Drive north on Route 53 toward Palatine Road, and you might not even notice the gentle climb that the pavement takes toward the horizon. As hills go, it is nothing to an automobile. It would be even less to an Olympics downhill skier.
But it is a special slope to me. And with the Olympics medals finally awarded, it is time for me to step forward and accept the daring downhill glory long owed to me.
You see, my buddy Mike and I earned our fame by being the first passengers ever to travel that stretch of road. And we did it on skateboards.
You may be forgiven for not knowing of my fame, because I have never before laid claim to the distinction. I have waited until now because it is foolish to seek fame by admitting to the violation of so many laws—at least until the statute of limitations time had passed.
But fame will have its day. And today is my day to claim the fame I have deserved for all these many years.
I don’t remember the exact date, or even the exact year — sometime around 1965 or 66. We were 16 or 17 years old, cruising around in my dad’s Chevy station wagon one warm summer’s night, and we ended up on Palatine Road, where the new stretch of Route 53 was nearing completion. It would open to traffic in a few weeks, but until then it was as untouched as the surface of the moon.
Well, it was as untouched as the surface of the moon was at the time. Remember, this was before anybody had ever heard of Neil Armstrong — who, I am told, also achieved some level of daring pioneer fame a few years later.
The idea struck us that somebody had to be the first to roll down that virgin stretch of road. Why not us?
And why wait until somebody cut a ribbon and opened an on-ramp? They would probably let some fat-cat dignitary take the first drive.
But true pioneers cannot be turned aside by so small a stumbling block as a closed on-ramp. We parked the car on Palatine Road, reached into the back of the station wagon, and walked off into the night carrying our skateboards.
What we found was a pure, clean stretch of pavement glowing in the moonlight, aching for the caress of wheels. What is more, we found ourselves at the top of a long slope that angled downward for a mile or more.
As I say, you would hardly notice such a slope in an automobile. But the world looks different when you are standing atop a mile-long hill on a skateboard wearing a T-shirt and cut-off jeans with all the wisdom and good judgment of a 16-year-old roiling around your brain-pan.
Skateboards in the 1960s were nothing like the high-tech wonders now used in summer Olympic games since 2020. Back then they were in their infancy, with no shock absorbers, no springs, no upcurved nose or tail. They were little more than a cheap plank with steel roller skates bolted on the underside.
Still, Mike and I had gotten pretty good at riding them—which is to say we could usually rattle down the driveway and skid onto the sidewalk without shedding blood. Oh, we weren’t Tony Hawk good, but then neither was Tony, who hadn’t been born yet.
So riding a first-generation skateboard down an untested mile-long slope of expressway in the moonlight? Only an idiot would accept such a foolhardy challenge.
I went first.
Still, I was cautious about it. I slalomed from side to side for about 30 yards, testing out the pavement, checking out the expansion seams between the sections of concrete. I skidded to a stop, and Mike slalomed down to join me. We both grinned like raccoons.
“Let’s do the whole hill!” I said, and we shoved off together, each in our own lane, curving from side to side to keep our momentum in check.
But call it what you will—lack of skill, or maybe even a bit of competitiveness between best friends—because before long our curves grew longer and longer, our lines grew straighter and straighter.
And our speed grew faster and faster.
And now, well past our level of skateboard expertise, we were traveling too fast to slalom from side to side. Too fast even to jump from the board and run to a stop.
We had only two options: a full-bore barrel to the bottom, picking up speed with every moment in the hopes of staying upright to the end. Or a side-skid to a stop that would almost certainly end up by paving the highway with knee-and-elbow skin.
Mike chose option number two, thereby earning the claim to fame of being the first person ever to crash on Route 53.
Me? I suddenly discovered a third option: A hay bale, sitting on the side of the shoulder. I tucked into it, bursting the bale and sending hay flying through the night.
In the end, I came off a bit better than Mike did, once I had picked the hayseeds from every crack and crevice of my body.
Route 53 opened a few weeks later, and doubtless some dignitary took the drive through the on-ramp. He’s probably been telling his grandkids all sorts of lies about being a Route 53 pioneer back in the day.
But I know better.
Anyway, I just thought you’d like to know about it.
I don’t need a medal or anything. I’ll leave it to some other egotistical delusional loser to whine over Prizes for feats he never did.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com
