Ammi Midstokke: Preserving sledding heritage through the generations
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” said B staring down the abyss of our new driveway.
It is the kind of driveway that, when you buy it, you also buy yourself a set of good chains and accept the reality that you’ll be using them most of the winter.
It is also the kind of driveway that makes you think about its tobogganing potential – even before you think of practical things like being able to drive it. For what use is a driveway if it does not serve several purposes?
This driveway is the stuff of sledding legends yet to be made. And most likely a few trips to the urgent care center, honestly. Standing at the top of it, we watched the narrow road hug the hillside as it made a straight shot down, then disappeared into a right curve.
In my head, I remembered the bump there from driving up. We could probably catch a little air, and if landed correctly, just narrowly miss a head on collision with the ponderosa in the bend, only to be catapulted around the corner at high speed for the next steep section.
Sledding down it at least had to be more fun than trying to drive up it.
“That’s exactly why we need to try it, B, to find out how much of a good/bad idea it is,’’ I said as I flopped down our hot pink plastic toboggan and gestured like a welcoming airline stewardess to please step aboard.
“Keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. If you feel the need to pray, please do so quietly as not to distract the pilot.”
To understand the anatomy of my poor decision making, I would like to take a moment to analyze the evidence in Exhibit A - Photograph of Midstokke Clan Sledding, circa 1987:
• That is my father in full motorcycle race gear. Note the icy road and the metal runner sled. On this day he said he went so fast, he briefly sledded into the future to see the Vikings win a football game. This is how we knew he was lying.
• Notice I am missing my two front teeth. They may have still been there before I started sledding.
• Notice also that, despite all claims by my parents that middle child syndrome is unfounded, the middle child is the only person in this photo who was not provided with a helmet.
• I was, however, provided with a can of Cheese Pringles as a trophy for not cracking my skull. Having no teeth, I had to suck on them until they were soft enough to swallow. But they were Pringles and the child equivalent of Nirvana, so it was fine.
B made one last stand with a solid I-don’t-want-to, but we were already loaded in the sled and ready for launch. Before she had the chance to escape from an emergency exit, I had pushed off with surprising force and gained enough momentum to make any bail attempt risky at best.
This is good parenting at its finest.
The toboggan shot down the driveway, gaining speed as we tried avoid careening over the hillside and disappear into the gully. Between screams of terror/joy (it’s hard to tell the difference at Mach 7), I could hear B warning me that we were going too fast. But it was too late to change that. I was not going to sacrifice a limb to slow down.
As the corner approached we aimed with sheer will for the inside, leaning as much as we could without tipping, B still shrieking in horror/ecstasy as we snapped around, only to realize the hill drops at an even steeper angle before that bump, guaranteeing a launch worthy of Olympic ski jumping.
My mad laughter echoed through the snow-laden trees as we whooshed by at insane speeds. The only other sound was the toboggan rushing over snow with the rickety shake of a plastic roller coaster. B had either given up or decided to take in the beauty of our run with silent reverence.
A quarter mile later, tears and grins frozen on our faces, the sled came to a safe stop in the middle of the road. All riders and bodies were miraculously still in tact.
“We should be wearing helmets,” said B, the apparent voice of reason in our family.
“Yeah! Let’s go get some and go again!” I said.
I noted an unusual craving for Pringles and a lower insurance deductible.