According to Statistics Canada, Kamloops has the hottest summers in the country, and the second driest streets year-round. In the 1970s, Kamloops also boasted tons of dive bars, anemic transit, plenty of dark back roads, and few pedestrians brave enough to walk anywhere at night.

My Dad didn't drink, which made him the town freak. Because in our blue-collar community, 'one for the road' meant 'one for when you pull on your coat, and another to pinch between your thighs in the car'. My buddy Mark remembers his bartender dad getting pulled over for weaving all over the road. But since Mark's dad was only 10 blocks from home, the cops let him finish the drive. Even gave him an escort.

The whole town was like a drunk driving demolition derby. In the summer, we crashed dirt bikes into barbed wire fences. In the winter, we smashed Ski-Doos into trees. Auto body shops did HUGE business. There were so many totalled cars laying around, City Hall used the wrecks to shore up the banks of the Thompson River.

Fascinated by my redneck culture, I became a sociology student at the prestigious Cariboo College. My best friend 'Donny' was a 230-lb bodybuilder who was half-Irish, half-Samoan, and half-tanked from Friday to Sunday. On our own, we were nice enough kids, I suppose. But together we were thrill-chasing morons who should never have inherited our family cars.

For our third year of sociology in '86, we crammed into Donny's wood-panelled Plymouth Horizon and moved to the University of Victoria. Living in squalor, and free from our parents, we ignored our book learnin' and put our small-town education to bad use. Beer. Vodka. Tequila shots. Friday nights, we'd be drunk by 8 pm and cruising Victoria's streets by 8:15.

Our favourite drunk driving ritual was "car-surfing". While the driver kept the car steady, the passenger climbed out his window and up onto the roof. Then he would carefully stand upright and surf the car home.

One night, we ran out of booze so we drove to the liquor store, a mere three blocks away. As Donny recalls, on our drive home we saw "a girl lying on the road (her friend was giggling on the sidewalk). The girl kept looking up as we got closer and laughing...thinking we'd stop at any second," says Donny. "But you didn't. In fact you gunned it. And when she realized you weren't stopping, she frantically got up and started running to the side of the street. As we passed, you swerved at her and she had to dive out of the way! Now that is drunk driving at its finest."

How we graduated from university - without killing anyone - is a total mystery. Then one night in 1991, my chickens staggered home to roost. A friend phoned with bad news. Upset, I drank a large shot of cheap rye. Minutes later, my boss asked if I could work a late shift at the group home.

So I rode my motorcycle into a rainstorm. I made a bonehead turn and smashed head-on into a moving Range Rover. I soared over the handlebars, shattered the Range Rover's windshield with my shoulder, and tumbled 100 feet along the pavement.

When I gained consciousness, a paramedic told me I was lucky to be alive. But other than a small puncture on my left calf, I was miraculously unscathed - legally, too. Either my blood-alcohol was under the limit, or else the cops let me off with an unspoken warning. Deeply ashamed, I crutched home and vowed to never drive drunk again.

Which is all very heart-warming. You've read this story a thousand times in Reader's Digest. A sinner lives the high life, but then one dark and stormy night, he gets his comeuppance, survives a horrible encounter with booze/drugs/homosexuality, prays to God, swears off his vices, and vows to devote his life to Christ.

The only problem: I still like to drink. I cherish a cold beer after an intense game of hockey. I adore it when a 12-year-old scotch wraps my brain pan in its warm Highland embrace. And I love waking up to find my car in the driveway, instead of wrapped around a tree - or wrapped around me.

My drinking options: I could leave my car home at night and (1) pay a fortune in two-way taxis or (2) try to ride an underfunded transit system. Or I can drive my beater to the bar, leave it in a parkade overnight, do the 'Walk of Shame' in the morning, and pay a fortune to spring my car. What's a tippler to do?

The brilliant solution: Keys Please®, a.k.a. "The Driving Alternative". Based in Delta, Keys Please is a taxi service for drunks that drives you home in your own vehicle. Genius!

I found their brochure at a wedding after I'd guzzled too much Phoque Rouge wine (which is fun to say five times fast). My wife and I were at Minnekhada Lodge in the wilds of Port Coquitlam. The lodge is located down a single-lane road with ditches on either side. No buses. No street lights. The only illumination was a burning mattress on some hick's farm.

At university, I might have taken the 'backwoods gamble' and white-knuckled the 15 minutes to our hotel. But since I'm older now (and married to a woman who thinks drunk driving is a disgusting social disease), I wanted a sober solution.

So I called Keys Please (604.581.0558) and a car arrived with two pro drivers. A pleasant chap, Al, piloted our car to our hotel. At least, I think Al was pleasant. I was so gooned, I rolled down the window and shouted "Phoque Rouge!" at passing cars.

When I got out to pay him, I said, in all seriousness, "Al, you have the best job in the whole wide world. You go places, you meet people. What a life." My wife says I was positively wobbling. Apparently I looked like the Keys Please mascot, 'Tipsy', whom you'll find staggering across their brochure:

Tipsy is the good cop, so to speak, in the Keys Please sales pitch. Their bad cop is a toilet:

Launched in Calgary in 1997, Keys Please has branches in Vancouver, Prince George, Edmonton, Calgary, Lethbridge, Medicine Hat, and Winnipeg. Their brochure claims their service costs "a few dollars more than a one way cab fare." And if you're a frequent flyer, you can get their 'Driving Alternative Credit Card', valid for three fun-filled years.

Intrigued, I check out their Web site . Lo and behold, they're looking for drivers. "Maybe I should apply," I thought. I'm broke, my wife's a student, and Christmas parties are coming up fast. Revellers have to get home somehow.

So I send them my employment history and references. I tell them I'd like to work as a driver and write about it in Vancouver Magazine. To demonstrate my experience working with party boys, I mention I once got paid to drive a screaming mentally-challenged guy around who kicked me in the head whenever I changed lanes.

The local franchise owner, Tove (two-va) Apolzer, calls me back. She says she'd love to have me "ride-along with our drivers." Damn. I said "hire me"; she countered with "ride-along". Perhaps she found my driving record. Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn't have listed Donny as a personal reference.

FRIDAY NIGHT RIDE-ALONG:

10:45 pm, Mount Unpleasant
My phone rings. Tove's outside in a big white Ford F-150 truck with a Keys Please decal on the door.

I climb inside. The truck smells like cigarettes. Tove, 54, is a calm Norwegian blonde who sleeps maybe five hours a night. Her navigator, Brad, 22, is a serious Caucasian business student. Wearing red & black Keys Please jackets, they look like coffee-toting ski instructors.

10:57 pm, east on Kingsway
Keys Please has 15 cars out tonight, and Tove's truck is abuzz with high-tech wizardry. Their computer mapping is done by a specially-designed GPS tracking system. Brad and Tove receive text messages generated by a computer, fed by a dispatcher who types 100 wpm.

Their next client is whooping it up at a Korean karaoke club at Kingsway & Patterson. Suddenly a car cuts us off. "See that? You have to assume there's not a sober person around," says Tove.

"And impairment is not just alcohol," adds Tove. "It could mean laser surgery on their eyes. They could be over-tired, could be medication, it could be 'party favours'. We don't care. Just don't drive. We'll take you home."

11:01 pm, VIP Karaoke Club
Brad gives the client a heads-up phone call. Tove tells me this club is "extremely private and discreet" so we'll have to wait outside. I interpret this to mean that the VIP offers the kind of karaoke experience in which a naked woman bounces around on your lap.

Three Asian men, late 50s, exit the club and walk carefully toward us. Tove asks me to sit out this ride "because of the language barrier." Damn.

Brad takes the client's keys and the four men pile into an expensive grey SUV. Brad points the SUV west, Tove follows close behind.

11:28 pm, West Boulevard
First of three stops. The elder gentleman gets out, hugs his friends, waves goodbye, backs up, and trips on a bag of leaves.

11:35 pm, Shaughnessy
Second Asian chap dropped off. More hugs. "In this line of work," smiles Tove, "you see a lot of hugging."

"We're the forefathers of the designated driving industry," says Tove, "and we've never had a government subsidy." I ask if she's affiliated with organizations like Mothers Against Drunk Driving. "We've tried to get their endorsement but it hasn't happened yet. Probably because we're not non-profit," says Tove.

Then she asks if I drink. I say yeah. But she surprises me by saying she drinks too. "People mistake us for a religious organization or AA. We're simply in the business of saving lives." Then she says two of her young boyfriends died in drunk driving accidents when she was 16 and 17.

Midnight, British Properties
35 km after we started, Brad parks the SUV at a lavish house. The client's bill: $63.99. Tove estimates a taxi would have charged $65. Cost of a tow: $250+

12:10 am, somewhere in West Vancouver
A thick fog swallows our truck as we drive deep into West Vancouver.

We're lost. Brad tries to find a street sign as we slowly wind through the foggy winding lanes. Barely any street lights, and no sidewalks or pedestrians. Multi-million dollar homes are hidden behind an evergreen forest, hedges, mossy slopes, and steel security gates.

12:25 am, some winding, wealthy street
A dinner party for retirees. The well-heeled host says he avoids DUI charges with his blood-alcohol chart that he printed off the Internet. He says, "I keep one in every car, just to be safe."

Our client, Jane, is 55, tipsy, Caucasian, and toting leftover pizza appetizers. Jane hugs her good-byes, then she Brad, and I climb into her Saab. There's a talk show on the radio. Jane fears this is the Canucks game which ended hours ago. She turns it off, saying "I'm taping this game at home and I don't want to know the score."

Jane says this is the second time using this car service. Last night, when she said she was worried about getting home, her host gave her the Keys Please business card. Thrilled at this "wonderful service," Jane said, "I drank my little guts out."

Now single, Jane says she was married for 30 years. I don't have the heart to ask if she's divorced or widowed. "For decades, I relied on my husband to get me home. [Then] I had to be my own designated driver. But when I found these [Keys Please] folks, they've become my saving grace." She pats Brad's cheek and says "This is my second husband!"

I suggest they have a ceremony. Jane growls and starts singing "Who let the dogs out, woof, woof, woof, woof!"

Jane offers us her pizza appetizers. I eagerly chow them down. Brad laughs and says he once received three avocados as a tip. Jane looks at him as if she's concocting a plan.

12:40 am, Highway #1
We approach a police roadblock. Jane's thrilled "Yes! This is the BEST, when you get a designated driver and you pay for it and the cops stop you, and - "

Uh-oh. It's not a roadblock, it's a three-car accident. "Damn! I wanted a roadblock!" she laughs.

Then she mocks Brad for missing her exit. Brad calmly replies "I was waiting for you to tell me where to turn. Half-jokingly, she says, "There goes the tip. I hope you liked my Stacked Pizza."

12:49 am, North Vancouver
Jane lives on a gorgeous street with a million-dollar view. Her bill comes to $47. As I suspected, Jane complains. She accuses Brad of taking the long way out of West Van. From where I sat, it seems like she's being unfair. To avoid a scene, Tove finally agrees to a $30 bill instead.

As we drive away, Tove tells me "it's a set price per kilometre and the vast majority of clients never argue the price." Brad says, "the people who don't like the price are the same people who never take a cab and don't know how much they cost."

Just for fun, I say "Hey, let's call Jane back and tell her the Canucks won 6-4."

1:13 am, Keith Road
Next client: a 30-something Caucasian male who's been watching the game with buddies.

Tove approaches the guy's Lexus and asks if it would be OK for me to ride along with him. The guy glances at me, nervous, and says 'no' through clenched teeth. Cocaine. He tells her that he doesn't want me to know where he lives.

So Tove and I follow him and Brad to the guy's giant suburban home. Brad drives the Lexus straight into the man's garage - it's filled with children's toys and tricycles.

2:01 am
Another call: Tove's daughter, Celeste, needs to be picked up from the Bourbon in Gastown. Apparently Celeste called the hotline and, despite 15 cars in play, her mother was 'randomly' dispatched to pick her up. Hmmm. Is this a setup for my diary?

2:30 am, east on Cordova
Brad's driving, I'm riding shotgun, and Celeste and her brunette friend Rachel are sitting pretty in Celeste's back seat.

They're chipper and fun, though Celeste says one of their friends accidentally curb-stomped himself tonight. He drank too much, fell down, and knocked his front teeth out. Other than that, they've had a great time and tell us they want to keep the party going.

"The best part of [this service] is, if the person's sick, they're sick in their own car," says Celeste proudly. "All my friends use this company. If you say 'oh, I'm not drinking tonight, I'm gonna drive everyone home', then all of a sudden you decide, 'oh, I'm having fun so I'm gonna drink now', well it doesn't matter, I can still get my car home by calling the Driving Alternative. It's the best company ever."

I ask if I can snap a Polaroid. So Celeste whoops and kisses Rachel who, by most empirical standards, looks H-O-T-T hot. Now I really suspect this is a setup for my diary. It feels like a late-night infomercial starring two beautiful models who really really love their product.

"Ish great. You get your car home the next day, without having to worry about it," says Rachel.

"No," laughs Celeste, "You get your car home NOW. Today. We're in it now. You're not even on the same page as me." Cute and sloshy, they argue over semantics for the next five minutes. Brad chuckles.

Rachel leans forward: "You guys party, right? I know you do," she says, pointing at me. Whoa. haven't heard "party" as a verb since I hung ten on Donny's roof.

"Sure, I like to party," I reply, trying to look cool despite my age. I shyly look at the car beside us. A woman smiles, sticks her tongue out and waggles her ears at me. Tove's right: the whole city is plastered.

We pull up to Celeste's house. Rachel says "do you guys want to come in and party?" Brad smiles nervously.

"Thanks," I say, "I'd love to, but we have to work."
"Awww," she shrugs. Then, as Celeste pays her mom, Rachel grabs my elbow and gets serious with me.

"I hafta tell you about this taxi driver I had once. He was supposed to take me home from the Sandbar. But he took me to a dark area, by a railroad. I don't know where. He got out, opened my door and said 'I will leave you here unless you give me 160 bucks'."

"I was crying, I didn't want to be left there, my phone was dead. I had to follow through. I paid him at a cash machine, then passed out on the way home. It was the worst experience of my life. People say 'don't drive, take a cab' but you can't necessarily trust a cabbie."

This depresses the hell out of me. "I'm really sorry that happened," I say.

Celeste runs up and squeezes us into a group-hug. We laugh and I thank them for a great trip. "You sure you don't want to party?" asks Rachel. I wave goodnight and run to the truck.

"See what I mean about hugging?" smiles Tove. Brad says, "I wish all rides were like that."

2:56 am, East Hastings & Sperling
We pick up Bob and Frank at a raucous Burnaby community hall. As we drive Bob's Mercedes station wagon home, I discover they're (a) Caucasian cousins, (b) impaired, and (c) suffering short-term memory loss. "This is a nice car!" says Bob, "have you had it long?"

Bob gets Brad to park the Mercedes in the tightest carport I've ever seen. Brad succeeds but it's such a skinny spot, I can't even open my door.

"Follow me," says Bob as he climbs out the sunroof. He jumps up and down on the roof, saying "C'mon! You can't hurt this sucker!"

WHOOSH. As Bob bounces off his roof, suddenly I flash back to university. I can see myself as a 21-year-old thrill-freak, surfing Donny's car through the rain-slick Victoria streets. Back then, that road seemed to stretch on forever. We were young. Fearless. Invincible. Gods.

Donny is now a family man in Kamloops with a wife, kids, and mortgage. He quit drinking ages ago, months before I crashed my motorcycle. When I ask him how life's treating him now, he says, "I am so lame, you should take me behind the barn and put a bullet in my head."

Kamloops, of course, is still as hard-drinking as ever. I was at a hotel wedding there recently, and tried to buy a Coke from a machine. And yet, after decades of roadblocks and CounterAttack ads, Kamloops vending machines still won't sell 'Pop' or 'Soda'.

They will, however, sell you beverages called 'Mix'.

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