Summer Days

In 1980, my buddy Spike and me owned the neighborhood. We called him that cause he liked to spike his hair. I don’t member his real name. After chilling all morning, we’d grab a baloney sandy and some Pringles, and head out to rule.

Every day in July hit 100° that year.

We’d hop on our dirt bikes and hightail it down my road to Meager Lane, a dead end. As we got near the end, the shimmer of the hot road caused our bikes to hover, and we would fly into the alien world of the woods.

We would ride for hours.

Our clothes drenched in sweat. That’s when we would head to Oscar’s Handy Mart. Spike and me would take turns drop’n a quarter in the machine for our Dr Peppers.

Then we’d cross the divided highway back to our neighborhood. We coasted most of the way home.

After forty-two days, the 100° streak broke, and that was that.

Not long after, Spike moved to the next town over. We never saw each other after that.

I miss those days when no question was too big or stupid, and everything seemed possible. Those summer daze were the best.