Today, one of my biggest childhood heroes passed away:
In the mid-70s, this guy was right up there with Captain Kirk for me. (Of course, by ’77, Star Wars showed up, and that was that.)
When you’re a kid, it doesn’t matter if the guy is really a hard-drinking, brawling, possibly racist and abusive redneck. He and his motorcycle flew. That’s all that mattered.
Do kids even ramp anymore? Back then we couldn’t wait to ride our bikes as fast as we could through the front forest and then go flying off of a hastily propped up board.
These days kids are railing, half-piping, and stuff, pretending to be Tony Hawk. But back in the 70’s, flying for a fraction of a second on my banana-seat bike, I was him.
Doug.
He is one of the two major reasons my younger brother grew up to be a paramedic (the other was the TV show “Emergency”). When we were kids, we had the crank-powered stunt bike toys and inflicted all manner of virtual harm on them. Younger bro kitted out an off-scale toy moving van as a mobile hospital for our Evel Knievel misadventures. After all the failed attempts to jump Bedroom Gorge, we needed it.
Truth.
Our favorite bike-riding spot was a 30° incline for 150 feet, ending in an undeveloped-cul-de-sac, light woods, and a sheet of plywood.
Good times.
I busted the frames of two bicycles jumping boxes, and nearly broke bones several times. Had to quit it when my parents wouldn’t buy me anymore bikes.