And speaking of relatives, the summer when I was 16, one of Mom’s eastern, citified uncles came to visit, and he wanted to spend a night camping out. He was, oh, maybe in his 40s, and had never slept outside. My mother told Dean – he’s my brother, two years younger – and me to take him out, so we did.

When we arrived at our chosen spot – not in a “campground,” but in a pretty spot we liked. It was way back, several miles down a rutted dirt trail, alongside a mountain lake. We were Alone. There, Dean and I cut a bunch of branches from bushes and trees and made ourselves a foot-thick pile. Then we threw a tarp on top and our sleeping bags on that. By then it was getting dark, and without a thought, we undressed, climbed into our sleeping bags, and went quickly and happily to sleep, the stars in our faces. We didn’t give a second thought to our guest.

We didn’t know until later – after he had left town – that our uncle had locked himself in the car and stayed awake all night, terrified of what sort of monster or wild beast might devour us, unprotected out there in the wilderness. When Mom told us about it later, we were surprised, and thought the guy was either some sort of pansy, or just had a screw loose. Dean made a comment, something about the uncle’s undergarments and lace. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but Mom didn’t think it was funny.

But back to riding a bike. In my younger days, we faced one problem, living where we did, and that was that there was no flat ground, and no straight roads. Unlike Kansas, where the ground goes from side to side, like all well-mannered dirt, in the Rockies it goes mostly up and down. And it’s not so much dirt as it is a whole bunch of rocks.

Our town, Idledale, was a couple hundred people scattered up steep, windy dirt roads running off of a canyon with a “crick” and a two-lane highway in it. “Downtown” included a small general store, a liquor store and a post office. The liquor store burned down one night when I was about 6 or 7, and it was the biggest event in town all year. I had nightmares for a week.

Our location and the lack of flat land and decent roads were a problem when we got old enough to want to ride a bike. But we were bright and innovative, and with the help of some older boys in town, we adapted. It was a team effort because there were only a couple guys in town who owned bikes, and they had to be willing for us to use them.
So that’s how I found myself up a rocky, steep, winding dirt road one day, with a half dozen other guys. I was going to learn to ride a bike. The routine was simple and fast, there was only one lesson, and there was a big incentive for success.

The victim, er, learner was placed astride the machine while a couple guys held it upright and still. Then, when the “rider” was in place and set – that was me, remember – the two-boy launch crew stepped back and gave the bike a little push. It went like a jet off an aircraft carrier, and reached warp speed in about 3 seconds, bouncing from rock to rock on the way down the hill. I think the tires were even on the ground for a little bit of the time.

Now this somewhat terrifying course of study had a couple tests. To pass, you had to meet two standards. First, you had to make it to the bottom of the road with all your skin and bones unbroken, and with you still on the top and the bike on the bottom. Second, you could not have peed your pants.

Simple, right? No grading on the curve – in fact, you might say the curve did the grading – and no staying up all night, cramming for the test. Just step up to the bike, turn off any hint of good sense you had, and in a state of utter stupidity, climb on. The experience had a wonderfully focusing effect on a young mind.

You might understand the situation better if you knew that on the right side of the road was a solid wall of rough, jagged rocks, because the road was cut into the side of a steep hill. They were big rocks, a sort of light rust color, and just sat there, waiting to rip the skin off your body. Trust me, you did not want to hit them.

On the other side was a sort of barrier, consisting of a cable strung between posts about 18 inches above the ground, beyond which the ground fell straight away in a drop of 10 to 75 or so feet, depending on where you were dumb enough to go over the edge. At the bottom was the only paved road around, the highway through town. If the fall didn’t get you, the cars would.

So to fail the test was no small matter. But we thought that was good. Those sissy city kids, with their training wheels and all sorts of helpers and protection, never learned to ride as quickly as we did. No way. Of course, they spent a lot less time in pain, too.

Oh, I forgot to tell you: I passed. I reached the bottom, unbloodied and unpeed. Perhaps that explains why now, old and gray-bearded, I am most at home on my mountain bike, hauling down a fast trail. It’s great fun, and I have an impressive array of scars to prove it.