Confessions of a Kid Who survived the ‘70s
Parents today would be in big trouble
It was the middle of a summer’s day in the year of the US bicentennial, and we were fearless. The sun sat high in the sky, and a newly filled in pothole nearby still smelled of coal and chemicals.
My ten-year-old self sat astride an ancient BMX style one-speed bike looking forward at a rickety wooden ramp that my best friend and I built out of scraps an hour earlier.
“What are you waiting for!” Ed yelled with the impatience of a child. “I did it. You’re not gonna get hurt”. Ed was two years older than me. He was a sort of combination best friend/big brother I never had. To me, he seemed practically like an adult.
I looked down at my Puma’s to make sure that they were tied. They were. At this point, I was just procrastinating, making sure there were no adults around. We were doing this in the middle of a neighborhood street, for God’s sake. Besides, if my parents ever found out about this, they would be pissed.
All clear, I pumped on the pedals as hard as I could, lining up my front end with the all too narrow ramp. In about five seconds, I hit it dead center and was airborne. This was about as big an adrenaline rush as a little kid could get.
