Here’s one from the memory banks (and no there is no photographic proof 😛 )
I was eight years old, we’d just arrived home from shopping and I was wearing a pair of brand new jeans, brand new shoes and a brand new t-shirt. As we pulled in the driveway the kids next door, twins 12 months older than me, asked if I wanted to get on the push bikes and go for a ride. Of course I did I didn’t care that it had been raining.
I have no recollection of it happening (which means it didn’t happen) but according to mum she yelled out as we went screaming off down the road. Apparently she was saying something about not getting the new clothes dirty.
Instead of a trip to the local BMX track we were daredevils we decided we were going to the local (and heavily discouraged by everyone of any authority) motorbike jumps. They were located on the paddock of an abandon warehouse. Some thoughtful person have carved out four massive jumps, the elevator, the widowmaker, the devastator and the most fearful of all the staircase. Each jump was easily twenty foot high, all four jumps met a central point at their base which was a creek crossing.
The creek crossing itself was not dangerous, it was easily wide enough to drive a truck across. On BMX’s we were a little disadvantaged because unless we got a good run up and down the opposite ramp getting up the other side was difficult, but we loved a challenge.
The names given to each ramp did not really describe them that well all except the staircase which was aptly named because it had three large lumps half way up the ramp. On a motorbike, barely an issue but on a pushbike if you hit one of those lumps it was unlikely you’d be holding the bike when you got to the bottom.
But I was a daredevil and I’d done it heaps of times so off I went. Of course I hit one of the lumps on the way down the staircase. Suddenly it was goodbye bike and hello creek nearly twenty feet below, only stopping half a dozen times to put a few tears in my new clothes spread some mud into the fabric and score a few grazes.
For whatever reason I survived not that badly damaged and still able to walk so of course instead of going home I got up, looked at how dirty my new clothes were and decided it didn’t matter what happened next I was already in trouble. So of course it was back on the bike and up and down the ramps a few more times.
Strangely enough, and maybe you mothers out there can shred some light on why this happened, but when I got home, new clothes Cake in mud, mud from head to foot and holey jeans my mum went ballistic. She screamed, yelled and screamed some more. I have no idea what I did to deserve such a scream fest.