It is all downhill from here. The cloud hangs low, snagged on crooked evergreens, wreathing the head of Mount Seymour in a cold, grey blanket. This slice of coastal British Columbia is wet â wetter than any place on earth this side of the Amazon Basin. A bitter chill seeps into the bone, and in the muffled, foggy silence, there is the zip and snap of armour being strapped on, the metallic clink of machinery being adjusted.  Helmets, spine protectors, shin guards, elbow pads, neck braces – the trappings of battle are donned, already holed and muddied from previous skirmishes. A pair of Toyota pickup trucks stand silent as bicycles are lifted from their beds.  The trucks are part chairlift, part toolbox, part duffel bag and part beast of burden. If you walk into the aftermarket section of any major motor show in North America, you would spot gleaming, full-size pickups with cartoonishly large wheels and improbable lift kits. The trucks in these damp woods, however – smaller and significantly dirtier – are the antithesis of those glossy, preening leviathans.  Having unloaded the bikes and set off down a short section of road, knobby tires buzzing like angry hornets on the tarmac, the riders duck between the trees down a double-black-diamond trail. The course is a whip-crack of granite, mud and cedar, with the wooden sections made ice-slick by the unshakeable damp. It is a dangerous business, this downhill riding, with cyclists risking broken collar bones, compressed vertebrae, concussions and contusions. The armour is not just for show.  In earlier times on these slopes, it might have been a hunting party diving into the lair of the cave-bear, to prove both bravery and athleticism. Here the threat of a heavy, murderous paw is replaced by the spectacularly unyielding nature of an 80ft Douglas fir, but the game is the same: the brotherhood of the ride, the skill, the danger. Off the pack goes into the woods, hooting at the cold, wheels skittering over the slick cedar planking.  Mountain biking is a British Columbia pastime, worth tens of millions in tourism dollars to local economies. As winter edges closer, tourists seek snowier climes, heading to state-of-the-art ski resorts such as Whistler, site of the 2010 Winter Olympics. But the temperate coastal rainforest is relentlessly damp. The riding season consequently can extend deep into winter – provided the rider has the right equipment.  Judging by the impromptu parking lots at trailheads, one of the most valuable pieces of that gear wears a Toyota badge. Tacomas and 4Runners of all generations are almost an official vehicle for thrill-seekers throughout the coastal ranges, down into the US. It is quite common to see $15,000 or even $20,000 worth of mountain bikes hanging off the tailgate of a battered Toyota worth a quarter of that amount.  In the parking lot at the base of Mount Seymour, there are other vehicles to be found, too. Several Subaru Outbacks arrive, cross-country mountain bikes spilling out of them. A Ford F-150 with eight downhill bikes and two extra riders crouched in the bed motors off for the climb up the mountain. There is even a Suzuki Sidekick, looking like a proto-cute-ute with its suspension lift and outsize all-terrain tires. A woman walks along the line of vehicles, leaving fliers for a local pub. “Hose and Beer”, it reads, advertising a place to wash down a mount post-ride, as well as to slake thirst with a shared pitcher of lager.  Toyotas, however, dominate the landscape. At one point, no fewer than four identical white crew-cab Toyota Racing Development (TRD) pickups are parked in a line. “I guess this is the white Tacoma parking section,” one owner jokes as he rides out to the trailhead.  The mid-size Toyota pickup truck, known as the Hilux in overseas markets and the Tacoma in North America since 1995, is something of a cultural icon for outdoor enthusiasts. A black, pre-Tacoma-nameplate example appeared in the 1985 blockbuster film Back to the Future, stirring palpable desire in Michael J Fox’s Marty McFly – and in countless viewers. This was a vehicle built for fun; it could work, too, but the Toyota was a born sport truck, ideal for surfers, skiers, snowmobilers and cyclists.  Its toughness is chronicled worldwide. The Chadian-Libyan conflict of 1987 is colloquially referred to as “The Toyota War” owing to the overloaded Hiluxes that Chadian guerillas piloted across deserts, en route to routing their adversaries, despite the Libyans’ infinitely superior firepower. While nobody on this deeply gladed hillside has mounted Browning .50cal machine guns on their Tacomas, all the trucks show signs of exceptional use. Bumpers are dented, fenders are chipped.  “Real trucks should be dirty,” says rider Mark Godard. “Inside and out.”  These particular downhillers are also members of the local Toyota off-roading club. Mitch Garvey drives a black 2007 Tacoma, one of the two trucks pulling shuttle duties on this particular day. “Upgrades are just wheels and tires,” he says. “I've got plans, lots of plans, but I'm saving for school, trying to be responsible.”  The rest of the crew drives Toyota 4x4s in various incarnations. Bryan Sloan has driven down from Squamish in his 1997 4Runner. “A cold trip down with that back window open,” he laughs. Sean Anderson has a diesel-powered, Japanese-market Hilux Surf with an exhaust system that makes it sound like a steroidal John Deere. Wyatt Heesterman's green '92 pickup is possibly even louder. Kyle Robinson is in a 2009 crew-cab, one of the four white Tacomas in a line: he also is fixing up two older 4Runners.  The knot of riders emerges at the base of the mountain sweaty, elated and mud-spattered. Another 1,000 vertical feet or so descended, another day, another lap downhill. There are 50-odd miles of official North Shore trails to shred, and who knows how many more wildcat routes scraped together in the woods and kept secret. On this day, there are fist-bumps and handshakes, a post-mortem of the ride, an examination of new bruises and parts shaken loose by the pounding.  Propulsion here comes from muscle, bone and sinew, but when a group gets together, the same banter emerges as that you’d encounter at any hot-rodder convention. Get within earshot, and it's difficult to discern whether a slice of that future paycheque is going to bike or truck. Absent a new Tacoma to discuss (a full redesign, the truck’s first in nearly a decade, is in the works), the riders turn to the new Chevrolet Colorado pickup, ostensibly General Motors’ response to the Toyota’s long, lucrative run. Opinions are mixed. “The lower valence is too low, it's just going to get ripped off the first time you go off-road,” Mark Burill opines. His dark grey '09 Tacoma is freshly lifted and wears with pride a bend in the rear bumper.  Anderson, owner of the Hilux Surf, has a calf tattoo of a bike-riding Buddha, the normally serene deity pumping his first in the air. The message is clear: nirvana is to be found on two wheels, on the downhill rush.  For those who seek this enlightenment, however – this freedom of spirit – a mountain climb is in order. Among the winter mists and moss-coasted trees, dignified, battered chairlifts stand eager to lead their charges back into battle.  If you would like to comment on this story or anything else you have seen on BBC Autos, head over to our Facebook page or message us on Twitter.
Deep in the coastal ranges of British Columbia, the mania for downhill mountain biking extends to the trucks that return riders to their favourite runs.