Downhill Racing
Scott Mclean
I started thinking of more warm weather memories today.
Hopefully not just wishful thinking!
Steve and I did a lot of improvising and experimenting with new ways to try to have excitement without shortening our lifespan. Some adults already thought we were destined for a tragic end.
I have mentioned the hill in the lower pasture and the rocks that had to be dodged. We would take the old red wagon and steer it with the pull handle while coasting down the hill. Most kids have ridden one of the old Radio Flyers and can attest to the hard ride and tendency to crash when the handle whipped to one side or another. The usual ride down the hill often resulted in a crash while dodging one rock or another. A more spectacular pile up happened if you actually hit one of the rocks!
If you managed to miss the rocks, a crash was pretty much guaranteed when you hit the rocky runoff creek bed. On rare occasions the wagon actually made it across. Unfortunately, we had usually been ejected about then.
We usually emerged from our downhill adventure covered in bruises and quite often a little cow crap. We started piecing together old bikes because their life expectancy with us wasn’t very long.
Steve got the great idea to race from the canal bank, down through our sagebrush hideout, and finish at the pasture fence. The first part wasn’t bad because there was an old road heading down from the canal to build up a good head of steam on. It got a little sketchy after that. First you hit scattered basalt scab rock followed by some large old sagebrush and greasewood.
It took several runs and more than a few crashes to find an almost rideable path through. Usually, a trip through resulted in torn clothes and scratches that made it look like we had been attacked by a bobcat. We also had our trail into Cowiche Creek which resembled a dirt ski jump. The launches into the creek and assorted dry land jumps explain the short lifespan of our beater bikes.
I know we were running short of wheels that weren’t bent or missing spokes.
Then you have to add in the playing chicken, crash, and sewing up the resulting gash with fishing line. That story has already been told!
It’s no wonder that some of our friends and neighbors looked at us and shook their heads.
I hope someday to get the chance to think up stupid things to do again with my little brother.
Bye for now.