OMGJeremy

Sledding, and the Act Thereof

There’s this thing called sledding that people sometimes do when it gets cold enough to freeze your dog solid and a few inches of snow happens to be covering the ground. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. I’m sure many of you have even participated in it at some point in your life. Nothing beats memories of your parents dragging you to a large hill when you’re barely old enough to walk, and then pushing you off of it on a small plastic board at fantastic speeds. It’s where every good childhood scar starts. I, personally, haven’t really gone sledding much in my life. And the only reason I’d consider going now is to simply try and hurt myself and the other people I’m with as much as humanly possible. Which is exactly the mindset I was in the other day when Super Friend Ronnie asked me if I felt like dying. I replied with a swift “God yes” and the deal was done.

A Brief Example of Why I’m Scarred For Life

Oh children, if only you knew what was to come

Like most kids, my parents took me sledding a couple of times when I was smaller. I think I was close to something like eight or nine or some shit. Basically that age where you’re like “EVERYTHING IS NEATO” and you simply have no fear of anything on Earth, because you have yet to seen the consequences of most things that would hurt you. This is how I was as well. Little did I know that that world was about to come crashing down when my Dad suddenly asked me if I wanted to go sledding. I, of course, said yes. Do I regret my decision now? Yes. Yes I do.

Now, before you start throwing that whole psychological shit at me proclaiming that something is only as bad as you make it out to be, know this: My family was poor as fuck. And no matter what anyone says, that makes a HUGE difference in terms of how much you can enjoy your childhood. Like when I went swimming and had to use other people’s swim trunks. Or watching other kids go on vacations to cool places like Disneyworld, or Six Flags, while our vacations culminated with a trip to the mall, where I could look at things that I COULD NEVER OWN. My Dad never helped either…

Dad: See that toy?
Little Jeremy: YEAH IT’S COOL!
Dad: Yeah. Well you can’t have it. Go look at shit you can afford. Like… say… nothing. In fact, just go to the car and sit there until we come out.
Little Jeremy:

And sledding was no different. Because of our measly income, we weren’t able to go sledding with the most basic thing that you actually need to go sledding with. Namely a sled. Now you might think that not having a sled would defeat the whole purpose of ever trying such a thing. You obviously have not been poor. Poor people will not stop doing something just because they lack something vitally important. No, they will improvise and use the worst possible things ever to get the job done, which produces many moments like this:

Poor Guy 1: HAY MAN THE CAR ENGINE AINT WORKIN’
Poor Guy 2: SHIT MAN THAT’S FUCKED UP HOW WE GONNA GET TO THE TOBBACCO STORE IT’S FORTY MILES AWAY
Poor Guy 1: LET’S RIDE THE LAWNMOWER INSTEAD
Poor Guy 2: HYUCK!

God forbid I simply skip sledding altogether and not participate until we could save up a few years and buy a six dollar sled. No, we didn’t need a sled. We had motherfucking garbage bags.

Now, common sense will tell you very quickly that going down any type of slope in a small bag is not a good idea. Last I heard, the Mafia does it when they want to kill someone. Not when they want to show someone a good time. But my Dad, being the pioneer in stupidity that he was, saw nothing wrong with this idea, and was positively psyched about the whole plan. As was I. Like I said, I was young and naive. You could have told me I was going over the edge of a volcano in that garbage bag and I would have probably pissed myself in excitement.

Not surprisingly, once we arrived at the hill, we were the only people using such a device, and I must admit that there was a fair amount of embarrassment in having my Dad shove me in a garbage bag and roll me around in it. I’m sure all the other Dads got a good laugh from it at least, including him. I was still pretty excited, at least until I was pushed down the hill for the first time. The hill was already pretty haggard from the millions of kids going down it already, so putting me in a paper-thin garbage bag and being pushed down it was about on par with having a heavyweight boxer punch you in your ass every second or two. Needless to say, my first impression of “WOO THIS IS FUN” at the top of the hill, quickly turned into “I NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL” moments later. My Dad, not understanding what it sounds like when you’re own child has broken his hip in thirty different places, tells me to quit being a baby and enjoy myself. Not surprisingly, I don’t really remember much more of the day.

Finding Someone to Endure Pain

And so that’s really all I knew about sledding as I grew up. I simply took it to mean when someone asked me to go sledding with them, that they wanted to get hurt really bad, as that was my basic idea of it. So every time after that, when I went sledding, someone was going to get hurt pretty bad. So most people did not enjoy going sledding with me, as they simply didn’t appreciate a well-delivered clothesline as they came down the hill. And going sledding alone is like taking pictures of your penis. It’s just sad, and not at all right. So a friend was needed.

This is where Ronnie comes in. We’ve covered Ronnie in previous articles, and if you’re familiar with him, then you should know that he’ll probably die before he’s thirty. He doesn’t care what happens to him. You could hit him in the back of the head with a crowbar, and after a few days in the emergency room, he’d probably get up, call you a fag, and then ask if you wanted to play Mario Kart. It’s all in a day’s routine for him. So naturally this is the guy to go sledding with. Now, it’s just a matter of finding a place to sled in this godforsaken town.

The City Made of Flat

Behold, the only hill in Indiana. Note how it isn't much of a hill at all.

Next, we had to find a hill suitable enough to go down. And since our fantastic city (Indianapolis) is about as flat as a fecal pancake, this is no easy task. Scientists will tell you that this is because a big assed glacier sat on the midwest a billion or so years ago, and depending on what season it is, appears to still be here. Yes, EVERYWHERE is flat. As you can imagine, we are short on scenic views. OCCASIONALLY you might see a small hill, but it’s usually a long-dead bum covered up with newspapers. And as far as I know, dead bums are not quite large enough to sled down.

There is one exception though. A park nearby whose name escapes me at the moment, is home to Indiana’s only hill. As you can imagine, this place gets pretty fuckin crowded when sledding season comes along, and at times even has to be crowd controlled by the police. The slope isn’t all that spectacular, but it gets the job done for sledding. We were able to find a small space near the edge of the slope, where we were surrounded by about a thousand small children who all looked on at us in sheer terror.

The Art of Sledding

I’ve long since graduated from rolling down a hill in a black garbage bag, so I was able to actually bring one of those inner tube sled things, which according to the box is actually supposed to be used for water. This can still be useful for when I get adventurous in my bathtub, but for now, it’s gonna be used for a sled. It also has the added benefit of being colored bright yellow and purple, so no one will have any trouble seeing me, as I’ll be the brightest fucking thing in the city. It should also be noted that we both almost died blowing those motherfuckers up since we didn’t have an air pump.

Sledding isn’t quite as simple as what most 4 year-olds let on. This is because small children have the benefit of not being extremely large. They simply glide down the hill rather effortlessly, since they weigh about 6 pounds total. Unlike Ronnie and me, who could probably be referred to as fat adults. We really didn’t fit our sleds very well, which according to the box, was meant for the ages of 6-15. Things get a bit trickier when your ass is larger than the damn sled, and your legs stick out a good three feet. This meant that we were constantly at the mercy of anything that stuck up more than a millimeter from the ground, since one slight touch of my foot to the snow could turn my sled into some incredibly ugly purple and yellow spinning vortex of doom. Especially for Ronnie, since he’s about nine feet tall anyway.

My first attempt down the hill started out fine. At least until my sled decided to turn around and somehow make a 90 degree turn, almost running straight into a small girl and her father, who was looking at me like he was close to breaking my spine in two. Ronnie meanwhile, lost his sled entirely and rolled down 80 percent of the hill on his back, much to the terror of a small boy waiting at the bottom of the hill. Watching his world come apart around him as a large adult with his pants around his knees was coming ass first down a hill straight for him at about 50 mph. As you can imagine, that small boy ran like a bitch.

If that kid wasn't running so fast, and I wasn't laughing so hard, I may have gotten a better picture.

After a few successful attempts of going down the hill without hurting ourselves too much, we decided to try a few advanced maneuvers. Like slamming into a nearby pine tree, and running into each other as we climbed back up the hill to see which one of us would fall back down the hill first. It was like some kind of ultra sad game of American Gladiators.

Actually, now that I think about it, the hill itself was our undoing. Even though it was relatively small, and not at all steep, you must remember that I usually laugh at ground that isn’t paved with floor tile or cement. And my general view on stairs is that if they’re not motorized, then there’s no use climbing them. So after we had climbed that small hill more than once, and thanks to our intense previous physical conditioning – consisting of opening our car doors and occasionally standing upright – we were ready to just lay down and accept our cold fate. At one point, I think after the third time I climbed that bitch, I had to sit down since it felt like my entire chest was going to bust through my ribcage into a steaming pile on the snow. It was at that time that I made a brief mental note to never, ever stand up again. I quickly forgot about it though as Ronnie dropkicked me in the face.

Once we finally got the strength to push ourselves back down, it was more like watching a couple of dead, flailing bodies that someone had flung down a hill. We had no strength to fight back, or even use basic safety measures such as “Cover your face to avoid brain damage” and “Don’t land on your neck.” At least the other people seemed to enjoy the whole spectacle of trying to guess which one of us would be able to get to our feet first. We agreed that if we made it back up the hill alive, that we should probably call it a day, and go home and wait for our hearts to explode.

The Wet Painful Ride Home

There’s a point when your body realizes that you’re done hurting yourself, and decides to let down its defenses, letting you realize just how much pain you’re in. You would think that falling on something that’s generally considered soft, such as snow, would not cause my body to feel like it had just been trampled by a wild hog. Ronnie noted that his thigh was badly bruised, and he couldn’t walk well on his left leg. My chest was throbbing after I was clipped and landed directly on my chest and face, minus my arms though, since god-forbid my camera get wet. I couldn’t feel my feet and hands for a while either, and my left hand got a nice bit of frostbite on it from constantly digging my hands into the snow to try and stop me from slamming into solid objects. But in the end, was it worth it? I’d say yes. But frostbite is much more annoying than I previously imagined it would be.

So now that it’s all over, and the pain has subsided enough for me to once again move my neck without falling on the ground and screaming through my nose, let’s take a look at the pluses and minuses of sledding:

Pluses:

• The chance to slide down a hill on some plastic at high speeds. Most theme parks charge you MONEY to do this.
• The possibility of injury is almost certain (This may be a negative depending on how big of a pussy-child you are).
• Depending on how old you are, the ability to totally frighten other children and parents.

Minuses:

• It’s cold
• You have to climb back up the hill if you want to go down again.
• Frostbite sucks my ass.
• I think Ronnie may have died later that night.

And so there you have it. A long… very long… look at sledding. I’m still not a big fan of sledding after all these years. But it’s always nice to do a few things that you were forced to do by your not-so-smart parents as a kid. And also it is nice to have an excuse to call into work the next day.