It's 1974. We're all out on Henry Drive, dragging cinder blocks and sheets of plywood pilfered from some house under construction into the middle of the street.
We prop the plywood up with the cinder blocks. We climb on our Schwinn Orange Crushes and Lemon Crates and pedal full speed at the ramp.
The bikes go airborn and come down on the front wheel about two feet from the ramp. Our crotches slam into the handlebars and somewhere Evel Knievel is laughing.