It's Saturday morning. The sun getting high and nobody remembered to Slip, Slop and Slap. Down at the bike jumps they meet. Four mounds of dirt shaped into Pyramids with a plateau on top. We keep away from there today. Last weekend having gotten bored of riding four of us camouflaged ourselves in the long grass by the main road, leaping out at cars as they drove by. Someone wasn't impressed, having called the cops on us. That resulted in a whole-school hour-long session about road safety and a lecture about getting ourselves and passing motorists killed. So to the top end of William Street we go, dragging our home-made go-carts behind. But wait, there's is something we must get. To a makeshift gunyah next to the bike jumps built from sticks and bark between a tree and the barbed-wire fence of the horse yard one of the guys goes. We all follow. Under a large rock it sits. He takes it and shakes off the dirt and immediately the guys want to be the first to look. Look at what? Why the nudie magazine one of the fellas found on the train home from school. Al Bundy would have been proud. Only five of us know about it and to us it was like having Ghengis Khan's treasure. Oaths were made that none of us would tell anyone about it. James opens it to the centrefold and we stare at the biggest tits in the whole wide world. Miss Samantha Fox. Model of models. Hooters galore. None of us had seen anything like it before. One of the older fellas says if anyone steals it he'll find out who and give them a bashing. None would dare. We take it with us as we drag our carts up the top of William Street ending at the top of Graham's steep gravel driveway.
Lined up we go through pre-flight checks. All screws tightened... check...sort of. All wheels inflated? Check...except the front ones pinched from unused mowers in the sheds around town. Ropes secured? Frayed, but yes. Thick Lantana on both sides of the road a makeshift barrier to catch any who crash?... Check. Ready for another dose of gravel rash and a laceration or two?... Always. We start with a push, only jumping on when we have enough speed. As far as we can see there is no oncoming traffic. If there is it'll only be Graham, Kris or Stevie's mum, and they know on weekends it's a multi-purpose road/raceway. Races are run. Wheels fly off mid-flight, arms and shins get skinned but the more blood the better. Something to show off at school on Monday for Show-And-Tell. And everyone knows, picking scabs is fun.
...
As energy is spent and the damage report mounts up we call it a day. After prolonged heated debate a winner is picked, and his prize?
Why to keep the magazine for the weekend, with a promise. It's returned to the hiding spot by Monday morning. Albeit eventually a heavy downpour eventually put an end to our treasured magazine. One of the fellas tried opening up the soggy magazine to the centrefold, only to tear it in half. Hearts broke that day. and wild angry accusations flew that it wasn't the rain that made all the pages stick together, but anyway. The races each weekend went on.