Four seconds is shorter than you think

A couple of friends got to talking about what they would do differently if they had their lives to live over. The conversation revolved around whether they would choose the same occupation, the same city to live in, maybe a different spouse, or one or two more children. Both agreed they would eat a lot healthier, hit the gym more, and would have quit cigarettes much earlier.

I listened politely, without adding anything to the discussion. I was already 500 miles, and 67 years, away. And my “do-over” would have been way more sensible!

It was 1958. I saw immediately that Buddy Wiggleton wasn’t going to make it. I can’t remember exactly whose idea it was to jump that big ditch down below our house. And listen, we were young, but not stupid. We had built a takeoff ramp out of some scrap lumber we’d found behind Archie Moore’s barn.

We didn’t understand aerodynamics worth a hoot. But we knew we needed a little lift to make it to the other side. The whole idea was to get airborne. And stay “up there” for the four seconds we guessed it would take. 

We didn’t know the word inertia either, but we knew full well we’d have to get a heck of a running start to get the bicycle up to a speed that would propel us across the ditch. If we backed up all the way to the road and got a running start down the hill….

Buddy was literally flying toward the ramp. I can see his little legs pumping those pedals like it was yesterday. I remember the grit and determination on his face; and that wry smile that seemed permanently attached to his lips. His bright red and dark blue St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap was lifted high off his head by the wind he created as he hurdled forward.

He hit the ramp dead center, with his silver Schwinn bicycle dead straight. He had immediate liftoff. And he was still pedaling like a madman even though his wheels had no purchase. It didn’t take but one of the self-allotted four seconds to know he was in trouble.

The ditch was a mite wider than we had calculated. And, as he bounced off the far bank and careened downward, I realized it was more than a mite deeper. Boy howdy, he got close. But we weren’t playing horseshoes.

We scrambled down to the bottom. Buddy was a bit shaken, but alive. His bike was wet and muddy from the small stream meandering down the ditch, but other than a bent front fender, it had made the trip OK. Buddy didn’t seem to notice the bruise on his arm or the blood trickling across the wry smile on his face, “Who’s next?”

Everyone turned towards me.

“You are lighter than Buddy.”

“We can add a couple of two-by-fours under the ramp to make the take-off point higher.” 

“Your bike doesn’t weigh as much as Bud’s.”

How does that old Marty Robbins song go, “Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there…” in the middle of the road at the top of the hill. Buddy was a much better athlete than I would ever be. He was stronger. More agile. More courageous.

My goodness, from up here, that ramp looked about as wide as a number 2 pencil. This was not a good idea from the get-go. A quick analytical study of the situation laid out before me showed the far bank to be higher than the side I was taking off on. We are jumping this ditch backwards! 

Buddy, Squeaky, Rick, and Yogi gave me a push to ensure my journey down the hill took off with a running start. The field was much bumpier than I had ever noticed. I was bouncing more than hurdling. And the closer I got, the smaller and higher the ramp became.

We’d never heard, at the time, of Einstein’s definition of insanity. But I was absolutely practicing it. We also had no way of knowing Evel Knievel even existed. But I can guarantee you, he could not have made this jump on a souped-up, jet-propelled Western Flyer when he was 11 years old!

The front wheel caught a portion of the ramp. The back wheel missed completely. I, like Buddy, kept pedaling through the air when I should have been praying for wings, or a giant gust of wind, or the real Tarzan swinging down on a grapevine to save me….

I was trying to let go of the bike when my one-and-one-half seconds ended. I hit face first not hardly halfway up on the distant bank. I did a double backward somersault into the middle of the muddy stream below. For an instant there, I heard the “Sound of Silence” way better than those Simon and Garfunkel brothers could ever know.

Yeah, I’d like a do-over for sure! I wouldn’t have this scar high on my forehead or the reoccurring pain in my sacroiliac because I would have nixed any thought of being part of such a stupid idea. I would have been, however, safely behind Yogi’s bike, giving him a running start on HIS attempt to fly across the big ditch….

Respectfully,

Kes