Time Seemed To Stand Still

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 17 “Like many trauma’s, time seemed to stand still.”

There was new excitement ahead as we gradually weaned from our handlebar mania. Some of us graduated to push scooters. They were fun but less imaginative. You didn't need googles. What new could be so exciting we would wonder aload.

Our Dad’s were going to help us make race cars! Soapbox cars. Excitement was everywhere. All the kids who jumped to the chance were soon to challenge each other in bona-fide Clydesdale Street races. Before building any cars there was the need to determine where to race.

The area of Clydesdale Street we were on was plain old flat. Boundary Road was steep but out of the question. Too dangerous the Dad’s thought. Smith Avenue was a good hill but lacked the steeper long run necessary to get the soapbox rolling at maximum speed. It also had too many crossroads. We could also crash into Mr and Mrs Evans Red & White Store.

Then there was the Clydesdale hill. Steep. Long. Enemy territory!

The Dads had a solution. Both groups of kids could build soapboxes and we would challenge not only ourselves but also the Boners and they could challenge us. The prizes were never sorted out we later found. Fast Food climax after events were still to be invented.

The fathers, of course, would supervise both the race and provide security for all the kids. We could live with that. Sounded like a plan. Nobody could sleep. The parents were on to something here. This peace keeping could work.

The kids scrounged around everywhere dismantling baby carriages, wagons, or anything that had wheels. The soapbox cars were from the ridiculous to the sophisticated. Vintage Apple box was the pride of the Broadview area.

There were those that were simply a rough plank with wheels, some with spokes, some without, and fitted with a rope steering mechanism. Kids just sat on the plank with their feet against the front cross member controlling their direction rather crudely with the attached rope. Their legs pushed on one side or the other helping direct the stripped down racer. Once underway there was no stopping. No stopping contributed to the credit of the ride.

There were others made from traditional wooden apple boxes, discarded packing crates, or various sheets of rough wood pieces tacked together. The scene was upstaged when Joey Dashwood came cruising in with his Army Jeep Pedal car. A store bought pedal car. Everyone stood in Awe. Joey beamed with confidence.

Wowee everyone thought. It had real steering and push pedals that moved the little jeep like the big motorcars. Joey’s dad had bought him the jeep from our swimming pool access payments was the best rumour. Jealousy got us nowhere. No matter there were serious failings. Too Joey’s credit he survived.

Once rolling down the steep Clydesdale hill little feet could not keep up with the pedals that now had a mind all their own. The pedals like wild pistons worked frantically all by themselves. Legs involuntarily followed, pumping furiously while knees crashed under the steering wheel.

Getting feet caught up under the pedals was the racer’s greatest fear. Unfortunately there was nowhere else for feet to go. Tiny brakes did not hold either. The jeep was soon dispatched to yard duty.

No matter how smart all the Dads were, somehow, the homemade soapbox variations were missing one or two elements of high importance. Brakes came up often. Too many running shoes shredded and tree stops were common.

There is always another kid who could stand out in the crowd and that was Sonny Boon. Sonny was King of the down hill racers. He would bring his “Wizard Wagon”. What his ride had that nobody else did was that Sonny’s wagon wheels had ball bearings.

Wheels with ball bearings, and, who would have thought that could make a difference! Sonny just glided by grinning like crazy. He was going too fast to laugh. Sadly, Sonny did not have brakes either.

The Dyak’s from down the hill were generally considered rough and wild but they sure could race with the best, especially Buddy Dyak. With Buddy it was not so much his vehicle but his passion. Eventually he went on to real stock car racing enjoying great success. The rest of the kids lost such hopes much earlier in their career.

Buddy had a big cheering section with his large family, especially all the sisters, screaming encouragement. Nobody would question the support. There were too many of them.

Building a soapbox from scratch took talent. My Dad would build mine much in the manner he drove a car. A wooden platform from something, a discarded crate, old wine barrel staves, and pirated wheels from my cherished, all time kids favorite “Little Red Wagon”. This made up the principal parts. I wondered loudly about the future of my wagon.

After that the assembly followed little design. I think my Dad thought he was building a boat on wheels. Even to a kid it was not hard to see the wheels were just too small and the steering was suspect. The steering wheel was a 2 X 4 with wooden wine spigots on each side acting as handles. The other Dads just winked.

How the front wheels were controlled by the steering wheel was an instant fear. The wheels seemed attached to the body in a fixed fashion. The steering wheel seemed nailed to the dashboard. It was point, hold on and go.

Stopping was not an alternative.

Remembering the first run down Clydesdale hill took years. The fear retarded the thought deep into the recess of my shock struck memory. The best of recollection was, much again like my Dad’s entry into driving. This time I did not have Marcie to hold on too.

Slamming my feet to the bottom of my soapbox and gripping the spigots for dear life I simply hung on and waited for the terror to end. The steering wheel did not steer. The left front wheel, then the right front wheel did not stay on. Like many trauma’s, time seemed to stand still. Forever and ever, and, then the disintegration of the jinxed soapbox broke the spell.

In a few short minutes the soapbox went from an enterprising experiment to pieces of kindling and broken dreams. Never would I win a race.

Building the next soapbox by myself was a brand new opportunity. I could improve on the first attempt easily. There were some pretty good ones out there. Going up against those talented Dads was going to be a challenge yet I could see daylight. I had learned so much.

There is no doubt I did not learn enough. What I did learn was I had evidently inherited my Dad’s building skills.

Sure. Some kids went on to race at big soapbox events far from Clydesdale Street and with great success. Racing a soapbox never entered my mind again.

Copyright
RGT