Back in the ’70s and early ’80s, nothing was cooler than a guy in a jumpsuit launching a motorcycle over a flaming row of school buses on live television. These stuntmen werenât just performersâthey were gods with handlebars, defying gravity, logic, and most state safety regulations.
Naturally, every kid in America saw these televised leaps of death and thought, “Yeah, I can do that.”
What followed was a nationwide outbreak of homemade bike ramps and emergency room visits. Every driveway became a stunt arena. Weâd grab the nearest plywood scrap from someoneâs garage, prop it up on a cinder block, and attempt liftoff on a bike built like a lead pipe with tires. There were no measurements, no testing, just pure confidence and a reckless disregard for tailbones.
Some of us tried to jump garbage cans. Others laid out friends as âwillingâ obstacles. There was always that one kid who swore he could clear the creek, only to end up mud-soaked and swearing vengeance on physics itself.
Protective gear? Please. Our uniforms were tube socks, shorts, and maybe a mesh hat. Helmets were for kids whose parents loved them too much. We wore our bruises with pride and compared scabs like baseball cards.
And when we wiped outâand we always wiped outâit didnât stop us. We’d drag our twisted handlebars back into place, wipe the gravel out of our knees, and swear we’d “stick it” next time.
For one brief, glorious second in midair, we werenât just kids. We were legends, flying above our suburban kingdoms.
Then we landed directly on the sprinkler head.
