Bikes for our family were always lean and mean. Dad picked them up at farm sales and I, being the oldest, always got the latest find. My old bike then passed down to my brother and so on.
My favorite bike was a stripped-down black boys bike with no fenders, one speed, and coaster brakes.
Perfect for what I needed. I would set my little sister on the cross bar of the bike and off we’d go. No helmets, no seat belts, no sense here.
Little sister needed a little training before we took on the big hill. She had a way of panicking and twisting the steering. Couldn’t have that but a stern threats seemed to work well enough.
So once we practiced a bit, we were ready. I would power the bike down the hill and, because we were riding on a dirt road, the next step worked perfectly.
The rear wheel of the bike would slid around the front and, gravel spraying as the bike shifted, we were facing uphill. And away we’d go up the hill just so we could do it again.
For the record, we both survived.
And, for the record, I’d never let our grandsons pull a stunt like that.