Excerpt From: 

There Was Beer All Over the Dance Floor

(Growing up in a Rock and Roll Band)

From Chapter Four:  Oh, Those Hot Summer Nights

The Band gets its Wings

 It was a stupid thing to do.  I’m talking all kinds of stupid.  Dumb, dumb, dumb!  You read about things like this in the papers all the time: “teenagers die in fiery crash.  Speed was a factor…”  I can look back in retrospect and would like to say that it was the dumbest thing I've done.  Unfortunately, there are piles more; and that’s only in this book!

 We were back to the Reedsburg Bowling Alley and Sue’s car.  It was another weekend night, and another request from Jeff to borrow the keys to the car.  This time she knew darned well what was going on, but seemed to agree faster this time.  Her warning this time was, “You better not get caught or all our asses will be in trouble.” 

Warning noted and filed, and off we went.  The two Jeff’s were driving and “shotgun” while Scott and I took up the back.  We decided we would cruise the little country roads outside of town so as not to attract unwanted police detection.  All along the little narrow roads are breathtaking hills, valleys, dips, and hairpin corners enough to scare the be-jeepers out of even the bravest Formula 1 driver.  Of course, we were bulletproof fifteen year olds that knew no fear and proved that to ourselves by pushing the physical limits of boy and machine.

 

One of these roads was Reedsburg Road, a long straight stretch that paralleled the main highway leading to the town.  One feature of this road named the “three kings,” which is exactly as it sounds: three crowned hills in quick succession.  If you ever had a dad or mom with a twinkle in their eyes when they drove, they probably did that thing where they would accelerate until the top of the hill and let off the gas.  The quick change in speed and altitude would make your belly hop and tickle your tummy.  Of course, if you kept your foot on the gas and accelerated further, you could jump over the road Dukes of Hazard-style. 

That’s just what Jeff did.  He revved that old Chrysler up to 70 miles per hour and punched it just as we were going over the last “king.”  Then it just happened: This three thousand, three hundred and ninety pound hunk of Detroit metal just took all four wheels off the road.  The thing bucked like a bronco as Scott and I bumped our heads on the ceiling.  Everything happened in slow motion as we reached for the stars, and then all too soon fell to earth.  I saw the front-end nose down into what looked like a very steep ditch. 

    

Fortunately, Jeff was adept at driving even at fifteen, and managed to touch down the aircraft onto the tarmac properly with little more than squeals from the wide front tires.  He came from a racing family, you see and well… all I can tell you that we never tried that particular maneuver ever again.  Four boys stopped the car as fast as humanly possible after pulling to the side of the road, and took a life-affirming world-class piss.

 If you ever travel down Reedsburg road nowadays, located a couple of miles on the eastern edge of town there is a flat spot that does not follow the natural contour of the land.  This is where the three kings used to be located.  Now it is bulldozed, flattened, and widened.  Apparently, we were not the only wisenheimers that nearly did themselves in by trying that trick.  I know the poor car never did work quite the same after that.  We laughed about it for years and even suggested we find some winged pins (like the WWII Pilots used to wear) to honor ourselves the night the band earned its’ wings.