1984 sifted away like a Boggle sand timer. The major highlight of my sixth-grade summer was when I almost died. Just ask Reynard. He remembers.

It all started one July afternoon at Herman’s Gully. Me and the guys from my neighborhood caught wind that Josh Martin built a new bike jump. After he found us pedaling a ways behind him, he complained that he did not want an audience, but he did not send us home either. He set the ramp, stomped on it to make sure it would not fall, and hiked back up the trail.

Then, we waited.

“He chickened out,” said Reynard.

“No he didn’t,” said Curtis. “Listen.”

If I strained my ears, I could hear a gust rush through the spokes of Josh’s tires. He shot around the corner of the dirt trail kicking up a thick cloud of dust behind him. As soon as he cleared the turn around the big oak tree he doubled down on his bike pedals. As if he needed more speed. The kid was insane. And also a local legend. Word on the street was that Josh had jumped an abandoned busted up station wagon once. I believed it. Josh Martin could jump anything. As an added bonus he rode a cherry-colored Redline BMX bike. 

His aim was true as he hit the ramp. The moment he left the wooden wedge, Josh yanked up on the handlebars and tucked his knees in, pulling the bike as high up as he could muster. The kid must have been ten feet in the air. More, since he flew over the gully. He had to be that high in order to clear it. 

Josh’s dirty blonde hair billowed in the wind. All-American, with a pointed nose, and eyes that could pierce souls, I swear he was part-eagle by the way he soared. 

We held our breath. Josh seemed to hang in the air for five whole minutes, even though I knew it was only a few seconds, if that. 

I did not want to see him crash and die, but I also didn’t want to miss it in case he nailed the landing. 

He cleared the other side of the gully, no problem. The guy made everything look effortless. When his front wheel touched down, speed wobbles overcame his Redline. But Josh knew how to handle those. The bike tried to buck him off, but like an expert bull rider, Josh locked up the brakes and skidded sideways until the bike lay flat. 

My fists shot up in an instant. “Righteous!” 

All the boys around me let out various screams, whoops, and hollers. 

Josh had cleared the gully. If the kid wasn’t destined to be the next Evel Knievel, I did not know who was. 

Josh hopped up, did a cartwheel, and laughed all the while. What did that feel like? Probably one hundred times better than the joy I felt. I’d watched him takeoff and land. But to be in Josh’s sneakers and actually fly? That was something I’d never experience. 

After we yelled our throats hoarse, we sat there, dazed. Reynard broke the silence. “You’re next, Donut.”

My heart sank into my stomach. I didn't want to attempt the jump, let alone be called out. I’d come to witness history, not become history. 

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“His name’s Dale Travis,” said my best bud, Curtis Smith.

“You chicken, Donut Dale?”

I used to be chubby until this last year. But Reynard never dropped my nickname. I called him Rey-nerd in return, but his lackeys, Todd and Larry, never called him that after he gave both of them charley horses. Curtis still called him that to his face, and that always put a smile on mine.

I eyed the gully. This time of year, the water was not too high, not too low. In my heart, I knew I could never clear the gully. But the guys couldn’t read my mind. The least I could do was set up like I was going to try, then bail. I bit my lip. I could get hurt, bad. Maybe I could try to land in the water on purpose.

“What’s the matter, Donut? Afraid your mom’s gonna need to plan another funeral?”

Curtis jumped to his feet to slug Reynard, but Josh beat him to it. The legend was a few years older than us and had pounds of lean muscle packed behind his punch. 

“Ow. What the—?” asked Reynard.

“Watch your mouth, Rey,” said Josh.

Reynard grimaced and rubbed his arm. “It’s gonna be purple.”

“You’re lucky it's not your eye,” said Curtis.

Reynard spit on the ground in Curtis’ general direction.

Fumes drifted out of my nostrils like a tea kettle. I brushed my hair away from my furrowed eyebrows. “I’ll do it.” I got to my feet and stood my lime-green Schwinn Sting-Ray up. I spun on my heels, stomping up the dirt path toward the top of the tree-covered hill. 

A strong hand caught my arm. “You don’t have to do this,” said Josh in a low voice. “He’s just getting you to do it so he doesn’t look like a yellow-belly lizard.”

I shrugged out of Josh’s grasp. “I got this.”

Josh nodded, understanding this was more about my dad than it was the jump itself.

On my way down the hill, I knew I’d made a mistake. My bike was cool for cruising, but it was no BMX bike like Josh’s Redline or even Reynard’s blue-and-yellow Raleigh. My bike was not built with huge jumps in mind. The speed wobbles assaulted my front tire. Still, I was not going anywhere near fast enough. Committing half in anger, and half in fear, was the worst reason to attempt any feat. I imagined Josh hitting the ramp with excitement. I twisted off of it with dread. Before I left earth, I locked up my brakes and jerked my front tire sideways. I toppled off of the ramp and fell into the gully. Rolling over and over, rocks bigger than my kneecaps blasted me, each one a blow to my bones and my pride. 

I lay in the cold stream, wishing it would wash away the ache of my new injuries, but mostly the ache in my heart. It did neither. Curtis helped drag me and my bike out, then helped me dust my clothes.

Reynard, Todd, and Larry laughed harder than they did when watching Looney Tunes. I suddenly knew how Wile E. Coyote felt when Road Runner left him crushed under an anvil.

Josh could have gave them a good whooping, but he did something better.

His hand clapped mine in a strong high five. “Good try, Dale. Next time make sure to get as much speed as possible.” He went on to give me pointers. I nodded, pretending I was ingraining all his advice, and he pretended I was going to jump the gully ever again.

Before either of us realized what happened next, Curtis zoomed past us faster than a flash flood. The thump-thump of his tires hitting the ramp one after another, followed by the silence of Curtis being airborne, made my stomach drop. 

His grip slid off of the handlebars. The bike went one way, Curtis went another. His bike crashed into the opposite edge of the gully. Curtis was not so lucky. He fell below the edge, out of view. A snap sounded followed by his screams. I rushed to the gully to help my buddy. No matter which direction I looked, upstream or down, I could not spot the tree branch he’d snapped. It had to be there somewhere. I slid on my jean bottoms down the side of the gully until I came up right alongside him. 

Curtis was no wuss, so the way he was screaming while cradling his twisted leg told me his pain was immense. He looked like a failed matador trampled by a bull. That’s when I realized, there was no snapped branch.