We rode bikes... not bicycles. Big difference! A bicycle was something that little kids, sissy's, girls and old people rode. Bicycles were to be used for leisurely rides through a park by older folks, or to carefully peddle around the block by small children. Bicycles usually had horns, bells and baskets attached to them. No... we rode bikes! Bikes were ridden by the tough kids who peddled their guts out and skidded to a stop ever time they got on one. Bike kids were in constant search for steep terrain... the perfect natural ramp to get air... the mud hole... white concrete to leave skid marks... other kids to race... you get the picture. The reality was that our bikes were, for the most part, a piece of shit usually purchased from Treasure Island, RichWay, or some other retail store, but we learned how to modify them and keep them rolling. We often gave our cheap bikes custom paint jobs using spray cans. My bike was a hand-me-down from my best friend Mike.
Let me back up a bit. I actually received a brand new bike from Santa Claus about 6 months before I took possession of Mike's old bike. I was in the third grade when I saw my dad assembling my new bike at midnight on Christmas Eve. He didn't know that I had snuck out of my bedroom to spy on him on that particular Christmas Eve because I was questioning the validity of "Santa Claus" no thanks to my friend, Mike, who informed me that it was actually our parents who were the magic behind the gifts each Christmas. Dad was busy that night cussing the bike as he struggled to assemble it, and I was peering upside down at him from the staircase at ceiling level careful to stay hidden. On Christmas morning, there stood my shiny new bike with a big red bow tied to the handlebars. I promptly asked, "who got me the bike? Santa Claus", replied my parents in unison. "Gotcha!" Still, I loved the beautiful new bike and it didn't take long to learn to ride it pretty well. Having that bike elevated my status with the other boys in the neighborhood and my adventures could now extend further from home. I had been at Craig's house who lived about a mile down the road from me. Craig was my age and we became good friends at school. I would often spend time at his place as he had a large 10 acre track of land behind his house which provided a lot of adventure for two young boys. I was returning home for dinner and as I approached my driveway which was to my left, a car was gaining on me rather quickly from behind. I glanced over my left shoulder trying to time up my left turn as he passed me. "This is gonna work perfectly", I thought to myself. The car passed me and I promptly made the left turn into my driveway like a pro. But wait! My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the front grill of a light blue car. I heard the loud screech of tires. Instinctively, I lifted my left leg so that it wouldn't get crushed by the bumper of the car that was most definitely going to hit me. I was thrown from the bike at least 15 feet in the air and landed in the middle of the road. The young driver jumped from his car to check on me. I was fine. Just a few spots of road rash, but my poor new bike was bent like an accordion. I walked the sad, wobbling wheels down my driveway and parked it in my carport. I was officially without wheels.
It wasn't long before word got out in the neighborhood that I had been hit by a car and my bike was toast. Now, Mike had been saving for one of those fancy new 3-speed on the frame gear shift super bikes. He talked his parents into getting him that bike earlier than expected so he could donate his old Treasure Island bike to me. That bike had already gained the reputation as being one of the fastest in the neighborhood. It was also balanced really well and made riding wheelies easier, but the best part was that it's frame was rugged and had proven to hold up from the pounding of landing jumps. I couldn't believe I was going to take possession of such a great bike. I was back baby, and I was back with one of the coolest rides on Janice Drive. I rode that bike ever day, all day, all summer. I had become one with that bike. I sprayed it out with silver spray paint and put new tires on it. I could peddle it with no hands, stand on the seat, ride a wheelie from Carolyn's house to my driveway and I jumped every ramp made throughout the neighborhood.
Evel Knievel and Steve McQueen were our hero's. We often talked about being stunt men when we got old enough and we tried to live the daredevil life. One day Mike decided that he could jump a standing garbage can with his slick new bike. We spent a couple weeks building a ramp to elevate him over the garbage can. The garbage cans in our neighborhood were those 4 foot high galvanized metal cans. That ramp worked so good that it was actually a pretty easy jump to make. We all jumped that garbage can... then two cans... then three... then four. We started borrowing our neighbors garbage cans. Some of the kids dropped out at seven, but not Mike and I. We kept backing up farther and farther to get more speed, and we kept launching farther and farther clearing eight and eventually nine garbage cans. We had been taking turns, and it was now my turn to try for the coveted tenth garbage can. Everyone was watching as I peddled my bike as fast as I could peddle toward the ramp that would launch me into Janice Drive stardom. The entry and lift from the ramp were executed to perfection as I sailed across all those garbage cans. I gripped the handlebars extra hard in anticipation of the jolt that I would get from the landing. As I descended, I still saw garbage cans under me. My heart pounded as the reality set in that I wasn't gonna make it. My back tire landed on that last garbage can sending the bike flipping end over end. My body flopped like a rag doll across the Bermuda Grass that blanketed Mike's front yard. And that was the first time I broke my nose and it's been crooked ever since. Mike laughed at me hysterically. He then saddled up and made the jump on his next attempt. I didn't make that particular jump, but I did earn a lot of respect from the other kids that day.
Jumping bikes became a big deal for us. As Evel Knievel continued to set records and jump buses we also wanted to stretch our abilities. We were getting a little older and bigger and our skills were getting better. My Treasure Island bike was still in tip top shape. Located on the empty wooded lot that resided between Mike and I was this beautiful natural made jump. To access this jump required that we set up across the street on the Lindsay's driveway which was a very steep driveway. The Lindsay's driveway lined up perfectly with this wonder of nature. The vacant lot took a steep decline from the top of the natural ramp and there were no trees directly in line with jump which made it ideal. And, because the terrain had a decline it made for long jumps and easy landings. We would spend hours and hours finding out who could land the longest jump. It took 3 people to do this. You had the jumper, the road spotter and the distance judge. The road spotter stood at the street to make sure that there were no cars as the jumper peddled down the steep Lindsay driveway and across the road. The distance judge was down in the woods in the general area the bike would land to mark the landing spot of the bike. The higher up the Lindsay's driveway you started the more speed and distance you would get, but it was scary. That driveway was steep and long. We'd muster up a little more nerve and back up another 2 feet, or so and we'd go for it. This would go on and on. One day Mike got sick of playing that game and decided to set the all time unbreakable jump record. Mike always seemed to be the bravest, or craziest out of all of us. He took that bike all the way to the back of the Lindsay's carport. Our jaws dropped. We always knew in the back of our minds that Mike was certifiably insane and this move just proved it. Everyone got ready. Mike was set. You could see it in his body language. The road spotter yelled, "all clear!" I was the distance judge and waiting a little more than halfway down the decline landing zone. I couldn't see Mike from my kneeling position down in the woods, but I knew he was on his way when I heard the yell, "all clear!". Within seconds I heard the sound of Mike's bike hitting that dirt ramp and then I saw him launch high into the air. He was soaring like an eagle with that long blonde hair flapping in the breeze. Then my heart sank. He was so high that he had sailed above an overhanging oak branch that stretched across the landing trail. Mike slammed into that limb with his chest. The bike continued to sail through the air and if Mike had been on it he would have set that record that day. Instead, that big limb whipped him backward and slammed him onto the back of his head. I thought he was a goner for sure. I ran to see if he was breathing and he was out cold. When he came to he was disoriented and confused. Looking back, he was definitely concussed. His semi-new bike was bent all out of shape and it never rode right again. We cut that limb down so that we had a clear shot at setting the Janice Drive jump record, but no one ever mustered up the nerve to try it again.
Occasionally, I would go to the back of the Lindsay's carport, sit on my bike and look down on that jump. I would visualize success. I would dream of the fanfare of setting that record, but I kept seeing Mike's terrible crash. It was his Caesars's Palace. I never did get the nerve to make that same jump on my bike. If that limb hadn't been there Mike would have sailed into bike jumping folklore. As it was, he had become my new daredevil hero, and then we both purchased skateboards.