Sometimes I got protected from my own self. From May 30, 1990.
I begged. I pleaded. I implored. I cajoled. I just barely stopped short of whining.
Now that I think about it, sounds like a recent date.
Delta Epsilon Chi – Greek for ‘we’re young and you’re not’ – was promoting TRIKE JUMP XVI: THE FINAL CHAPTER, and I wanted to be a part of it.
At least I thought I did. Seemed like fun. Climb aboard a specially-designed three-wheel cycle, hurtle down a ski ramp at speeds over thirty miles per hour, fly as far as you can, maybe twenty yards and splash into the Mt. Hood Community College pool.
I showed up on time, dressed to play. Padded gloves, padded helmet, knee pads, elbow pads. Padded pants. And my lucky Bad Dog sweatshirt.
Dr. Mike Finnegan, class advisor, is feeling responsible. I am wondering how I’d look with my two front teeth missing. Meanwhile, Dr. Mike is finalizing his decision about my entry. Which only took long enough to choose between “Hell, no!” and “Not a chance.”
Something about spinal injuries and million dollar insurance policies and The Endangered Columnist Act.
No guts, no photo op. I decided to look on the bright side. I might be brokenhearted, but my tibia and my fibula now seem likely to make it through the day intact. I wonder about the other two dozen guys.
There were, I must note, NO WOMEN JUMPERS. I asked Don – no relation to Lon – Chaney, veep of advertising for the event, about this.
“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” he offered. An answer which indicates a great future in the business world. Or politics.
I’m sure it’s just intelligence. This event seems to demand a heightened testosterone level and a diminished IQ. Women have more sense.
The top of the jump is seven (7) stories tall. There’s a view of the mountain. As I stand in the starting gate, a potentially active stratovolcano, the perpetually snowy-peaked Mt. Hood seems to be eye-level. Haven’t been so high since the last Country Fair.
Built in “only fourteen-and-a-half hours” by the 162nd Infantry of the Oregon National Guard, the ramp itself is almost one hundred feet long. Protective netting lines the slope. Three scuba divers, looking hungry, circle the landing area.
The pool is unheated today, which is to say, it’s not warm. Fifty-nine degrees. That’s Fahrenheit for those of you just up from California.
The lovely, talented and vivacious Martha, certainly one Delta who deserves an A+, consoled me. “It’s for the best,” she soothed. Men your age don’t heal as quickly.”
That might leave a mark.
I watched jump after jump after jump. From the sidelines.
“Every precaution is taken,” I’m told. Sounds like safe sex; sometimes it makes more sense to abstain completely.
There was only one injury in over fifty (50) launches. One man landed face first, jamming his helmet visor into the bridge of his nose. As we used to say back in the neighborhood, nice gash. That was an isolated incident.
There doesn’t seem to be a wrong way to land. Although I’m confident I could’ve found it. Head before buttocks, over the front of the handlebars, seems to elicit the highest scores.
The most points. Yes, the jumpers were actually judged on form. Although you’d think survival would be the only thing on your mind.
And speed. One of Gresham’s finest was on hand with a radar gun to clock the trikers. They were going faster than 20 MPH in a school zone.
And distance. It’s all a matter of balance and intestinal fortitude. Easier to spell than to do.
“In the air, you pretty much decide to do what you can,” explains Capt. Mike High. “Either stay with the bike or throw it away. You don’t want to land on it.”
I have to wonder if your voice wouldn’t rise an octave or two. Yet every jumper comes out of the water with a lottery winner’s grin spread wide across his face.
“It’s definitely a thrill. Hey, I lived!”, enthused Mike Kelleher, a college student who hopes to see nineteen. “By the time you hit the bottom of the ramp, there’s not much time to decide what you’re going to do. You have to know before you go off.”
Ah, another lesson for the life ahead. Adds Mike, “It’s as close as you can get to flying.”
If there’s a star of the affair, it’s got to be Dave Dixon. Dixon Appliances, without question, is the event’s biggest booster.
And Air Dave is their designated driver. He’s also a quarter bubble off plumb.
The Dixon team has brought no less than six vehicles, a couple complete with laundry appliances.
Sitting atop a Whirlpool washer, Dave looks like an uneven load. He’s not short on courage.
THE BIG RIDE comes on a three-wheel twelve-cubic-foot Admiral refrigerator.
“Something these folks have never seen before,” Dave noted with some pride.
If he drives off erratically, all that’s going to break his fall are two chubby kids standing near the bottom.
In just four seconds, Dave is airborne, apparently losing control upon takeoff. He looked just “a red one” short of doom.
He’s insulted by the notion. “I said beforehand, they were going to see the bottom of that fridge,” he assures me. I meant to flip it upside down.”
Not to be outdone, I told Dave I’d been denied the opportunity to jump. Doubtlessly, I would’ve been magnificent.
Might’ve even pouted a little.
“We let a reporter ride one of our trikes once,” his voice turns solemn. “After we pulled him out of the water, he said he was worried about not being able to have children.”
Me, I’m worried this really wasn’t the final chapter, not the last trike jump.
Next time they might call my bluff.
