A - Amanda

I have one person in my life who I consider to be a life-long friend. I have several friends who I have known for many years, but only one who I met in childhood and stayed close to well into my adult life. Her name is Amanda Dycus. But my brothers and I always called her Mandy.

Mandy was three years old when the Dycus family moved in next door. I was eight. My two brothers were five and three. My youngest brother Trevor and Mandy were the same age. Her father Eddie went to the same high school as my father and currently worked in the same coal mine, so they were already friends. Our mothers quickly became friends. Over the next few years, they were on a bowling league together, belonged to a couple of different women's clubs and eventually worked at the same place. Because of the close relationship of our parents, she wasn't just the girl next door. Our families spent a lot of time together. She was one of my playmates despite being so much younger.

The first time I met her was when we had them to our house for dinner. While the adults talked, all of us kids went down to the basement to play. Now…I don't really remember what happened next, but the events of that night in the basement almost stopped our future family friendship from ever getting beyond that first dinner. It is still talked about between our families today.

Apparently, the next morning Mandy had a horrible rash all the way around her neck. It was a large scab that was sensitive to the touch. After her mother, Shirley asked Mandy a bunch of questions the got a story about having a rope tied around her neck. Mandy was only three, so she couldn't tell a story very well. Shirley calls our house to confront my mother and find out just why her boys tried to hang her daughter in our basement. After questioning us, it was discovered that we had all been playing some sort of horse game and pulling each other around the room. The rash was rope burn.

Not a smart game to play, but we were all kids and most importantly there was no devious intent. Shirley eventually got over it and we were all allowed to play together again, but could not use ropes anymore.

Mandy's house was close enough, we did not have to seek permission to go. Especially since it was on the same side of the road. No traffic to worry our parents. Our horse pasture separated our houses, so we only had to cross the pasture and hop a fence to get to her house.

About three years after the Dycus's became our neighbors, Eddie (Mandy's father) was killed in the coal mine. Losing a family member is devastating, but this event for me and my brothers meant that our access to the neighbor's house was temporarily restricted. We didn't need to be running in and out of their house while the family was grieving. At least, not for a little while.

A few days later, my youngest brother Trevor (5 or 6 y/o at the time) was hanging out by the horse pasture fence that bordered Mandy's yard. Mandy was soon standing on the other side of the fence. They hadn't been able to play together for the last few days. Choking up, she confided in Trevor that her dad had died. Trevor reached out to take her hand and told her, "I can share my dad with you."

Mandy has shared that story many times over the years. Thirty years later, she still choked up when she told it.

Eventually, we had full access to each other's houses again. Sometimes there was trouble because we came from a house of all boys and Mandy only had her little sister. We got grounded from going over there for a few weeks after Mandy's sister Ellen wet her pants because she tried to pee standing up like Trevor does.

Since Kyle (my other brother) and I were the oldest, we were the unofficial leaders of our little group. Mandy and Ellen and Trevor followed along with whatever we wanted to do. And we wanted to do country boy stuff. Sometimes, we would disappear into the woods all day and come back covered in mud, scratched skin and torn clothing. We played rough and tumble games as boys do. We climbed in the roof of the house, wrestled with the dogs, and jumped off of the top of the garage. They were right there for all of it.

As we all grew up, we stayed tight friends. Occasionally, me or one of my brothers would take one of the girls to a school dance or other event. It was never romantic, always platonic. Although, there was one summer when we all played a game of "you show me yours and I'll show you mine."

When I was 12 years old, my parents bought my grandmother's house and we moved into it. It was five miles away, but we still stayed close. We went to each other's houses whenever we could. The friendship never faded even as we went into adulthood. Mandy (who had been accepted to Julliard) not only played the piano at my wedding, she even wrote an original song to sing.

When I had been talking to my future wife (online only) and trying to convince her to actually meet me in person, I asked for help on my blog in the post Evidence That I Am Harmless. I asked people who knew me personally to vouch for my character. Many people stepped up to say something, but Mandy wrote this:

She loves me

Of course, as the years went on an everyone started families and moved to other cities, we could not see each other as often but we never lost contact. We were always on each other's Facebook pages and giving our two cents on what was going on in each other's lives.

A few years ago, my parents were going to go camping with Shirley and decided to invite all the kids to get together for a cookout. I hadn't seen Mandy or Ellen in a few years and jumped at the chance to go. I drove three hours to see them and introduce Mandy and Ellen to the woman Mandy had helped me meet with her kind words. My wife got to see how much this friendship meant to me and my brothers. We all sat and told stories of the 'good old days' while our parents were shocked at some of the things they were learning about our adventures together. I mean, we are all adults now. What could they do?

Mandy is in the green shirt laughing too hard.

This was a great day. We all agreed that we had to do this more often and made a few tentative plans to make it happen again the following year.

It didn't work that way. A few months later, Mandy got very sick with a deadly blood disorder. I made the trek back to my hometown with my wife and Ellen fought to allow us in to see Mandy. She had been in a coma for a few days before we got there, so she was not conscious. I spoke to her for a few minutes, held her hand and kissed her forehead. I think it's the one time my wife has seen me cry.

That was the last time I saw her.

She died a few weeks later and I hated that I could not get there to see her again for the short time she was out of the coma, but have always been so grateful that we got to have that cookout get together. She will never be forgotten. I love you, Mandy.

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This month, I am participating in the A to Z Challenge. Each day this month, people around the world are writing blog posts and working their way through the alphabet. Each person decides their own personal theme. I am writing about people who have affected my life.

"J" is for Journalism

For my 'J' post, I was going to write about my days as the only man on the journalism staff in high school. As I was going through the old issues (25 years old), I came across this article about that exact subject. I will add it here word for word.

I did not write this. It was written by one of the girls on the staff. Anything in RED is my addition today and was not a part of the original.

THE MAN BEHIND ALL THE LADIES

by Stephanie Allison

Brett Minor is the only guy we have in journalism. I thought that it would be nice if we were to find out the motive behind him taking this class.

Brett decided he needed one more credit for English and he really didn't want to take English IV. (I was scared of English IV. I heard we had to write a lot.)

I asked if he liked being in a class with all girls and he replied, "Being the only boy in the class is a lot of fun, but it also has its problems. I get to hear all the latest gossip. Girls are better gossipers than guys are. I hear about everything that happens almost as soon as it happens."  
**Brett, ladies are NOT better gossipers than guys. We just talk about more interesting things than they do.** (Not true. They were better.)

Brett also commented that being in a class of all girls has improved him as a person, but also has its disadvantages. He said, "The girls in this class are not the least bit reluctant to talk about their problems or anything else just because I'm in the room." Brett sometimes feels that being in a class with all girls causes a losing position when it comes to our class debates. He said, "Debates are the worst part of journalism, especially fights about a girl being mad at a guy for any reason. If I stick up for the guy, I have nine girls on my case at once." (I was naive and hadn't yet learned that it is always the man's fault)

"I am not anti-feminist, but my views and opinions are not exactly the same as the ladies in the class."

When I asked Brett if he had a chance to do it again, would he, he said, "YES, definitely." (DUH!…Nine girls to myself!!!)

Brett said, "I have learned things about girls that I never knew before! I won't explain."   
(Mostly about their periods)

After talking to Brett, I asked the rest of the staff what they thought about Brett, and what it was like having him around the room. (I was really scared of this)

Here are the answers I received:

Traci: I think it's great to have a guy on the staff. Brett always has funny articles on his pages, but sometimes I forget he is in the room and say something that he should not hear. Also, when all of us females get together for a gripe session about guys, Brett gives us his opinion, which is sometimes not worth a dime, but that is beside the point. (See! I hadn't learned yet.)

Deana: Brett is a great guy to have on the staff. (That's right, Deana) He just quietly sits there and lets us gripe about all life's problems. (Because I care) He usually puts in his two cents here and there. He contributes interesting ideas and thoughts for the paper. This makes him an asset to the paper.

Lynn: Brett helps a great deal on the paper. His witty articles make the paper more interesting. I think he has a lot of guts for staying on the staff with all us girls. (Bravery? Not a trait I was normally known for)

Susan M: I think Brett is a good writer for the paper and he helps out a lot. He even discusses our problems with us. (Like I said, I care)

Susan P: Brett is a great help while typing and running off stencils and putting the paper together on the night before the paper comes out. (I lived close to the school) His articles are very innovative and original.

Allison: Brett has been a great help on the paper. His articles are always very interesting and somewhat amazing. I remember the day school first started and all of us girls on the staff talked about EVERYTHING. We really had to watch what we said, but now we don't care. We figure he has heard it all.  (Once again, menstruation)  
**(BUT HAS HE??????)**

Sabra: I find Brett's articles very funny and interesting. (I am still accused of not taking things seriously) I think it's really great to have a guy on the staff.

Angie: Well, Brett is very quiet in journalism, but sometimes he says the funniest things that we girls tend to take out of context. (Always misunderstood. Still true today.) I love to hear him and Traci get into fights and how they tell us the things they do together. Brett being here doesn't seem to bother us. I still talk about everything because it doesn't seem to bother him (or me). Remember the day I got in trouble, Bert? (Bert was my nickname in high school)   
**Tracie doesn't think that the statement about what they 'do' together is a very good one.**

Stephanie: Well, I guess it's okay having a guy on the staff, but then again, I really don't know what it was like not having a guy on the staff. (It was her first year) As for Brett, I think his articles are pretty good. (Just pretty good?)
**Was this bad enough about you, Brett??**


None of them ever did go out with me.
 

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Happily participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. For the entire month of April, 1,889 bloggers are working their way through the alphabet. One letter every day but Sundays for a total of 26 days.

Click here to visit the website and get more information to see if you might want to join in next year. It's a lot of fun, introduces you to hundreds of new blogs and gives your writing some fantastic exposure.

Color Induced Memories - Without the Use of Drugs

I am halfway through the NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). During this month I have to post every single day. So far, I have done this. However, some days I sit down to write and think, "What am I going to write about?"

Then, I come up with ideas like today's topic.  Here is a list of some of my best memories inspired by the colors in the Crayola 8 pack.

Since the NaBloPoMo people don't provide topics to write on, we end up with crazy stuff like this.

The colors are as follows: red, yellow, green, blue, brown, black, orange and purple.


RED                                               

Red has been my favorite color for as long as I can remember. I like bright colors and red stands out better than the others.

When I was in junior high, I got my first new bike. It wasn't my first bike, but it was the first one that we bought at a store instead of out of someone's garage. It was a red BMX HUFFY dirt bike. I lived on that bike for the next several years. It was on that bike that I had the worst accident of my life that still gives me back problems today. That bike was under me for some of my most daring and stupid stunts. I loved that bike and rode it all over the countryside.


YELLOW                                      

One of my first cars was an AMC Hornet station wagon. It was bright yellow with wood paneling on the doors. It had originally been given to Trevor, my youngest brother, but he said he wouldn't drive it. He went without a car when he turned 16 until he got the saved to buy his own. He refused to be seen in it. I, however, had no such shame and happily took it.

This is the car I was driving when I ran down my brother for one of our stunts. That incident shattered the windshield which I didn't get fixed for months. It also had a headlight that would fall out and swing by the wires while it pointed straight down. The floor had rusted to the point that your feet got wet when I drove over puddles. The hood was wired down because the latch wouldn't catch and there was a loud gun shot-sounding backfire when I let off the gas. The heat didn't work and the windows wouldn't go down, but it was a fun car to drive. I actually miss it.


GREEN                                          

In junior high, we had a dog named Butch. Butch was one of those dogs that was fun to have around, but was pretty useless. You know how smart some dogs can be? Butch was not one of those dogs. My parents were always commenting on how stupid he was, but one summer we discovered he had a special talent.

While weeding in the garden, Mom was also pulling the tomato worms off the tomato plants. Tomato worms are large, thick, green, disgusting-looking creatures. She had pulled a few off and set them beside her to be exterminated later when Butch came bounding up. Mom tried to make him leave since he was a hindrance to getting any work done, but he wouldn't listen. She eventually picked up one of the large worms and threw it, hoping he would chase it like he was going after a stick.

He did chase after it, but when he got to it, he ate it. As disgusting as this was, it was an easy way to get rid of the worms. Mom threw him the rest of them and he ate them all. He came back to get more. He sat there patiently until she found another one and he promptly ate it as soon as she pulled it off. However, now that he saw where she was getting them from, he knew where to look.

Butch starting looking over the plants himself and pulled off the worms he found. He never damaged the plants, but cleared the garden of tomato worms. It became his job from then on.


BLUE                                                       

When I was about 10 years old, my parents asked if I would like my own room. Since we didn't have any extra rooms, I wasn't sure where they meant, but I loved the idea. I had shared a room with my two younger brothers my entire life.

They moved me into the basement. It wasn't very glamorous down there, but I didn't care. It was all mine. A metal bed frame was pulled from storage somewhere and I was given a can of blue spray paint to fix it up. I loved it.


BROWN                                             

When I was an undergrad, I took Tae Kwon Do lessons. I really enjoyed it and I got into very good physical shape. Some of the training was grueling, but I never missed a day. My favorite days were when we sparred against each other. On those days, it wasn't just repetitious maneuvers. We got to actually apply what we learned.

The instructor would pair us up against people who were of the same belt class to keep it fair. The first time we did this I had only been doing it for a few months and had not tested for any belt yet. This meant I was at the lowest rank of white belt. I was put up against another white belt. However, it wasn't really a fair fight. He already had a brown belt in judo.

I stepped onto the mat and within seconds took a nasty kick to the front of my thigh. I shook it off and went on to win the set. I wasn't able to walk for almost two weeks afterward, but I was proud that I had taken down a brown belt. I never let him forget it.


BLACK                                          

Before I went off to college, I had lived in one town all my life. Waltonville, Illinois was a very small town in southern Illinois. When I got married and had kids, that same small town was all the exposure they had of the world. Kirsten was just turning two when I started classes at LCU. For the first time, my kids were exposed to people that did not look just like us.

In the apartment across the hall from us lived a Jamaican man named Moses. Kirsten was always fascinated with his hands. Every time he came over she would take his hand and turn it over several times. She never commented on it, but she always looked at them.

One day after playing hard outside, she was covered from head to toe with dirt. We put her in the tub and with her first swipe of the wash cloth on her arm, there was a profound difference between the color of her skin and the sections that had not been washed yet. She squealed, "Look. It comes off! Go get Moses and show him."

This discovery convinced her that Moses just needed to wash and he would no longer be black. We had to bring him in to show her otherwise.


ORANGE                                            

When I was very young, my maternal grandmother lived in a mobile home right behind our house. Since she lived so close, cookies where easy to get a hold of. Plus, it was a great air conditioned place to run to when Mom made us go outside and play. In fact, we got grounded once for going to Grandma's house when we were supposed to be outside.

She had a cute little dog we all liked to play with. She told great stories and she had this hideous orange light fixture on a chain that hung over her dining room table. I will cut her some slack because it was the 70's, but the image of that thing is still burned in my mind.


PURPLE                                       

When I was about 12 years old, we moved into the house where my father grew up. He bought the house from his mother (my grandmother), who then moved into a mobile home behind the house. At different points in my childhood, I've had both grandmothers in my backyard.

Grandma loved to garden and also had several grapevines throughout the property. The grapes were a dark purple. Almost black. She used the grapes to make her own jelly and grape juice. I don't know what she did differently, but I couldn't get enough of that grape juice. Welch's could have learned some things from her.

This Witch Had No Candy

I have been spending a lot of time in schools lately. I substitute teach for several different districts and am working on a teaching degree which requires me to do a lot of classroom observation. I even got to spend a day at my old high school. I have been amazed at how different school is from when I went.

There are different teaching methods, classroom set ups, educational theories and safety concerns than there were when I was a student. One of the things I remember from school that no longer exists in most states is the possibility of being beaten with a plank of wood for misbehaving.

Q: Do you know what the holes are for?
A: To cut down on wind resistance.

SWATS!  That's what we called it. If you didn't stop acting up there was always the possibility of getting swats. Nobody wanted that.

Despite the fact that those paddles were rarely taken down to be used, the sight of them hanging on the wall was enough of a deterrent for most kids to stay out of trouble. We knew someone was in deep doo-doo if the teacher started to reach for the paddle. If the offense was bad enough, the teacher would threaten to get Mr. Scrivner to deliver the punishment. He was known for his paddlings and it wasn't good.

I am not an advocate for bringing paddling back into schools. While I am not against kids getting a good swat when they need one, the liability and potential for misuse is just too much, so I am not really against this practice, I just think it is better to leave it out of the system. I got swats once in 2nd grade and, trust me, I deserved it. I also got swats once in the 7th grade. Once again, I had it coming. However, I can't tell you how many times I got swats in the 4th grade. These were different.

I started the 4th grade with a lovely teacher named Mrs. Scroggins. I still don't know if this was her first teaching job or first job at our school, but we had never seen her before. I went to a rural school and the entire fourth grade was in one classroom. It was a very large class. After a month or so, it was determined that she had more students than she could handle and one-third of us would be moved across the hall into the 3rd grade room. Those students would then be in a split 3rd/4th grade classroom. I was one of them that got moved.

She had a special teachers' lounge,
where she dined with other teachers of her kind.

DISCLAIMER: I am not a legal expert and have no idea what exactly constitutes libel or slander, so I will not be using the real name of my new teacher. For the remainder of this post, she will be referred to as the Witch.

For the most part, it was a regular classroom. The Witch was strict and not nearly as cheery as sweet Mrs. Scroggins, but I wasn't worried. If I kept my head down and did my work, then everything would be fine. It turned out it wasn't that easy.

Now, I hate when whiney kids start complaining that their poor grades or punishment is because "that teacher doesn't like me." While that is possible, it is rarely the case. Bad grades are usually due to a deficiency in the performance of the student. In most cases, if a student got into trouble, it is because he was misbehaving in some way, but something different was going on in this class. I won't even try to make the claim that The Witch didn't like me, because I don't think that was true. I just believe that she had a bubbling cauldron in the coat closet an evil side.

The trouble started with a comic book assignment. Each week, we constructed a comic book about an alien named Gloo McFoo. I am not positive on the name and scoured Google for pictures, but can't find it. This was 30 years ago. Give me a break. On Monday she gave us 3 or 4 papers with the pages of the comic that we were to color, fill in some of the blanks with our vocabulary words, glue to construction paper and construct a small comic book by Friday. This was not a difficult assignment and was supposed to enhance our reading, vocabulary, spelling and art skills. There was a small problem. I hated Gloo McFoo.

See! Aliens are usually green.

I didn't hate him at first, but the hatred came pretty quickly. The first week I did the assignment and turned it in, but when we got them back on Monday, I discovered the Witch was not happy with my work. She pointed to the example hanging on the wall and told me that Gloo McFoo is a blue alien. She berated me in front of the whole class for coloring him green. Honestly, I hadn't really thought about it. In the cartoons on TV they were green, so that's the color I used. The Witch didn't let up on her tirade until I was crying in front of everyone.

The following week, I made sure to color him blue instead of green. I did not want a repeat of the week before. However, when they were returned this time, she said she wanted to see me in the hall. The Witch grabbed the paddle as we stepped out. I didn't know what I had done, but was already shaking, because I knew what was coming.

My heinous crime was that I had failed to trim the edges of the construction paper to match the size of the papers on the inside. I cried that I didn't know I was supposed to. The Wicked Witch gave me three swats.

The worst part was that I hadn't trimmed them the week before either, but the Wicked Witch hadn't said anything. I had corrected the thing that she said was wrong and still got into trouble. Being the wonderful child that I am, I did not tell my parents about this. I didn't realize that what this teacher had done was wrong and I did not want to get into any more trouble at home for being "bad."

The following week, I received swats for not numbering the pages. This time I tried to explain that she had never told me that before. The Ugly Wicked Witch gave me an extra one for arguing. The next week, my swats were for putting the title at the top of the cover page instead of in the center. Once again, it didn't matter to the Ugly Wicked Witch that I had done it that way since the beginning and she had never corrected me.

This practice became my Monday morning routine for the rest of the fourth grade. It didn't happen every single week, but it was the majority of them. I always did something wrong: the middle crease wasn't centered, too much glue in one of the corners, forgot to put my name on it and others. I will admit that after a few months of this, my effort on this assignment slacked off. I knew I would not be able to please the Ugly Wicked Witch and just accepted the fact that I was going to get paddled. Plus, the worst part of getting paddled was the fear beforehand. I was no longer scared of it.

It wasn't until I got much older that I realized the problem was her and not me. The Ugly Evil Wicked Witch never went to get another teacher to observe the swats. That was school policy to ensure it was done properly. Sometimes, she didn't even take me out to the hall, which was also policy. She did it in the classroom in front of the other kids.

I was relaying this story over Thanksgiving dinner a few years back and my mother exclaimed, "I wish I had known about this." In hindsight, I wish I had said something, but my 9 year old mind did not understand at the time.

Now, I do not want to give the impression that I was scarred for life and horribly traumatized. It should not have happened, but it was just a bad year. I still believe I had a wonderful childhood, she was just a dark shadow that didn't last very long. The Horrible Ugly Evil Wicked Witch has since retired and is no longer working with children. Hopefully, I never learn what nursing home she is in.

Stuntman Training #1

After my last post about how my brothers and I wanted to be stuntmen when we were kids, I thought I would share one of our less than spectacular moments. While it was very true that we were very daring and willing to push the limits of safety and sanity, things did not always pan out the way they looked in our heads. In our heads, the stunts were fantastic and always without flaws.

There is only one reason I never attempted this.
We didn't have one!

Many of our stunts involved the use of bicycles. We never really got into the BMX freestyling that was becoming popular at the time, but we did like to jump things. It was because of this love for big air that I got to see a back flip for the first time.

In Waltonville, where we grew up, there is a street (Knob St.) that has been closed and re-opened at least a dozen times that I can remember. The street goes down Knob Hill, which is supposedly the highest point in the county, and the street is fairly steep.

One weekend, we were out on our bikes with some friends and noticed that Knob Street had been closed off again. Being the curious types, we went around the barriers and discovered that there was a large dirt pile in the middle of the road about halfway down the hill. This pile was about four feet tall with plenty of road left on the other side for an easy landing.

The side facing the top of the hill had a perfect smooth side that was destined for jumping. Since some thoughtful road crew person had taken the time to build this wonderful toy for us, it would have been rude to not take advantage of it.

I was the first to take a run at it. The steep grade of the hill made it very easy to gain speed quickly. Lined up for a beautiful shot, I rapidly approached the jump. As I neared the top, I noticed how drastic the drop off on the other side would be. I locked up the brakes and rode smoothly over the mound. Everyone ran up to see what the issue was. I showed them my concerns.

This type of landing is much more difficult.

I was not scared of heights or crashes (I had experienced enough of them), but realized we needed a strategy. The problem was the grade of the hill. Had this mound been on flat ground it would have a different dynamic to the jump. The landing area would have been at the same elevation as the jumping point. However, on a steep grade, much more speed is gained and as the jumper is going up through the air, the ground is dropping away at an alarming rate. We were not intimidated by this type of jump. After all, we had jumped our bikes off the neighbor's roof. You just want to know what you are getting into since the landing will be rougher.

While we were scanning the road for possible hazards (holes, unusual bumps, extra gravel, dead bodies from previous attempts, etc.), my younger brother Kyle, decides to just go for it. He yells from the top of the hill for everyone to clear out of the way. Knowing that he wouldn't warn us again, we scattered to the edges of the road.

These are not exactly built for leaving the ground.

As he comes flying down the hill, I mentally question why he didn't trade bikes with someone. Kyle was on a ten-speed. However, he did something I had never seen before and still have not seen done on a ten-speed.

Using my best guess, he approached the ramp at approximately the speed of sound and shot off into the sky with the gap between him and the ground growing at an exponential rate.

Kyle was very aware that the bike he was using was not ideal for jumping, so as he approached the top he pulled up hard on the handlebars to ensure he didn't land on his front wheel. It was immediately evident that he had overcompensated.

As he sailed past me, I could tell he was flipping backwards. Kyle, never wanting to be accused of not seeing something through to the end refused to leave the bike and stayed in the seat. It was an amazing thing to see as the bike and rider continued to spin until he was right side up again. It would have been more amazing had he landed at that point, but he didn't. He kept rotating until the tires were skyward again. That was when he met the pavement.

At his current velocity, he did not just land. He skidded. Much like a rock skipping across water, but without the skipping part. Toppling and rolling over his bike, taking hits from the pedals and going through the spokes, he came to a bloody, grinding stop. He made a generous skin contribution to the road commissioner that day. He wouldn't donate that much skin at one time again until he hits a dog 15 years later while riding his motorcycle.

We packed his wounds with dirt to stop the bleeding, pulled out the most mangled spokes and attempted to straighten the front wheel (unsuccessfully). We then drug him to the ditch to clear the road so we could try to do better than him. Because Kyle's left side bike was out of commission, he watched from the sidelines as we each took our turns on the now-acclaimed ramp of potential death. Since Kyle has demonstrated what not to do so successfully, our attempts were much more productive.

Once we all had our share of excitement, we decided to venture home. It then occurred to us that the sun was quickly setting, we were about 5 miles from home, short one bike and Kyle could barely move. It was going to be a looooong trek home.