young, still developing brains.  If we could get our hands on a stockpile of Brador we would become the envy of our high school, kings walking the halls with our heads high, adored by those hoping to get an invitation to our legendary parties and a taste of the exotic golden elixir we possessed.  As with many a teenaged plan, this one lacked a certain amount of forethought.

Firstly, the drinking age was 18 at that time and none of us had achieved that age.  However, both Steve and Greg were big guys who played on the football team and were able to grow enough facial hair to suggest beards.  Greg was already a veteran of bluffing his way through the Beer Store and we knew that in liberal and civilised Quebec beer was sold in convenience stores, so things looked good on that front.  Steve was the only one with a car and the plan was to drive from Kingston to Ottawa, a trip that takes about an hour and a half, cross into Hull, find a corner store, buy the beer and head home.

So, at about 1:30pm on a bright, sunny afternoon in early January the three of us piled into Steve's car, a Triumph GT6.  This was a second-hand British two-seater sports car with a hatchback that had seen better days.  I, being the smallest, climbed into the sparsely padded rear compartment.  I did not have a seat belt, but I didn't have a seat either, we reasoned, so technically I couldn't get ticketed for not wearing a belt.  I spent the next hour and a half on my side in the fetal position watching the highway unroll behind us.  Not having a map, we drove around Ottawa looking for a way to get into Hull, eventually finding a bridge that took us across the river.  Barely off the bridge after entering Quebec, we spied a corner store and pulled in.  When we stepped into the store we almost fell over.  Greg uttered an involuntary chuckle.  There, in the middle of the floor, stood a pyramid of Brador 12-packs.  The only thing missing was a sign saying, Welcome, Help Yourself!

Having pooled our money, we had enough for six dozen beer.  We each grabbed a couple 12-packs and set them on the counter.  I thought the swarthy clerk behind the till was eyeing us rather suspiciously, but he said nothing, took our money, and we took our beer.  Back in the parking lot it quickly became apparent that we did not have much room in the car for six 12-packs.  Steve and Greg each tucked one in the front foot well behind their legs, Greg held a couple on his lap, and I had room for a couple in the back, making the fetal position even more uncomfortable.  As we made our way back through Ottawa the sky was becoming increasingly overcast.

By the time we hit the old two-lane highway light snow was beginning to fall and, being just a couple of weeks past the winter solstice, darkness was setting in.  With the snow getting heavier and sticking to the road, Steve slowed and turned on the headlights.  We drove in silence for some time before Steve noticed that the lights were growing dim and the windshield wipers beginning to struggle.  The alternator gauge was showing discharge:  the battery was dying.  Steve switched off the fan and heater, even tried switching off the headlights to conserve the battery, but it was too dark.  We pressed on, using the fan and wipers sparingly to keep the windshield from fogging up.  It seemed like we were in the middle of nowhere, the snow piling up fast as we crept along the deserted highway.

The headlights were almost gone when we finally saw the lights of a service station.  It was now shortly after five o'clock, the gas pumps were turned off and it looked like the lone mechanic was getting ready to close as we pulled in.  Although I am not sure what he thought of us, he agreed to look.  It only took a minute for him to spot the detached ground wire, but he insisted we sit for half an hour while the battery was connected to a charger.  The car started easily when we were ready to go, but of course we had spent all our money on the beer, and we had no credit cards.  The mechanic told us not to worry about it.  Quick thinking Greg grabbed a dozen beer and gave it to him.  He seemed pleased with that and we left, the rest of the trip slow and uneventful in the mounting snow.

We arrived back in Kingston at 7pm, dumped the beer at Steve's place and I went home, having missed dinner.  My mother, ever the worrywart, was beside herself and my dad gave me a blast.  There were no cell phones and calling home never crossed our minds.  Ultimately, no one knew or cared that we had a mere 5 dozen Brador, nor did we have any legendary parties.  Some of the beer went to repay Steve's brother and the rest was slowly consumed over a few months by us and our close friends, listening to music or playing snooker in the 78rpm strobe light.