sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 206

The ramp wasn’t that high. Only about up to my knees when I stood next to it. And it seemed sturdy. I’d walked up and down it and bounced on it a couple times and it had passed my boy-daredevil’s inspection with flying colors. So I hopped onto my trusty battle-worn lemon-yellow Sting-Ray and rode slowly up to the other end of the long sidewalk where I turned around and stopped. Took a moment to ask the Big Kahuna to provide his oversight on my upcoming flight then clenched my teeth as I stood up off that silver-sparkly banana-seat and began pedaling down the walk hard as I could.

Her name was Charlotte but she liked to be called “Charlie,” the two-years-older sister of my partner-in-crime and next-door neighbor Doug. Taller than me by a couple inches, she was slender and lanky and waif-ish and fair-skinned, with dirty-blonde shoulder-length hair and a smattering of golden freckles splashed across her kewpie-doll nose. Then there were her eyes, the most beautiful I’d ever known. Big and round and the bluest of blue-jean blues, they were warm and alluring and whenever they’d catch my beady browns looking back at them they’d pull me in like a Klingon tractor beam pulls in the Enterprise.

She wore the styles of the time, hippie-dippie threads with the all the beads and the bangles and the headbands and the necklaces and rings and bracelets and sandals and fringed-leather vests and embroidered denim bell-bottoms. She’d even lace delicate strands of flowers through her hair sometimes. Never used any makeup or perfume, just looked like herself and smelled like herself and that was fine by me.

As you might have gathered, I was pretty much into her, at least as much as an eleven year-old boy could be into a girl in 1972. And I’d started to think she was into me too. I remember that “Puppy Love” was a big hit on the radio back then. Top Ten with a bullet. Sing it, Donny.

She sure acted like she liked me—like she Like-liked me. Always brightened whenever she’d see me around the neighborhood. Laughed at all my corny jokes and bad puns and listened to me intently as I’d yak on and on about my passion for the Monkees and James Bond and Scooby Doo and frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts. And cars. Always cars. The ones I loved. The ones I hated. Ford versus Chevy. Ford versus Ferrari. Ferrari versus Lamborghini. Toyota versus Datsun. And of course, HotWheels versus Matchbox.

I couldn’t really explain at the time what was going on with me but gaining Charlie’s attention made me feel good deep down inside somewhere. Really good. So I did a lot of showing off around her. Feats of strength and endurance were performed. Acts of derring-do and death-defiance. And that’s how the whole bike-jump thing got going.

See, I was hanging out with Charlie and Doug in their backyard on a sunny Monday morning in June just shooting the bull when somehow the subject of Evel Knievel’s latest jump came up, and out-of-the-blue Doug suggested we put up a ramp of our own at the far end of the sidewalk to see how many trash cans we could jump on our bikes. “Great idea!” I chirped as Charlie gleamed at me with excitement and I got that feeling once more.

Doug and I got busy right away. First order was finding a decent deck to use as our ramp and both of us immediately thought of the big sheet of plywood Doug’s Dad had under his car in his garage. The car was some kind of weird foreign jobbie like a Peugeot or Saab or Citroën and leaked as much oil as it burned so he’d slid the sheet underneath it to protect the garage floor and, sure enough, when we pulled it out from under the car and dragged it down curbside it turned out to be perfect for our deck. Fit the width of the sidewalk exactly, seamlessly butting up against the walk’s edge at its very end. Excellent.

Next up was building the base and I remembered the Oldsmobile Man had a pile of extra cinder blocks and red bricks lying around from his fire-pit project so we gathered up an assortment of them and lugged them down to the end of the walk. Stacked them this way and that until the oily-black plywood deck took on an easy upward transition from the sidewalk to its far lip and bingo bango bongo, we had our jump ramp. For a moment, we considered building a landing ramp too but the ground in the vacant lot where we’d be returning to earth looked soft and loose and spongy so…nah.

By then word of what we were up to had spread around the neighborhood and a crowd of kids had gathered. A few of them canvassed the block and tracked down five empty cans we could use but Doug and I agreed we’d start with two cans and work our way up. We carefully laid both cans side-by-side about six inches away from the lip of the jump and the show was ready to begin. Played rock-paper-scissors to see who’d go first and on the first shake I cheered my victory. Scissors cuts paper, Doug.

So there I was, pedaling the Sting-Ray down the sidewalk furiously, faster than I’d ever ridden. Out of the corners of my eyes I could see the trees and mailboxes and faces flying by me were beginning to blur as I reached terminal velocity and hit the bottom of the ramp. And that’s when things got exciting.

I cleared both cans easily, by at least a couple feet, but then the bike nosed over and I couldn’t save it. Drilled face-first into the ground and heard a muffled snap as a bolt of searing pain shot through my left forearm. I sat up dazed and confused and dirty as the dust and debris settled around me. Looked down at my arm and it was bent in a way I’d never seen it bend before. It was already bruising dark purple and green and swelling up like a balloon and burned like the devil. Then suddenly everything began to spin and that was that. Goodnight, Nurse. I passed out cold.

Four hours later I was rehabbing on the living room couch consoling myself with a big bowl of mint-chocolate chip ice cream and sporting a brand-new snow-white wrist-to-elbow cast on my left arm. Doc Stevens had told the Beehive and Oldsmobile Man it was a clean break and would heal up fine which I suppose I should’ve been happy about but I was feeling pretty bummed about the situation. Crabby even. I hurt everywhere I could hurt. Was stiff and sore and cut and scratched and scraped top to bottom and my arm was throbbing out a Ringo-steady backbeat of dull pain. I shook my head disgustedly at my predicament and quietly hissed out a swear-word: the one that rhymes with ‘spit.’ It had been my worst day ever. The lousiest of the lousy. The crappiest of the crappy. Spit spit spit spit spit. But just then I heard a soft knock at the front door. Got up from the couch and went and opened it and smiled.

“Hey, sludge.”

“Hey, Charlie.”

I pushed open the screen door and eased out onto the stoop. Gave a little groan at the effort and she furrowed her brow. Asked if I was okay and I did the Man Thing and said I was Fine. No worries. All good. She gave me a knowing smirk then reached down into her jeans pocket and pulled out a red pen. Told me she wanted to be the first to sign my cast if that was cool with me. I smiled again then gingerly held out my arm to her and watched her write.

“Dear Mr. Knievel. Get well soon. Love, Charlie.”

I chuckled at the joke and she grinned then deftly leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss across my lips. It felt warm and soft and supple and tasted like strawberries.

Broken arm? What broken arm?

Sing it, Donny.