Nascar sleds and the child within

For nearly four years now, I've heard tales of THE sled. Of how Marcel and all the boys would climb to the top of the endless hills by his childhood home, ALL pile on, and fly down "suuuupppppeeerrr fast" to the bottom, just to do it all again. Of how they'd do it in the pitch black night that only a country kid would understand, without so much as a light. Of how all the other kids were always jealous of their sled.

I figured it was kinda like "grandpa's" ol' tales of how "in the old days, we walked ten miles to school, uphill both ways". You know how it is, things somehow see all that much more marvelous, all that much more grandious when you're looking through the eyes of a child.

Last weekend, though, I discovered the truth.

My first warning should have been when they used a mechanical crane to lower the sled from its restful storage spot in the barn down to us in the street. My second was most definitely when Marcel complained that "this is going to be terrible, there's no snow!" (In fact, there was about four FEET of snow everywhere but the roads ... little did I know this particular sled is intended to GO on the roads.)

So with super heavy wood-and-metal sled in tow, we began the trek up the hill ... the ONE HOUR trek, to be exact, dodging our way between incoming sleds carrying shrieking kiddies and parentals of all shapes and sizes, many of whom were wearing helmets and / or goggles (a true "dishonor to the sport" in the eyes of my two expert sledding companions) and, lo and behold and true to Marcel's claim, gawking at our sled ... which just happens to be, oh, about FOUR TIMES bigger than anything else on the hill.

We settle in to our "positions", Marcel at the steering wheel (yes, this thing has a steering wheel), me holding on for dear life just behind, and Michael - thank God - covering the breaking duty in the back. And, having loaded some five hundred combined pounds potential speed on to a giant wooden sled with metal runners, we set off, down the road.

I have no idea how fast we were going. I don't think I really want to know. But we were going fast enough that tears were literally flowing out of my eyes, showering Michael behind me, my ears were popping from the elevation change, and we had only time to scream "Achtunuuuuuug!!" to warn any potential roadkill of his or her surely unexpected destiny.

We were down the entire hill in less than 3 minutes. One hour up, 3 minutes down. Check that cost benefit analysis, then listen to us laugh until we cry.