My quiet walk in the country was being disturbed by the roar and clang of a power saw and hammer. Topping the rise at the two-mile point from my house, I discovered the racket’s source: a young dad and his ten-year-old son building something in the front yard.
Drawing closer, I saw that the “something” was a ramp, the sort kids use to perform stunts on their BMX bikes.
“Evening,” I said. “Nice ramp.”
Dad removed his baseball cap and used it to wipe sweat from his brow.
“It’s taking us all day to build,” he complained.
Looking at the ramp, I could believe it. It wasn’t just a couple pieces of plywood hammered together with rusty nails salvaged from some old board in the garage. It was a work of art.
Stainless steel sides gleamed in the light of the setting sun; rubber “safety” bumpers lined the edges of the sanded, stained oak.
Frankly, I’d feel guilty riding a bicycle over that lovely piece of woodcraft.
It was just another example of how much things have changed since I was a kid. Back then, there was no such thing as doting parental involvement. If we wanted a ramp to race our bikes over, we scrounged up a sheet of splintery, nail-filled plywood and propped it over the nearest curb.
The traffic on Michigan Street only made the ride more exciting for me and my buddy, Jim. We were young and fearless. And mostly brainless.
So it was with a real sense of adventure that we approached the sinkhole in the parking lot of Arsulowicz Mortuary. We’d had heavy rains that fall and the gravelly soil near the railroad tracks had washed away, leaving a hole in the parking lot about six feet deep and at least that wide. The otherwise flawless asphalt had caved in around it.
Jim and I dropped our bikes by the tracks and immediately set about building a makeshift ramp from old timbers that always seemed to be laying around back then. Why?
See the “mostly brainless” comment, above.
Neither Jim nor myself had ever been accused of being particularly bright, but of the two of us, I was the dumber. I volunteered to go first.
I wheeled my 26-inch, bright red, Firestone 500 bicycle to the opposite side of the parking lot, carefully aligning my front wheel with the rickety ramp, which was maybe 8-inches wide and held in place with cinder blocks and wishful thinking.
My cycling skills were every bit as impressive then as they are now. I hit that ramp doing about 22 miles per hour and received an immediate lesson in physics. Namely, that a 75-pound boy riding a big, clunky bike at 22 miles per hour will not fly gracefully over a 6-feet wide hole, but will instead drop like a stone.
I still remember the taste of blood and gravel.
Maybe doting, 21-Century parents are not such a bad thing, after all.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com
(616) 548-8273
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