My older brother, Lee, lived fifteen months, three weeks, and five days more than me. He lorded it over my head every chance he got, feeling that that amount of time gave him vast experience and knowledge.
“I get to go first because I’m older,” he’d say, pushing me aside and getting on the go-cart at the top of Dead Man’s Hill. I would shake my head and mutter under my breath. One day, I would make Lee eat his words. I was only an inch shorter and had him by a couple of pounds. Mom said it was because I took after my dad, and Lee took after her.
We spent a week building that go-cart, using wheels from an old buggy and parts of the buggy itself to form a stylish race car. Lee took the front of the cart and built a crossbar from two-by-fours bolted together to make a “T” shape. By using our feet, we could steer the cart to swivel left or right. There was nothing to stop us from going into Gordman’s Creek except to drop our feet and drag them like brakes.
Deadman’s Hill was the only hill in the neighborhood that didn’t empty into heavy traffic, so it provided a softer ending in case we couldn’t stop in time, and so far, Lee and I had been able to stop well before the end of the boat ramp.
The buggy-turned-go cart worked so well that we entered the annual Downhill Pushcart run. Parking Old Bess, as we named her, at the top of the Hill, we watched several other teams enter the race. Because of the width of the road, the race only allowed seven teams, and this year, all the slots were filled. Andy Krakow and his brother Randy parked their cart next to ours, and he laughed at the buggy body we had retained.
“You look like a bunch of babies,” Andy cracked. I gave him my scowl face and ignored him while Lee and I talked about the better strategy. A heavier driver in the cart would make it go down the Hill faster, and the stronger pusher would run us to the start line quicker, so we decided since I was heavier than he was, and his long legs would get us to the start line faster, I was the driver, and he was the pusher. I put my bicycle helmet on my head, letting the straps hang down, feeling like a pilot ready to take flight as I sat on our racer.
All the carts were very different one from the other. Some were made by kids, like ours, and you could tell the ones where an adult had a heavy hand in their build by putting more of themselves into the vehicles. I looked down the line left and right. Some of the carts were much more sophisticated than ours, but Lee and I held true to the rules.
For safety reasons, an adult could only inspect the carts, and our father checked and rechecked all the moving parts. Seven carts were parked back from the start line, and the excitement was palpable. The runners would run the carts to the start lines and then let go, allowing gravity to do its job. I could see Lee stomping from one leg to the other, making me feel his adrenaline was on overcharge, and he was ready to push us to victory.
“Get ready.” Seven carts lined up at the boat landing, leading to Gordman’s Creek. I hunkered down because, as I’d read, sitting tall, offered wind resistance.
“Get set.” Mr. Feldman, the banker and the giver of the twenty-five-dollar prize, held a starter pistol in the air.
“Go!” He fired the pistol, and all the pusher kids started to run their carts to the start line. Lee’s legs pistoned up and down like a train engine behind me. Moving the cart closer to the starting line, slightly ahead of the others, he let go once I crossed the chalked line.
The cart took off, and the racers around me kept up. We were neck and neck down Deadman’s Hill toward the creek. Andy Kraków pulled slightly ahead, and Old Bess’s wheels were flying while I focused on the task in front of me, keeping the cart straight as I could while trying to get to the finish line. When all the other drivers dropped their feet to slow down, I headed for the creek and let the cart pass by everyone.
I flew over the finish line ahead of the rest of them and then put my feet to the ground, trying to stop the forward momentum. My shoe fell off, and I could no longer stop myself. Over the bank, I went, flying into the creek.
“Teddy! You did it!” Lee shouted, whooping it up on the bank. No one had the guts to do what I did, not put their feet down, taking their carts into the creek. The water was deeper than I imagined, and pulled at the cart, trying to carry it downstream.
“Lee, I’m losing it. Old Bess is headed down the creek!” I shouted from the water.
“Let her go, Ted, it’s too late.” I couldn’t believe my brother was suggesting we let Old Bess go.
“I can’t hang on. Help me!” I called back as the go-cart floated toward the faster water, trying to pull me with it.
“Let go, Teddy. We won; we’ll build a new cart. You are more important!” I wrestled with my thoughts a bit and let go. Old Bess floated from my grasp and rode the creek rapids headed for bigger waters while I climbed the bank, taking my brother’s hand and letting him pull me on shore. The cart was no longer visible as it meandered around a bend.
“I lost her.” I wanted to cry with disappointment.
“You won the race, that’s all that counts!” Lee slapped me on the back, and drops of water sprayed him on the face, making me laugh.
“It’s a good thing you drove, and I pushed. I would have stopped before the creek like the rest of them. You are one crazy guy!” My brother had paid me the highest compliment he could give, which made me smile despite losing Old Bess. Usually, I wouldn’t believe his praises, but today, after winning the race, I chose to believe him because sometimes, he was right.
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