It wasn't a long walk to my grandparents' house--maybe 15 minutes in the worst of conditions. A dirt lane filled with sand, gravel, rocks of various sizes, and truckloads of rubber horseshoes, which fit perfectly into a young boy's hand and were excellent for throwing at rusted tin cans. Rain would carve channels into the lane, making the trip treacherous for a nice car, especially if you were a fastidious sort of fellow (hi, Dad). However, for my grandfather's old beat-up blue Rambler, rough terrain wasn’t a big deal: just try to avoid ripping anything off the undercarriage and who cared if a rock chipped a bit more paint.
The lane consisted of an initial steep decline for a few hundred yards, then flattened out for about twice that distance. Next was a sweeping right curve, then a slight rise where the trees closed in on both sides (where this photo was taken). Then a gentle bend to the left and a quick drop before the final flat run to the house. It was a thrilling bike ride, especially when two of my older cousins would set up wooden ramps at the bottom of the hill that's just out of sight here. Soaring through the air on a single-speeder with a banana seat wasn't the issue--landing was. I still have scars that testify to that.
