I’ve mentioned before that we moved to a neighborhood with a lot of kids when I was nine. We all spent a lot of time outside. Usually riding bikes or skateboards or 3-wheelers. In the first few years we lived there it was bikes.
We lived for riding bikes. We would ride miles a day. Sometimes we rode around the neighborhood, sometimes to other parts of town. We had a great set of trails at the back of our subdivision. There were lots of dips and hills to ramp and, of course, trees to avoid.
During the summer, we were hardly ever home. We would stay gone for hours riding to this friend’s house or that friend’s house. We rode to this swimming hole, or to that store. After dinner we would head back out and ride in circles in the neighbor’s driveway singing songs by Elton John or Billy Joel or Duran Duran.
One of our favorite things to do on a bike was to ramp things. We built ramp after ramp. Being boys, we loved competition. Our preferred contest was “Who can ramp the farthest?” We would set up a ramp at the end of our neighbor’s driveway and ramp into his yard. First, we would wet the grass so that our tires would make an imprint in the earth to mark our distance.
After the competitive fires burned out, we moved into our stuntman phase. Since we knew how far we could ramp (there was more than ample evidence in the yard), we knew how many people we could ramp over. One or two of us would lie on the ground behind the ramp as someone ramped over us. I can think of at least one time where the ramp fell and the bike crashed into the first person behind the jump. Luckily his ribs were only bruised.
We did take breaks from bike riding from time to time. This was usually if no one was home to take along on your ride or to ramp over. During these down times we had to be inventive to keep ourselves occupied. Sometimes we burned stuff. Sometimes we built stuff (then burned it). Sometimes we climbed trees. (I think we may have burnt one of those, too.) Usually, though, we filled this time with digging.
I’m not sure what about digging a hole calls out to a boy, but it does. Maybe it’s the prospect of buried treasure. For us it was the simple fact that there was an empty lot, we had a shovel, we could do it alone, and we were bored. We didn’t dig for anything. We simply dug.
One particular hole grew to epic proportions. It became the spot to be if no one else was home. If you’re alone, dig The Hole bigger. By the time we finished with it, The Hole was about 2 feet deep at it’s deepest, 3 feet wide, and about 5 feet long. It was whatever our imaginations could dream up.
After a couple of months our imaginations ran dry of things for The Hole to be. So we did what we knew. We rode our bikes through it. Then riding through it became boring, so we built a small hill of dirt and started ramping into The Hole. This, of course led to the building of a wooden ramp for the sole purpose of ramping over The Hole.
My brother was the most athletic of our group. He was also the most daring. He would go first. He hit the ramp at full speed and sailed over The Hole with little problem. No one else could get up the nerve to try. We decided this was a better way to ramp into The Hole.
I was always a bit competitive with my brother. I guess you could say I had a little brother complex. If he could do something, I wanted to do it. The image of him soaring over The Hole was burned into my brain. And it burned me every time I thought about it. I had to ramp The Hole. The problem was, I was scared to death.
By this time The Hole had eroded a little. It was now closer to 6 feet long. It was an intimidating monster. And it taunted me. When I rode past it, I could almost hear it laugh. Several times I convinced myself I was ready. I would start at the top of the hill to build speed. Time after time I sped at the ramp, only to lose my nerve. I would swerve around the ramp at the last moment and ride through The Hole.
After several days of seemingly endless jeering by The Hole, I was finally ready. I was determined to jump The Hole. I waited until I knew everyone was gone. I had to face this monster alone. As I walked to the garage, my legs waivered a little. I grabbed my bike and rode slowly, methodically to the top of the hill overlooking The Hole. I was ready.
I sat motionless for several moments breathing steadily. I looked at The Hole with determination and a little bit of hate. I knew I was going to win this battle. With that confidence I stood high on my bike and began to pedal hard. In just a few feet I was up to top speed. I flew at the ramp and imagined that this must be how Evel Knievel feels during a jump. As I approached the ramp my speed continued to climb. Finally, I reached the jump.
Once the rubber of my front tire hit the wood of the ramp I could smell success. I zoomed across the wooden ramp and my bicycle lifted into the air. Time seemed to slow. I soared above The Hole for what felt like a lifetime. My eyes never left the far edge of The Hole. I flew closer and closer to success.
I started my descent. A little too soon. A shiver of dread raced down my spine. Suddenly, I could sense defeat. My front tire dipped as I neared the end of The Hole. I tried desperately to will my bike a few feet further. I knew defeat was imminent. I knew hope was lost.
I wish I could tell you that I fought the good fight, and landed safely on the other side rode home in victory. I wish I could tell you that – but jumping The Hole was no fairy-tale. I know what happened next. Not because I remember the events as they unfolded, but because I remember the end result. What I do remember of my landing is blurred.
Flip. Dirt. Roll. Bike. Roll.
I landed the jump with my front tire hitting the edge of The Hole. That impact sent me flying over the handlebars of my bike. I rolled. My bike rolled. The bike and I came to rest in a heap of flesh, bone, and metal.
Slowly I unraveled myself from the boy-bike pretzel the impact had twisted together. I stood gingerly and assessed the situation. I was dirty. There were a few scrapes and scratches. Sore muscles. Bruised ego. I picked up my bike and examined it. A dirt clod, a scrape, twisted handlebars. No permanent damage, though.
I dusted myself off, and bent my handlebars back into place. As I climbed on my bike I glanced back at The Hole. It was no worse for the wear. I gave a little nod of defeat. A light breeze kicked up some dust from the lip of The Hole, which I took as his acknowledgement of my valiant effort, if not an apology. I turned and began the slow ride home. I was sore but also happy. I had faced the monster. I failed, but at least I fought.
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