2001-03-29 - 11:36 a.m.

Is he Gone?

Hanging out with Miguelito means that you see a lot of ramps.

On my own, I'm likely to take stairs, step over curbs, or walk through boggy vacant lots. When I'm with Mig, it's the main drag and ramps.

Did I mention the ramps?

As a kid, a good portion of my life was dedicated to the building of ramps, the jumping over of stuff, and of course the full body abrasions. Our ramps were generally made from whatever crap we could find in the alley, which meant that they were of variable stability. On a good day, we had a clean sheet of plywood and cinderblocks. Solid, stable, and reliable. You could jump three kids, more than a dozen pop cans, or two garbage cans laying on their side with a ramp like that. On a bad day, we'd have a couple of two-by-fours side by side, propped up on broken bits of brick and concrete. For those of you unfamiliar with the whole bicycle ramp process, let me tell you why that last configuration is bad: Unlike plywood, the 2x4 has a (roughly 2 inch) lip at the base. Hitting that lip with the front tire of a Schwynn Sting Ray can cause the boards to shift. In shifting, the boards can separate. What that means is that you are suddenly riding between two pieces of lumber, directly into a pile of rubble. Piles of rubble are notorious for being poor conductors of bicycles. What generally follows is known as the classic faceplant, and it's not funny.

Not long after I started driving a car, I left the world of ramps behind (kids, that whole Dukes of Hazzard thing is MAKE BELIEVE). Lately, however, I've been missing it. I miss the art of creatively constructing something from found objects. I miss the rush of anticipation. Mostly, I miss the drama - will he land it, or will he go tumbling ass over teacups, landing in a big messy heap of pain and twisted metal.

-- Uncle Joe is Miguelito's guest diarist

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