We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Brakes!!
In the beginning……………since our street terminated up a hill, that was the winter meeting place.
The hill on my street had a nice angle, but it was a short ride. And once cars started traveling, its hours as virgin snow were limited. Snow chains were Godzilla to snow paths. You need to understand that in the sixties, there were no snow tires (or at least not affordable ones). This meant that folks who lived up the hill put snow chains on their cars. Snow chains were just that–iron chains that wrapped around the wheel. Not thick steel like a jail bar, but sturdy enough to take the heavy abuse of a Pennsylvania winter. Putting them on a car was a bitch–daddy had to lay them flat and drive the wheels over them. Then pull the chains around the wheel and secure it. It was a job better done by a garage mechanic, but Mr. Cheap had to do it himself. This meant chewed up bloody hands and dripping sweat on 30 degree days.
I saw a huge hill from our back window that was a half mile away–up where the rich kids lived. But there was a scarier hill than that and it was closer. Most kids called it “THE hill,’ but it went by other names, like Devil’s Run or Daytona. It began almost at the crest of the huge hill behind school–a treacherously steep run through oaks and maples, so thin it was one user at a time. That path emptied into a cleared area that eventually flattened into what became our playground. I would estimate the entire slope at a quarter mile. This was seriously dangerous shit–even now when I look at it, I question my sanity at age ten.
Getting out of the forest was a skill all its own. You were going so fast that you relied on the grooves cut in snow. Steering was a fantasy when you’re struggling to stay glued to your sled. Crashing here meant thorn bushes, which politely held summer skin slashers all winter. And believe me, I saw it happen. Move the dead bodies out of the way (you had to walk up through the woods on a twisty path that no one could attempt to sled on), and next rider please.
Once you were on the open range, you still held your breath and prayed. The area was wide open, but you now joined a slew of other kids who had the sense/cowardice to only sled the hill below the woods. Crashes were inevitable, and often fatal to the sled. But, like Maui surfers, you laughed off a wipe out and trudged back up the hill.
The construction of the playground brought a lethal finish. They took a huge bite of earth off the bottom of the hill. This meant that you went from out of control speed off a cliff and landed on what was more or less flat earth. It was the ruin of many a poor boy and God, I know I’m one.
A kid on the next block had just gotten a toboggan, all shiny and wood. He developed a lot of new friends that day as kids begged for rides. (Note: not a lot of girls here, they had brains that functioned). I watched him clear the woods, then it was my turn and off I flew. Wind so harsh your skin screamed. Eyes clouded by snow and sleet. Your body absorbing thumps that felt like Muhammad Ali body blows. Unable to see, I go off the cliff–My worst fear. My balls are sucking up into my body with unspeakable horror.
Can’t get worse, right?
Yes it can–I look down.
The toboggan is UNDERNEATH me with four kids on it. I scream what will surely be my last sound on earth.
The terror awakens my paralyzed brain. I ‘pull out’ of the ride, like a surfer–twist to one side and fall to the left of the imperiled children below. The sled is a goner–rail on one side is bent obscenely. Kids run over to see if I am to be buried in a shallow grave. Some of them say ‘Man, that was one crazy scene. You are lucky to be in one piece.” No shit.
Epilogue: before I limp home, the overloaded toboggan takes its last ride, kids are falling off the back then he goes over the cliff. There was a thundering crack (not a thump) that was probably heard in the next county. The toboggan is severed neatly into two halves.