Anything’s better than ‘chicken’
Sixty years ago I did two things so incredibly stupid that I won
the admiration of every boy in the neighborhood.
The first was at Centennial Quarry, a large body of water fed by
underground springs a few miles from Toledo.
My twin brothers, Ed and Fred, and I had bicycled out that
morning and had swum for hours. Late in the afternoon Ed asked,
”
You going off Suicide?
”
”
Suicide
”
was the highest of three diving boards, one 10-feet high; the
second, 16; and Suicide, 22.
Anything’s better than ‘chicken’
Sixty years ago I did two things so incredibly stupid that I won the admiration of every boy in the neighborhood.
The first was at Centennial Quarry, a large body of water fed by underground springs a few miles from Toledo.
My twin brothers, Ed and Fred, and I had bicycled out that morning and had swum for hours. Late in the afternoon Ed asked, “You going off Suicide?” “Suicide” was the highest of three diving boards, one 10-feet high; the second, 16; and Suicide, 22.
I snorted at the idea and Fred said, “We went off it last week.” Ed chipped in. “Well, if you’re chicken …”
I immediately turned and approached the rungs leading up to the three boards. When I passed the first, a few of the crowd looked up, and even more when I continued upward from the second. When I got to Suicide, I carefully walked out to the end and looked down.
The water seemed impossibly far. I started to turn when I heard, “Chicken! Chicken!” My brothers were pointing and jeering. It hit me that there would be no living with them, especially since they were 18 months younger than I was, if I didn’t match their deed. Without thinking, I launched myself into the abyss.
I went straight down headfirst, down and down unto the glacial water and darkness.
After a long time I was rising toward a dim light. The surface was full of men and boys looking for me. My brothers regarded me with open mouths, and Fred finally said, “You think we’re crazy enough to go off Suicide?”
Three days later six neighborhood boys on bicycles invited me to go to Willys with them. Willys was the manufacturer of the Jeep, and a ride there meant they were going to brave the Jeep-testing ground.
We arrived and stopped at the crest of a four-tiered mountain. Carl Donahue said, “If you keep your brakes on, you’ll be all right.”
Then he, Don Burnell and Duane Albright rode over the top. They skidded a lot and Duane fell off at the bottom but they all made it. Next, Wayne Helms, Harold Bartlett and Don Burtis went over in great clouds of dust amid cheering from the first three. Then it was my turn. “Keep your brakes on!” Carl yelled as I went over the top.
I hit my brakes so hard that something snapped, and I was sailing over the first tier and hit hard at the bottom of the second but my bike didn’t land until the bottom of the third and its handlebars snapped off.
They were helping me up and wiping blood off my face and arms. My trousers were torn and I was covered with dust, but awe burned in their eyes. “I wouldn’t have had the guts to go down without brakes,” Duane said.
Carl rode my bike home with a pair of pliers in lieu of handlebars and I rode his. They respectfully paused during the four or five stops I made to throw up.
My mother was shopping when I got home so I took a bath and tended to the scrapes. Despite the aches, the ruined bicycle and torn trousers, I was happy. I had made my bones.
