Photo Credit: © Mrsash174 | Dreamstime.com
It was the winter of 1984 and all the kids on my street were hooked on the Winter Olympics. Each night we tuned into whatever event the network was showing and spent the rest of our non-school hours hosting our own Olympic program in the fields and frozen streams of our Wisconsin home.
Of all the “events” we competed that fateful winter, my favorite, by far, was the Wisconsin Bobsled Race. All the kids on my cul-de-sac and my siblings walked across the two-lane, 55 mph county highway separating my backyard from the “The Hill”—and with shovels and mittens, carved out a twisty, banked course that slithered through the pine forest and ended with a long run-out across the corn field.
When it was time to race, we abandoned our plastic saucer sleds and maneuverable runner sleds and headed straight for my Dad’s 8-foot long wooden toboggan. For the first run, every kid piled on and we took off.