Slip Sliding Away

I don’t believe it is as common now as it was during the Dog Days of August in 1975, when the sun baked the dirt until it cracked and any water that fell from the heavens disappeared into the mini brown canyons, leaving behind only steamy humidity that made you appreciate a good breeze blowing through your bedroom window and across your sweaty body as you lay atop your bed in as few clothes as modesty would allow; for back in those days the oil from the asphalt road not far from our home separated itself from the rest of the black tar and oozed up to the surface where it lay waiting for my neighbor, Chuck, and me to make a surprising discovery.

There is an old truism that says, “Water and oil don’t mix,” and that is true. It is also true that water poured atop a hot, oily, asphalt road makes for quite a slick spot. Once Chuck and I had this moment of clarity, like every solid Okie teenage boy, we put our efforts into discovering how we could use this to create an opportunity for personal disaster.

As I mentioned, there was an asphalt road not far from the homes where Chuck and I lived back then. Today, all those roads are asphalt. Not back then. In those days, the golden years of our youth, our roads were made of gravel down which a county employee drove a road grader a couple of times a year to keep things semi-smooth and navigable. But there was that one asphalt road, and the oil had risen, and the opportunities for mayhem presented themselves, and so we took a five-gallon bucket and my old Schwinn bike which had already survived almost a decade of abuse and misuse up the road to where the asphalt road had a nice little hill where a boy could get some speed on a bike like that with the right amount of effort.

It just so happens that at the bottom of that hill on that asphalt road, there was a small creek, and in that creek, there was a pool of water that was deep enough for us to retrieve a few five-gallon buckets full of creek water. So, we poured a little water atop the oily surface of that road and took turns riding my Schwinn to the top of the hill and then racing back down to where we had created a slick spot. It was then that we would push back on the pedals, locking up the brakes and seeing how far we could skid and slide through the newly formed road slick.

As boys are prone to do, we kept pouring water and making longer and longer slick spots, testing our abilities at skidding and sliding. And when Chuck had had enough, and I was at the top of the hill, and he said he was ready to head home, and I said that was fine so pour out the whole bucket and make a really long slick spot so I could have one last go at it and set a record for oily, asphalt road skidding that could never be broken, he gladly cooperated and made an oil slick of epic proportions.

Then, with visions of Evel Knievel flashing through my mind, I stood atop the bike pedals and began my descent toward destiny with ever-increasing speed until I arrived at the start of the oil slick. With a hard backward push, I engaged the bike’s brake and began my slide. I would like to give you a further description of the way I handled the bike as the back wheel began to swing around, and as I navigated it as it began to lean over, but I have no memory of how that all went.

The only thing I recall was waking up in the middle of the hot asphalt road with blood pouring down my face, and Chuck was riding towards home on my bike in a panic and intending to get some help. I sat up, gathered my senses, stood up, and began to walk towards home myself.

By the time Chuck had found Mom and informed her of my mishap, I was already walking up the driveway. Mom came out, looked at me, sighed, and said something like, “Oh geesh. You boys.” She wasn’t going to spend the money on an ER visit, so Chuck’s mom, Betty, came over and applied a “butterfly bandage,” and told us both to quit doing dumb stuff or something like that.

Those were good days.